moonymoon

Profiles

Uni-sisters Helioeccentrics

Chapters

𖤓 First Dream

00. Icarus I 01. Lucid 02. Unicorns

03. Gold Halo 04. Sun's Ego 05. Sundown

𖤓 Second Dream

06. Icarus II  07. Delusion  08. Downhill  

09. Disgrace to All 10. You’re Okay   

11. Happiness  12. Midnight

𖤓 Third Dream

13. Icarus III    14. Melting 15. Dormant   

16. Wrong  17. Melancholy  18. Moonshine

𖤓 Fourth Dream

19. Icarus IV  20. Trance 21. Distraction 

22. Paired  23. Jealousy 24. Twilight

𖤓 Fifth Dream

25. Icarus V  26. Preparations  27. Burnout

28. Confession 29. Madness   30. Dusk

𖤓 Final Dream

31. Khaslana  32. All Wrong  33. Illness  

34. Denial   35. Cancelled  36. Freedom

37. Better off 38. Sweetness  39. Passion 

40. Sunrise

You’ve been roped into their little spats time and time again, whether it be to help break a tie or to argue against one that the other somehow didn’t qualify to win. But today really is your last straw with letting them both work on your last nerve with these childish games. 

After a long day of work, you’ve reserved a private room for yourself in the bathhouse, steam filling the air as you sink into the hot water, allowing it to wash away your weariness and aches. Your hair is pinned up to prevent it from getting wet and you sink down comfortably on the bench until you’re submerged to your chin. The air is humid and heavy, making you draw in a sigh for a breath that better satisfies your lungs. 

You’ve been anticipating this moment of respite all day, and because of it, this mundane bath is the best you’ve ever experienced in your life despite it being no different from the dozens you’ve had before. Until it isn’t. 

The door slams open and before you can even register the words that are being shared you recognise the voice of the man speaking: Phainon. When you cast a glare over your shoulder towards these invaders of your sanctuary, you’re not surprised in the slightest when you see Mydei by his side. 

“I’ve booked this room for the hour. Get lost.” You bite out, your patience level at zero for their shenanigans today. 

“Ah, but we thought you wouldn’t mind.” Phainon begins with that disarmingly charming smile of his, “Mydei seems to think he can withstand a bath hotter than me but I highly doubt that.” Great. Just great. Another damned competition. 

“Well go somewhere else, I’ve had a busy morning.” You reply curtly. Mydei seems willing to leave but Phainon pouts like a petulant brat.

“But all the other private rooms are booked up.”

“Do it another time then.” The deliverer’s posture seems to deflate at your unwillingness to budge on the subject. Your gaze flickers to Mydei, hoping he’ll take your side and see the sense in postponing their little bet, but his golden eyes don’t meet yours. They’re instead following the path of condensation running down your neck, how beautiful you look like this with your damp hair haphazardly pinned out of the way with your smooth shoulders on display-

And that’s when you remember that you’re naked beneath the foggy surface of hot water. Phainon, ever gold of heart and dumb of ass – as you and Cipher have coined for him – is so fixed on proving himself a victor that he has yet to acknowledge your state of undress too. In a public bath, you wouldn’t feel so bashful as you’d be amongst others in the same state, but it feels different in the privacy of a room that you’ve reserved for yourself. 

Your jaw clenches so hard at his obliviousness that your eye begins to twitch, and Phainon finally notices the combination of flusteredness and irritation upon your face. His lips form a small o of surprise and he glances over to Mydei who has now closed his eyes to save him from the fact that he’s not entirely sure he can set his gaze upon you respectfully right now. 

Once more, you sigh and sink down further into the steaming pool. Phainon’s fingertips drum against his belt for a few moments as he seems to be pondering something, teeth sinking into his lower lip as though he’s thinking really hard… that can’t be good. 

So you’re pleasantly surprised by his next words: “Then forgive us for intruding. How about we fetch you some food to enjoy to make up for it?” 

“Very well…” You agree. Having some things to snack on while you relax does sound lovely, after all. The two Chrysos Heirs head out and you resume your relaxation, sinking back down into the water.

“What are you playing at?” Mydei growls lowly as soon as the door closes behind them, having waited until he was sure you’d be unable to hear. 

“I have a new bet, let’s scrap the bath idea.” Phainon replies.

“Oh? Because you’ve realised you’ll lose?” The crown prince raises a brow with a teasing smirk.

“Ok, then let’s postpone the bath bet. What I mean to say is that I think this idea is far more interesting…”

Mydei considers how to answer for a moment. Phainon has stirred up plenty of trouble for the two of them before with his ideas… but no one’s ever been hurt before so what could be the harm in hearing him out, “I’m listening…” 

“I saw you looking… and so did she-”

“What does that have to do with-?” Mydei barks before Phainon can even finish, wanting to save face.

“But did you see her looking?” The question makes Mydei pause.

“... Was she?” 

Phainon nods with a little hum, grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Oh she absolutely was, friend.” Mydei ponders this fact for a few moments and swallows his doubts to inquire further:

“So what is it you’re proposing?” 

The pair of men return, Phainon carrying a tray while Mydei has a bottle and glasses. There’s some cheeses, cured meats, fruits, and some wine. You wonder if perhaps they’ve finally realised just how grating it is to be caught in the middle of their contests all the time, and if they’ve cashed in a favour with the kitchen staff to at last show their remorse. Maybe your bath isn’t ruined after all. But there is an awful lot of food, so much that you’re not sure you can finish it yourself with your current appetite.

“Thank you.” You say as Mydei opens the wine for you, then tentatively you add: “Will the two of you perhaps join me? There’s a lot here to eat and I’m sure you can use the bath for your bet once I’m done, hm?” Mydei glances towards Phainon with an unreadable expression, but the deliverer is grinning from ear to ear. 

“Sure we will! That sounds great!” Phainon turns to his strawberry blond companion, “Shall we go change, friend?” Mydei grunts at his cocky grin, a part of him hating how everything is going according to Phainon’s plan so far and yet another part is eager to see just how far you’ll let the two of them take this. You keep your back turned to them and let your head tip back against the towel you’ve folded at the edge of the bath to use as a makeshift pillow, cushioning your head to allow you to relax more. Your eyes remain closed as you feel the ripples of Mydei and Phainon sinking into the water. 

Your eyes only crack open again to reach for a cracker and piece of cheese to pop into your mouth. Phainon and Mydei seem to fall under the same influence as you within the heat of the private pool – perhaps having them join you might actually change your day for the better? You certainly think so as Mydei pours a glass of wine and hands it to you. 

“Thank you.” You let the sweet taste of pomegranate pour down your throat and notice how Phainon practically inhales his cup and then refills it… odd. You hope the two of them haven’t made a new bet to see who can outdrink the other… again. Mydei won last time, if you recall correctly. 

Either way, you fall right back into pace, unwinding in the steamy room, now joined by friends who have brought food and wine – what could be better than this? 

Mydei’s arm stretches out along the edge of the pool behind you but you take little notice as he’s a big guy and takes up a lot of room as a consequence, sitting even upon his throne with his thick thighs spread far apart. He just takes up a lot of room, you dismiss. But Phainon isn’t quite as subtle… 

“Ah, you have some-” He reaches forwards to brush some non-existent crumbs from your mouth, thumb tracing the plush curve of your bottom lip. His bright blue eyes are half lidded behind thick lashes, and they linger on your wine-tinted mouth. 

Mydei’s jaw clenches when you don’t pull away – fuck, he might actually lose this one – and so he intervenes. His fingers gently trace spirals on your nape, sending shivers down your spine. It gives you an excuse to turn away from Phainon’s heated gaze and so you take it readily. But he’s now closer than he was before, olive skin glistening with the humidity of the bath house, red tattoos a stark contrast to the lightly coloured tiles around you all. 

“He’s just being an idiot, don’t mind him.” Mydei says with a slight smirk, his words aimed at you but his taunt aimed at the deliverer. Phainon huffs at having his win snatched out from right under his nose and he leans in a little closer, his bottom lip jutted out in a pout when you turn back to get a look at him. 

“We’re sorry we’ve been annoying you lately.” Phainon apologises, looking for sympathy, forgiveness, pity, just any form of your attention right now. This isn’t just about winning, dammit! He yearns for the prize itself, not just the bragging rights this time. You let out a little sigh. 

“It gets to a point… but the pair of you aren’t all that bad, you’re my friends.” You offer him some reassurance with a gentle smile. The way he grins and perks up in response makes you feel that his tail would be wagging right now if he had one. 

Mydei seizes the opportunity you’ve just presented him with, lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he speaks in a low, husked tone: “Just friends?” His calloused fingertips trace the curve of your shoulder. You’ve been feeling the tension weighing down on the air like steam, but the crown prince beside you has just catalysed it. 

You open your mouth to reply but nothing comes out. How can you reply to that?! You’d have to be blind to not see how utterly handsome the pair of them are, oblivious to having failed to notice how protective they are of you. Has it always been this way? It just feels so much… more now. But what exactly does Mydei mean by that? Are they both confessing and asking you to choose one? You don’t think you ever could. He seems to sense the myriad of questions charging through your mind. 

“You don’t have to think about it right now if you don’t want to… just feel, yeah? You keep saying we’ve been working your last nerve so now it’s only fair we make you feel all relaxed and good, don’t you think, Phainon?” 

Phainon’s bright blue eyes light up and he nods eagerly, leaning in so close that his breath fans over your cheek. Mydei’s chest brushes against your shoulder and you realise you’re sandwiched between the two of them who are looking down at you like you’re the ripest fruit their starving senses have ever encountered-

Oh. Oh. 

You’re ashamed to admit that you’ve been ignoring their blatant desire up until this moment and now you’re forced to come face to face with it. It’s not that you don’t want this, just that you’re not exactly sure where they intend to take this-

But Phainon is more intuitive than his smiley self often lets on and he registers your hesitance. 

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to… and if you do then we don’t need to make a big deal of it.” He murmurs, open to whatever it is you might want to or not get out of what they’re proposing to you here in the heavy air of the bathhouse. 

Mydei tucks away a stray strand of hair that’s come undone from your hairstick, guiding it behind your ear where it sticks to the side of your neck, damp. It’s gentle and affectionate, a gesture that they want you but things need not be taken any further than this should you express that right now. 

You practically gnaw on your lip as you consider the opportunity on a silver platter in front of you. Mydei and Phainon are undeniably gorgeous, admired by men and women alike all over the Eternal Holy City. Is this really something you want to pass up? And surely it doesn’t have to mean a ruined friendship, right? Perhaps just… friendship and a little something more. 

Well now you’re not sure who to kiss first. 

Mydei seems to know he’s at a disadvantage with you facing Phainon and not him so he makes himself known with fingertips tracing the length of your arm, provoking shivers in you despite the building heat of tension and steam. But Phainon sees his window of opportunity, relishes in how your line of sight fixes on his mouth, and leans in to press his lips to yours, firm yet tender all at once. 

“HKS…” Mydei grumbles under his breath, hand hiding its way to your hip and squeezing. The prince settles instead for kissing just below your ear, seizing the opportunity to mark you before the deliverer can. With a pleased hum, one of your hands reaches back to tangle in Mydei’s long strawberry-blond and red hair while the other sets itself atop the mound of Phainon’s pec. You can taste the pomegranate wine on his tongue when it swipes against your lower lip. The water ripples around you when Mydei looms over you from behind, his broad chest pressing to your back, teeth sinking into your soft flesh just enough to leave indents behind. 

Phainon’s mouth grows more demanding, tongue pushing insistently at your lips until you allow him access to explore you like this. But Mydei matches his energy and breaks your kiss in order to haul you into his lap, provoking a little noise of surprise from you when you feel him pressing insistently against your lower back – all of him. The prince now cups your chin in his large hand to make you look at him over your shoulder. For a moment, he smears a mix of yours and Phainon’s saliva across your bottom lip before he leans in and catches it between his teeth, tugging teasingly, before letting his tongue glide against yours. 

With you seated on Mydei’s lap, you’re lifted more out of the water now and so Phainon has a front row seat to the perfect view of your bare tits. With a whine-tinged sigh of longing, he kisses his way across your collarbone and down to the plump flesh of your breasts. He laps eagerly against your nipple before sucking down on it harshly, bringing his hand up to grope the other before it can feel left out. 

“Such pretty tits, baby.” He murmurs as he teases each of your peaks into stiffening for him. Mydei’s hand has meanwhile wrapped around your throat to keep you from turning away from him, a dominant action that preludes his intentions with you. 

“You gonna let us see how pretty the rest of you is?” Mydei’s voice rumbles against the shell of your ear that he then teasingly nips and tugs between his teeth. 

“Fuck-” You pant out as Phainon’s mouth suctions around your nipple that’s now growing puffy from his eager attention. “Yeah- yeah I am.”

“Atta girl.” Mydei hoists you out of the water, sitting on the edge of the pool and setting your thighs over his so that your legs are forced to spread with how he sits with his knees so far apart. His hand glides down your side and gropes the plush flesh of your thigh, already picturing all the different positions he wants to push them in. He’s at a better angle now to grind his swollen cock against the cleft of your ass now too, and it’s something he takes advantage of. 

Phainon has followed the two of you, but doesn’t rise up from the water. You lift a hand to beckon him closer, but he’s already three steps ahead of whatever you had in mind. His thumbs reach forward to peel your pussy open, watching the twitch of your clit in the heated air and how your hole clenches slightly at being viewed so blatantly by his hungry eyes. 

“Yeah, Mydei, you were right… she’s just as pretty here.” He sighs in bliss before leaning in to lap a wide lick up your slit, kissing your clit tenderly as though to preemptively apologise for all he’s about to put the poor bud through. He latches onto it like he did your tits, tongue flicking against it as his hands find your hips to still you from bucking and squirming too much. Mydei lets out a grunt at how it only pushes your plump ass more firmly against his dick. 

The prince is pretty much humping against you now, leaning back just enough to watch his angry red tip leaking pre against your wet skin. Your hands are now tangled in the damp locks of Phainon’s snowy hair as he laps at you like a fountain, those bright blue eyes looking up at you with hazed lust, watching for all your reactions as he finally gets to learn what makes your body tick. He moans once his tongue begins to dip into your hot cunt, savouring your bittersweetness. Mydei presses one hand to your abdomen while he spits on his thumb and brings it to your clit to rub little stars against it. 

“You taste sho’ sweet, beauti-mmph…” He lets out muffled whines at a tug on his hair when his voice sends reverberations throughout your most sensitive parts. You’re now pushing on the back of his head to essentially smother him against your cunt, but it’s the last thing on this planet he’d ever wish to complain about. 

Between Phainon’s tongue, and Mydei putting just the right amount of pressure on your abdomen and friction on your clit, you find yourself nearing an orgasm embarrassingly quickly. Phainon’s fingers are digging into the squish of your thigh while Mydei’s lips drag against the side of your throat. You’re panting already and you try in vain to lie to yourself and believe it’s mostly because of the steam in the room and not because your two friends are playing your body like a lyre. 

Phainon is near literally making out with your cunt now, lapping up your wetness like it’s ambrosial wine. Meanwhile, Mydei’s hand cups the underside of your jaw to make you tip your head back enough to look at him, hand pushing upwards more until he’s pushing two fingers into your mouth, letting them slide over your tongue. Instinctively, you wrap your lips around the digits and suck on them, tongue swiping across and between them within the warmth of your mouth. Mydei groans, a smirk tugging at his lips as you let out a muffled whine from how Phainon is eating out your cunt like a feral man. 

“Aren’t you skilled with this mouth, sweetheart?” He leers and pushes his fingers towards the back of your tongue, “Why don’t you show me what else it can do, hm?” With that, he lifts you from his lap and turns you over so you’re instead bent over the edge of the pool, your ass and the very tops of your thighs highlighted by the surface of the hot water lapping at your legs. Mydei is kneeling in front of you now and he drags over the towel you’d been using as a makeshift pillow earlier, sliding it under you to cushion your elbows. 

“Fuck, look at you, pretty baby~” You hear Phainon huff under his breath as his hands cup the curve of your ass and squeeze firmly, spreading you enough to reveal your slick holes, puffy pussy squished enticingly between the fat of your thighs. 

Mydei’s hand lifts your chin while he uses the other to tap the leaking head of his thick cock against your cheek twice, watching the clear precum smear against your flushed skin. You’d never expected his tattoos to extend to the shaft of his cock, and yet you find yourself yearning to trace the red lines with your tongue. The crown prince sucks in a hiss between his teeth when you do just that. 

“That’s it, sweet girl, look how hungry you are for it…” He groans, fingers raking through your hair to brush it away from your face, keeping it from your eyes and making sure he has an unobscured view of that lust-glazed sparkle in your pretty eyes. 

Phainon, meanwhile, reminds you of his presence with a whimper as he glides his cock through the cleft of your ass, thumb pressing down over the length to make sure he can really feel the squish of your plush flesh. His hands are otherwise splayed across your hip and asscheek, humping against you. 

By the time your lips are pouting against Mydei’s reddened tip, letting him press in, Phainon’s cock is gliding through your sticky slit, making sure his cockhead catches your clit with every stroke. You can taste Mydei on your tongue as his cock nudges against the roof of your mouth and you push your tongue against the thrumming vein on the underside. He lets out a drawn out groan and his fist tightens in your hair. 

Having teased himself enough with gliding his length through the plush lips of your pussy, Phainon finally nudges his cock against your entrance. He’s not as thick as Mydei, you think as he stops at just the tip stretching your snug walls, the deliverer panting softly as he narrows all of his focus onto not finishing early – but you’re just so wet and warm and tight! His head falls back as he pushes forwards in one smooth motion until his hips are flush to your ass. 

You nearly choke on Mydei’s cock that’s jutting its way to the back of your throat – you were wrong to underestimate Phainon! You didn’t manage to get a good look at his dick when he was eating you out as he was still mostly submerged in the water, but what he lacks in girth he more than makes up for in length! His tip is already squished up against your cervix, like he’s trying to ram right past it. But he doesn’t quite seem to realise just how much you’re taking for his sake as he’s still buried to the hilt, hands curling into your hips as he pants and whimpers, twitching at each clench of your pussy on him. 

“Open wider.” Mydei commands your attention back to him. You relax your jaw, tongue outstretched as he bullies his way to the back of your throat with a groan of pleasure. “That’s it, so good at taking orders, aren’t you?” He teases with a leering grin as he encourages you with a hand in your hair to start bobbing your head on him. While your moans are muffled into wet gags around Mydei’s fat cock, Phainon finally finds his focus and begins to fuck into you with shallow thrusts, hands sliding from your hips to your waist and back, unable to pull out more than a few inches before being drawn back in by the snug embrace of your hole, gaze fixed to the jiggle of your soft body each time he bottoms out. 

“So good, so, so good, you feel so-” He whines, his thrusts jackhammering you like a rabbit, the light splashes of water over the edge of the pool mixing into the cacophony of grunts, moans, gags and the lewd squelches of your pussy. 

“What’s noisier, that pretty cunt or this sweet mouth, hm?” Mydei’s golden eyes flick up to meet Phainon, but the younger Chrysos heir seems drunk on your pussy, rutting into your gummy walls like he’s no better than a dog. He’s eager and his length is merciless against your poor hole that’s being made to accommodate his size again and again with each pump of his hips. Your thighs are being squished between his body and the edge of the pool, having pushed you as far forwards as possible, causing you to take more of Mydei’s cock down your throat in turn. 

Your pleasure increases tenfold though, when Phainon reaches under you to find your swollen clit, rubbing the little pearl in sticky circles while smearing your slick over it. Your legs tremble under you and Mydei picks up on your shaky arms. He moves from being on his knees to sitting down with his legs outstretched on either side of you, letting you lean down and not put so much balance on your arms. It becomes easier to instead focus on Phainon ramming into you from behind and the tart taste of Mydei’s pre smearing across your drooling tongue. 

“Shit! You tightened up so much-” Phainon whines, cock throbbing as he feels his release nearing. Mydei has his bottom lip caught between his teeth and his gaze flickers between your glassy eyes and the bounce of your ass each time Phainon plunges into you. 

“You hear that? I think you’re going to make him cum~” He croons from above you, grinning at how you’ve got the fearsome deliverer whimpering like a pup while he pumps into your cunt at rapid pace. Your back arches sweetly and Phainon lets out a broken whimper as it allows him a little deeper into you. The next thing you register is the hot spurt of his cum spilling deep into you. He leans over your back, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades as he pants and whines, grinding his tip against your abused cervix with a death grip on your hips to make sure he doesn’t slip out of you – not that there’s anywhere you could go given how you’re sandwiched between his toned figure and the edge of the pool. 

To your surprise, Mydei pulls out of your mouth, his thumb tracing the plush curve of your bottom lip to wipe away your drool. The action makes you feel even more debauched and it has you clenching on Phainon. But the white-haired man whines when you’re pulled out of his arms and into Mydei’s lap instead. 

“You can take another load, right, sweetheart?” He asks in a gravelly tone as he seats you onto his thick cock. He doesn’t reach quite as far as Phainon did, but the thicker stretch as you keening and arching into his broad chest. He pushes into your clenching insides, groaning as Phainon’s creamy spend runs down the shaft of his red-marked cock. His calloused hand comes down on your ass, making you squeal. “I asked you a question.” He tilts his head to the side, braid falling over his shoulder as he looks at you pointedly, eyes of molten gold penetrating your very being. 

“Y-yes! Can take ahh~ another load!” You babble as he starts to bounce you on his dick. After only a few strokes Phainon – not wanting to be left out – presses himself to your back and reaches around your front to begin to paw at your plump tits, teasing the nipples and tugging on them. Mydei could shoo him away but they’ve done well enough at sharing you so far, and every pinch to your sensitive nipples makes you squeeze deliciously on his fat cock. 

With Mydei’s grip on your ass being used to haul you up and down on his shaft like a doll, Phainon takes it upon himself to let one of his hands glide down your front and to your clit once more, swiping across it in rapid motions, wanting- needing to see you orgasm. It’s successful in getting your head to fall back against his shoulder, moans pouring from your lips that will undoubtedly be heard should anyone stand too close to the door-

But he swallows down all your noises with a heated kiss when he feels a spray of your juices against his fingertips, Mydei growling at how you tighten up on him just right. 

“Fuck, fuck! Milking me like that, I’ll-” The crown prince cuts himself off in favour of gritting his teeth to muffle his grunts as he spills his load into you. You’re left mewling into Phainon’s mouth at the hot spill in your sensitive pussy. You’re all left panting when Phainon eventually breaks the kiss in favour of nuzzling into your neck, Mydei’s hands stroking up and down the curve of your waist to soothe your shaking figure. Only once he thinks you can take it does he steadily lift you off his cock and let you fall into his sculpted chest. To let you stretch your legs from where they’ve been folded to straddle him, he leans back against the tiled floor, palm smoothing up and down your back as you steadily come down from your high. 

But Phainon isn’t done with you just yet, pushing one of your thighs aside to spread them again. He cups the sides of your ass to coax you into a gentle arch, just enough to let him access your creampied pussy when he lays down on his front. 

“Phai! Can’t take any-” He cuts you off with a cooing tone:

“Shhh, pretty girl, just cleaning you up.” He murmurs against your slit as he laps up the cum and slick that’s dribbling from your used hole. He’s firm but gentle with each roll of his tongue, swallowing down the mess the three of you have made of your poor cunt. 

“Let’s get a robe for you.” Mydei murmurs, lips caressing the shell of your ear, “Wouldn’t want the next booking to come in and find you all ruined like this, hm?” 

⋆ :₊ ꒰ banner by @/snvvo on X ꒱

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Profiles

Busy people + [Name] Amphoreans (real)

♡♡♡

Chapters

♡ Prologue | lucky to be fired

♡ 01 | fate on the wall

♡ 02 | And he was a streamer

♡ 03 | Lieslieslies

♡ 04 | Crown of Gold or Silver

♡ 05 | Job hunting, Go!

♡ 06 | Wait, who?!

♡ 07 | Teenage girl Phainon

♡ 08 | The Disaster that is Family

♡ 09 | Unemployment in Kremnoan

♡ 10 | It was me

♡ 11 | Let's kiss rn

♡ 12 | Death by Facecard

♡ 13 | [Name] Employed era?!

...tba

♡♡♡

you squint against the sudden sunlight. the rhythmic clang of metal against metal reaches your ears as dozens of knights spar in duels, while others run drills under the barked commands of their captains, sweat darkening the collars of their tunics.

somewhere in your chest, a distant ache stirs.

your parents had only your best interests at heart. they wanted you somewhere safe especially after the assassination attempt that left you with only half your memory intact.

the neighboring kingdom, castrum kremnos, was the obvious choice; home to the finest warriors in the land, and close enough to your homeland that you wouldn’t feel entirely adrift.

and so, here you are now, a year after your coming of age ceremony, standing on foreign soil under the protection of another kingdom.

they hoped a change of scenery might help you heal after all these years. 

“i was told,” you say, “that i’m to choose a knight.”

mydei nods, “it’s customary. you’ll remain under kremnos’ protection regardless, but a personal escort will ease the council’s worries. and your parents’.”

you don’t suppose you like the idea of having a glorified babysitter in metal armor, but alas, you understand why it’s necessary. 

finally, you come to a stop at the edge of the training grounds. “choose carefully. these men and women will lay down their lives for you, should the need arise.”

your eyes sweep over the crowd, scanning the lines of soldiers before you—until they catch on a certain figure and don’t move again.

he kneels like the rest, yet something about him sets him apart.

snow-white hair falls loosely over his face, obscuring most of it, catching the sunlight like spun silver. with his head bowed, you can’t see much, only the sharp line of his jaw, the smooth curve of his cheek. 

but what little you can glimpse is almost ethereal; the kind you might even call beautiful. 

mydeimos’ voice rings out, taking you out of your trance and dismissing the knights back to their training. boots scuff against stone at the command as they stand and begin to disperse across the grounds.

as they return to their drills, you sense more than a few lingering looks subtly aimed your way—brief, curious flickers of the eye; some seem eager to catch your attention, others simply taking in the sight of the visiting princess. 

where the others can’t help but sneak a glimpse, you notice he doesn’t so much as lift his head. 

his focus locked somewhere far from you. not once does he look at you; in fact, he’s the only one who doesn’t.

you glance back toward the field just as a commotion starts to stir.

from your vantage point, it’s easy to spot a few older knights surrounding a younger recruit, likely an inexperienced junior, judging by his awkwardness and stiff movements. 

the knights goad him with swings he clearly struggles to deflect, one even slips in a low sweep that knocks him off balance, and when he stumbles back, barely managing to stay upright, the laughter that follows is nothing short of mean-spirited.

in the midst of everything, one of them even glances toward you.

ah. so that’s what this is. show-offs, the lot of them. 

your brows furrow slightly at the sight in front of you. the hits aren’t hard enough to injure, but still, that’s no way to treat your comrades! you’re just about to lean toward mydei to ask if this kind of thing happens often when—

the white-haired knight approaches with a calm, unhurried gait, tilting his head slightly in a casual nod.

“three on one?” you hear him say, voice clear even from a distance. "doesn’t seem very fair to me."

“captain,” one of the older knights replies, straightening slightly, though there’s still a trace of a smirk on his face. "we’re just testing the rookie’s reflexes. builds character, you know."

“oh? then let me help.” he draws his training sword in one smooth motion, the blade gleaming under the sun. “how about i take his place? i could use a little discipline myself.”

a short silence follows; the knights glance at one another. 

then, with a begrudging scoff, one of them steps forward, rolling his shoulders as he raises his blade.

“don’t go easy on me, captain.”

“wouldn’t dream of it. though if this is your way of impressing her highness…” he briefly flicks his gaze up toward you, the look on his face is hard to pin down—

“you’re doing a terrible job.”

ACT I: WHY HIS LOYALTY WAS MINE ALONE

the spar that follows isn’t violent, but it’s unmistakably a lesson (one the egoistical bunch sorely needs).

the white-haired knight meets every blow with ease, and effectively disarms his opponents. the difference is immediate. 

by the time the bout ends, the three knights lower their blades, avoiding his gaze as they shamefully retreat with stiff bows. the white-haired knight gives the junior still watching from the sidelines a quick, reassuring pat on the shoulder, and murmurs something you can’t quite hear.

you blink.

that was… unexpectedly gentle.

and very impressive.

“you’ve got a sharp eye. that’s phainon, the captain of the royal knights,” mydei adds with a touch of reluctance, “the only one here who can rival me in a spar, unfortunately.”

you stifle a laugh. the image of the oh-so-mighty mydeimos getting knocked flat in training is too good to resist. must be frustrating, being shown up by your own subordinate.

he shoots you a sideways glance. “you look like you’re thinking something rude.”

urk… nevermind! 

anyway, you feel a bit guilty; you’d meant to observe everyone objectively, to judge them fairly by their skill. but admittedly, you’d been staring more at his face than anything else on the field here.

still, as that little display just now proved, he also happens to be the most capable one out there (given that he’s the captain and all).

so really, it’s a win-win isn’t it?

your eyes naturally drift back to him across the courtyard, and when his gaze unexpectedly meets yours, you offer a small, pleasant smile. 

for a moment, something in his expression falters. his pupils seem to dilate ever so slightly like he’s been caught off guard, before he quickly averts his gaze as though he hadn’t seen you at all.

“do you know him?” mydei asks, curiosity evident in his tone.

“no,” you reply without hesitation.

his hair—snow-white, so striking in a way that feels impossible to forget. you’re almost certain you would remember it if you had seen him before, somewhere in passing, though where or when eludes you.

you brush the thought aside. probably just a trick of the eye.

while you’re busy conversing with mydei, you miss the way his gaze keeps drifting to you whenever you aren’t looking; and how, earlier, when your eyes passed over him without a trace of recognition, he turned away just as fast.

mydei gestures him over; he approaches and comes to a stop before you both, offering a courteous bow.

when phainon lifts his head, his eyes find yours—and for the first time, he doesn’t look away. they’re warmer than you expect, startlingly soft, and the way he holds your gaze makes your breath catch a little. 

you blink, unsure what to make of the sudden attention, and even more unsure why it leaves your heart skipping a beat.

but before you can dwell on it, he drops to one knee. “thank you for choosing me, my lady,” he says, voice steady. “i’ll protect you with my life.”

ACT II: WHY I FELT SOMETHING AKIN TO WARMTH

you don’t remember much of your childhood, not after that day. your memory fractures like shattered glass around the moment you were attacked, during the afternoon you snuck out.

your parents told you it was a group of mercenaries that vanished without a trace after the failed assassination and that you were lucky someone nearby had saved you in time.

whoever it was carried you back, left you somewhere safe enough for the guards to find you in a bloodied and unconscious state, before disappearing without any indications of their identity. 

the search that followed led nowhere. there were no witnesses, and your testimony was of no help either, you couldn’t recall a thing about the attack. even now, it’s all a blur, likely a side effect of the trauma caused by this incident and the coma that followed. 

and though you tried, again and again, to recall the face of your savior… there was nothing. 

still, some part of you is convinced it wasn’t just a stranger. deep down, you’ve always believed it must have been someone dear to you—and the only person that comes to mind is a boy your age who you’d often sneak off to play with when you were young. 

but you can’t recall his name. or what he looked like. not even the sound of his voice. 

but whoever he was… you’re certain he was the first person who ever made you feel truly loved.

since your arrival at kremnos, the letters haven’t stopped.

every few days, a fresh stack arrives. you open elegant envelopes sealed in wax; promises of affection, proposals of alliance, declarations of admiration from noblemen near and far, so on and so forth. 

you never read past the first few lines.

today is no different. you absentmindedly sort through the pile as they gather on your desk, eyes glazed from the monotony—until a familiar crest pressed into pastel pink wax catches your attention.

from… countess cyrene?

countess cyrene of aedes elysiae; though your duties often kept you both endlessly busy, the two of you still exchanged letters now and then.

you’ve always looked forward to her letters. this one is no different.

the letter comes in her familiar flowing script. she writes that word of your stay in kremnos has reached her—and she’s delighted, at last, to have a reason to visit. once her family matters are in order, she promises to make the trip and see her old friend again.

you continue to read for a while, barely noticing how the sky softens into twilight. and at some point, without meaning to, you fall asleep.

when phainon finds you, the room is quiet, bathed in the gentle hush of dusk. 

you’re fast asleep beneath the warm spill of fading light, your breathing soft, the faintest crease between your brows. you’re slumped over the desk, cheek resting against your arm. 

he pauses in the doorway. maybe it’s the way your features have softened in sleep, or how the dying light catches the way your hair falls over your face. maybe it’s because, just for a moment, you look almost delicate to touch.

his gaze traces your sleeping face, and something tender tugs at his chest—so achingly soft it almost hurts. 

he really wants to call your name.

but as a knight, his loyalty belongs to the empire, and with that vow comes a line he’s sworn never to cross—one that makes love for a princess he serves forbidden.

wait, what was he thinking? he quickly shakes himself awake.

because if he lets even a sliver of that feeling slip through, he’s not sure he’ll have the will power to stop himself from crossing that line.

so instead, he shrugs off his cloak and drapes it gently over your shoulders, hands careful not to graze your skin. 

he tells himself this is enough. it has to be.

by the time your eyes flutter open, he clears his throat. 

“forgive me, your highness,” he mutters, his voice gently pulling you out of your slumber, “i merely wished to shield you from the wind.”

you blink up at him, still bleary with sleep; and the tips of his ears turn the faintest shade of red under the lazy, unfocused way you look at him.

“it’s quite alright. thank you, sir phainon.” 

but his heart knows better than to believe it’s truly enough.

that night, as you lie beneath the silk canopy of your bed, eyes lost in the dim glow of the ceiling, your fingers find the necklace resting at your collarbone.

you toy with the pendant absently; you don’t remember when it was given to you, only that you’ve had it for as long as you can remember. 

and as always, your thoughts drift to him.

your dearest childhood friend—whose hands were as soft and warm as summer. he’d reach for you, and you’d follow without hesitation, slipping past watchful guards into the wild beyond the palace walls.

you’d race through sunlit fields until your lungs burned and laughter spilled freely from your chest; lying beside each other as you chattered on about suffocating etiquettes in the palace, while he’d offer you pastries from stalls in markets you never get to visit. 

being with him always smelled of freshly bloomed wildflowers and sun-warmed earth—the kind of scent that clung to your sleeves long after you’d returned to the palace, hoping no one would notice where the young princess had been all afternoon. 

you remember the weeks after you woke from the coma; how every morning, you’d pull back the curtains and press your forehead to the cool glass, eyes sweeping the grounds in silence.

waiting for a glimpse of a familiar wave. 

but no matter how high the sun rose, no matter how many mornings passed… that never came. and even now, you still find yourself wondering—

why didn’t he come back for you?

you pull phainon’s cloak a little closer around your shoulders. it smells faintly of wildflowers, just like those days you still dream about.

and somehow, that’s enough to lull you to sleep.

ACT III: WHY, YOU ARE THE APPLE OF MY EYE! 

in the stillness of the royal infirmary, long after the palace has fallen quiet for the night, a young boy stands beside the bed of the unconscious princess. 

a dark hooded cloak hangs off his small frame; even tucked beneath the fabric, the pale strands of his snow-white hair caught what little moonlight filtered in.

he lingers quietly, gaze fixed on her face, bruised and bandaged. his hands tremble as he reaches for hers, lifting it gently to his lips before pressing a soft kiss to her palm. 

then, he tucks a delicate necklace into her hand and folds her fingers around it.

it is a modest thing, barely worth a glance to anyone else, but he had spent the last of his coins on it the moment it caught his eye at the market stall. a sun-shaped pendant. it reminded him too much of her—warm, bright, and out of his reach.

“wait for me,” he whispers. “i’ll be strong enough to protect you one day, no one… no one will ever hurt you again,” he whispers just barely above his breath. “i promise.”

he could’ve sworn her expression softened, the crease between her brows smoothing ever so slightly, as if his words had reached her in her slumber. in his hopeful haze, it felt real enough to believe the faintest smile on her face was meant for him.

taking one final glance, he slipped away the way he came, vanishing into the shadows before anyone knew he was ever there.

phainon, as it turns out, is surprisingly easy to talk to.

conversation with him flows more naturally than you’d imagined. he listens well no matter how trivial the topic is; and maybe it’s the cute way he tilts his head when he’s curious, or how he noticeably brightens just a little when you laugh—you can’t help but notice there’s something undeniably charming about him.

you learn this as the two of you walk through the outer streets of kremnos.

mydei had suggested you take time to acquaint yourself with the city beyond the palace walls, and you’d agreed without hesitation. a quiet stroll sounded like a welcome change of pace.

of course, you couldn’t exactly parade through the city without drawing unwanted attention. 

so you and your knight both don simple cloaks over your usual attire, hoods drawn low to obscure your faces. from a distance, you look like nothing more than a traveler and her escort.

the narrow lane eventually opens into a quieter square where flower stalls line the street. a thought strikes you. 

“sir phainon, if you had to choose,” you say, glancing at him from beneath your hood. “say, what would your favorite flower be?”

phainon blinks, “…a flower? my lady, i don’t think i’ve ever been asked that.” he sheepishly scratches the back of his neck.

“but surely you have one.” you insist, a small smile tugging at your lips. 

phainon’s brows knit slightly as his gaze sweeps over the stalls. for a moment, he looks lost, till his eyes linger on a bouquet of sunflowers, their golden petals tilted toward the fading afternoon light. his gaze flickers briefly from the flowers to you, then back again.

“sunflowers, maybe.”

your smile widens. “is that so? i suppose sunflowers are really unique, especially their tendency to follow the sun wherever it goes.” 

when you glance to the side to gauge his reaction, you realize he’s already looking at you. you almost miss the faintest trace of color dusting his cheeks as he squints slightly, as though he was looking directly into the sun itself. 

“for your lady, sir?” the vendor asks brightly, holding up a single stem of sunflower.

phainon startles as though woken from a dream. his eyes dart from the vendor to you, and he straightens abruptly, clearing his throat. the faint blush that had lingered on his face deepens.

“she’s not— i mean— well, yes, if she wants, but—”

you can’t help laughing at phainon’s flustered reaction, taking the flower yourself. “i’ll take it then, thank you.”

he finds himself trailing just a step behind you as you skip ahead.

and it dawns on him; perhaps sunflowers don’t choose to follow the sun, but because they simply can’t help it. no matter how far its warmth drifts, they’ll always turn their faces toward the light.

and as he watches you from behind, phainon realizes he’s doing much the same.

ACT III: WHY I FELT A SENSE OF DÉJÀ VU

the dagger pressed cold against her throat.

“not a word,” the man hissed. his voice was calm unlike the tremor in the maid’s hands as she stood frozen, the tip of the dagger tracing the hollow of her neck. “do exactly as i say, and you’ll live.”

“p-please,” she stammered, lips quivering. “i beg, don’t—”

outside, the corridor was silent. most of the guards had been drawn away toward the western gate, distracted by a false report of intruders. the eastern wing, where the princess’s chambers lay, was almost deserted. just as planned.

the man’s gaze darted toward the far end of the hall. “where is she?”

“i— i don’t know. her highness said she wished for some—”

the dagger pressed deeper, drawing a thin bead of red beneath her chin.

“...in her quarters!” she gasped. “please, don’t hurt—”

“get me the oil,” he shoved the maid aside. make sure there are no witnesses, we’re here to assassinate the princess.

moments later, the corridors of the east wing filled with the faint scent of smoke.

the maid dropped the oil vessel and staggered back, horrified by what she had done; choking on her sobs as she fled down the hall. he watched her go until the sound of her footsteps faded, then tipped the lantern, adding fuel to the fire.

the flames leapt to life, devouring everything in their path.

you rise from your chair, a surge of alarm clawing at your chest.  “is someone there?”

no answer.

by the time you reach for the door, the handle sears your palm with heat.

flames crackle as tendrils of smoke curl beneath the doors, making way into your chambers. just outside, unsuspecting attendants flee in panic, their screams muffled as they scramble through the palace.

you snatch a cloth from the table, and douse it with water, wrapping it around your hand before grasping the scorching handle. 

but just as you brace to pull the door open, you freeze—dark streaks of oil begin to snake across the floor, seeping in from the gap beneath the door. 

your stomach drops; in the next second, flames bloom like wildfire at your feet. 

you instinctively take a few steps back. it claws at the edges of the curtains, the heat pressing in from every side as your lungs burn with each ragged cough. 

a wave of icy dread crashes over you. every gut screams that this is no accident. the oil creeping deliberately under your doorframe leaves no room for doubt: someone did this on purpose.

could it be that they have returned for you, after all these years…?

your heart leaps when the window starts rattling violently; shattered glass and shards scatter across the floor as someone steps through the broken pane, hands bare and bleeding from the jagged edges of glass.

“sir phainon?”

the sight of him through the haze makes your heart stutter. 

“what are you doing here? you should—” you cough violently, waving at the acrid air. “you should get out… it’s not safe here!”

phainon’s eyes dart toward the door behind you, where he knows other guards, dispatched the moment the fire broke out, were racing to reach your chambers.

but as he suspected, there was no safe passage leading to you. thus why he had to find an alternative as soon as possible. 

without a second thought, he finds a way in himself, barely feeling the pain in his bloodied knuckles nor the scorching hot flames, driven by nothing but the need to reach you before it’s too late.

“forgive me, my lady, but i cannot obey that order.” 

and though he says nothing more, the truth is written plainly across his face— you are all that matters to him. and the thought of losing you again is something he can’t bear to even imagine.

“please hold on to me.” you barely manage to question him before he sweeps an arm securely around your waist, pulling you close enough to feel the rise and fall of his chest. the fire devours what’s left of the room as he braces his bleeding hands against the shattered sill, blood smearing faintly across the glass.

“phainon—your hands—”

he grins faintly, “you can scold me later, princess, preferably when we’re not on fire.”

before you can respond, he lifts you through the window and out into the open air; instinctively, you grab at the front of his cloak, clutching the fabric to steady yourself.

the cold rush of wind hits you like a wave, stealing the heat and smoke from your lungs. 

he lands hard against the grass outside, his body twisting to shield you from the fall. his hand finds the back of your head, guiding it against his shoulder as he absorbs the brunt of the blow. 

the impact jostles you both; for a heartbeat, neither of you moves. you can only feel the rough fabric of his shirt beneath your fingers, the rapid, unsteady rhythm of his heart pounding against your palm.

phainon exhales shakily, his grip loosening just enough for you to lift your head. concern is written all over the beautiful face laying under you, but neither of you seem to remember how close you are.

“let’s get you somewhere safe, my lady.”

he kneels beside you, hands moving with careful precision as he dampens a cloth and gently wipes the dirt from your skin. 

you notice the faint tremor in his fingers as he tends to the scrape along your arm, the subtle tension in his jaw; his eyes that flit over you… your face, your hands, your shoulders, as if searching for possible wounds you haven’t noticed yet. 

“i’m not badly hurt,” you murmur, watching him.

he pauses, eyes flicking up to catch your gaze. “even so, my lady,” he replies, “it eases my mind to be certain.”

“thank you, i’m alright, really.”

he knows he has no right to act as anything more than your devoted knight, yet he tends to you with a fervor that defies norms. each careful touch, each lingering glance, speaks of a devotion that goes far beyond; protecting you has become a desperate, almost instinctive need for him. 

his fingers brush a loose strand of hair from your forehead, lingering a moment longer than necessary, and for an instant the world outside the safehouse feels like it’s miles away. the closeness and the warmth of his hand against your skin, makes your chest tighten unexpectedly. 

he clears his throat, snapping himself from the reverie. “i merely wish to ensure you are unharmed.” 

you nod, “but what about you, phainon?” 

phainon, phainon, phainon… how long had he waited to hear those two syllables fall from your lips? the sound rolls off your tongue like honey, enough to make him delirious off its sweetness.

you tilt your head at his lack of response, eyes lowering towards his knuckles; the blood may be wiped away, but the marks of the glass-cut injuries remain. 

“…does it still hurt?” you ask softly, reaching for his hand before he can draw it back.

his hand is warm and rough in your grasp; you trace the edges of the cuts gently, thumb brushing over a faint streak of dried blood.

“you shouldn’t have done something so reckless,” you mutter, tearing a strip of cloth from your sleeve to wrap around his knuckles.

phainon watches in silence, gaze following the furrow of your brow, the faint crease of worry that doesn’t belong on your face.

and as your fingers tighten the makeshift bandage around his knuckles, his heart pounds loud enough that he’s sure you could hear it, if you only leaned a little closer.

unfortunately, this humble warehouse was built to house only one person at most, which explained the lone bed pushed against the wall. 

at first, he stubbornly insists on sleeping on the floor, but you protest, unwilling to let a wounded man rest on the unforgiving floor. 

in bed, he tries to give you most of the space, or at least he intends to… but with his broad frame, it’s impossible not to take up more than his fair share (despite his genuine best efforts).

so when your shoulder brushes against his, he stiffens, and you notice the subtle way his hand flexes around the sheet. the bandaged fingers of his curl involuntarily, white-knuckled, the muscle in his forearm trembling slightly as he wills himself to remain still, to restrain the urge to reach out, to pull you closer. 

he convinces himself it’s the soreness in his knuckles keeping him awake, not the warmth of your body pressed against his side. 

he stares at the ceiling long after you’ve drifted off (though he can’t help but sneak a few glances from time to time), listening to the even rise and fall of your breathing.

seeing you safe and here beside him once more, it’s the same comfort he remembers from long ago, like coming home after a long, restless journey.

after all this time, he finally has the chance to keep his promise.

the thought is enough to coax a small, unguarded smile to the corners of his lips. 

INTERLUDE: WHY A PROMISE MUST BE REMEMBERED

his breathing was ragged, his steps uneven as he darted into the narrow alleyway behind the market. dust rose beneath his boots, mingling with the late-evening light that spilled through the cracks between the rooftops.

he hadn’t stolen anything. he swore he hadn’t. but when the steward’s silver ring had gone missing, and he’d just happened to pass by with his ragged appearance, that was all it took for them to put the blame on him. he learnt that explaining was futile when the haughty steward shut him up and called for guards immediately.

he pressed himself behind a crate, trying to calm his breathing. the echo of guards shouting carried faintly down the street.

“he went that way!”

... “don’t let that rascal get away!”

just then, a figure in a pale dress peeked in, her gaze sweeping the shadows before landing right where he hid.

...!

he bit his lip, eyes squeezing shut, praying to whichever god was listening to him—that she wouldn’t call out to the guards.

“hello?”

his eyes snapped open and he swallowed hard, voice barely a whisper. “…please don’t tell them i’m here.”

she tilted her head, studying the boy crouched behind the crate. “what’s your name?” she asked.

“...phainon.” 

“phainon,” she repeated, as if you’re testing the sound on her tongue. “i like that name!”

“well i’m—”  she began, but her words were cut short.

“your highness!” the guards called from behind her, relief flooding their tone when they finally spotted the young princess. “there you are, we’ve been looking everywhere! what are you doing here?”

she you blinked, casting a quick glance back toward the crates, before stepping away inconspicuously. “nothing,” you said lightly. “i thought i heard something and got a little lost.”

“but it seems i’m the only one here.”

the guards exchanged uneasy glances, hesitantly, they inclined their heads.

“understood, your highness. it isn’t safe here, please let us escort you back to the palace before your tutors notice,” one said.

they turned to lead you out of the alleyway, but before you followed, you looked back. 

snow-white hair peeked out from behind the crate. his lips parted, as if to speak, but no sound came.

you smiled instead, lifting a finger to your lips to shush him gently, then gave him a playful wink as your parting gift. 

phew...

thank god they—wait. wait, did the princess of aedes elysiae… just wink at him?

you don’t see him again for several days, at least not until another quiet afternoon when you manage to slip past your attendants once more. 

beyond the palace gardens, down a sloping hill and through the meadow, there’s a quiet spot by the riverbank where almost no one ever goes.

that’s where you find him again. barefoot, sleeves rolled to his elbows, rinsing mud from his hands in the river. sunlight glints off his pale hair, the ripples painting silver lines across his face. he startles when he notices you standing next to him. 

“…your highness?” he blurts, nearly stumbling to his feet.

“so you do remember me.”

there is something about the way he looks at you then, more so resembling the awe of someone faced with a miracle he never quite believed he’d see again. as some people are remembered as heroes because they save lives; while others, like you, because they give one a reason to keep living at all.

he straightens quickly, bowing his head, his hands still damp. “i didn’t expect to see you here, your highness. the palace is quite a ways off.”

you step closer until your reflection joins his in the water. “what a coincidence,” you muse. “i come here often, yet i’ve never once seen you. perhaps it’s fate, then.”

you tilt your head. “what are you doing here, anyway?”

“my parents’ field is nearby,” he says, awkwardly drying his palms on his trousers. “i was fetching water for them, your highness.”

you hum thoughtfully,  glancing at the wooden buckets by his feet. “then i suppose i’ve interrupted your work.”

he shakes his head quickly, almost flustered. “no-not at all! you could never be an interruption, my lady!”

amused, you can’t help but giggle at his reaction. the sound makes him blink, unsure whether he’s said something foolish or funny (or both), he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, scratching at his neck before lowering his gaze again, a bashful smile tugging at his lips.

after that day, you find yourselves meeting there more often.

“my lady, are you sneaking out again?” “maybe… but you won’t tell on me, right?”

neither of you ever spoke of your meetings to anyone. a young princess had no business secretly spending her evenings with a commoner, after all—what would the court say if they ever found out?

yet, despite the vast gulf of social status between you, you never treated him as lesser; and he finds himself drawn to you more with each passing meeting, until he can’t help but notice that his thoughts turn to you long before the day ends. 

those little observations grow heavier in his chest as years pass, loving a princess is dangerous, but loving a commoner would be no less so. perhaps you both sense it; even the adults, if they ever knew, would likely dismiss it as nothing more than a fleeting childhood affection, a puppy love that simply, cannot last.

but looking at you now, you seem almost ethereal. is it truly selfish of him to wish you’d never leave? to hope you wouldn’t one day be wedded to some noble prince more fitting of your position? 

to imagine himself there instead—if it were him standing beside you, would you look at him differently then?

he hates the way his heart dares to reach for something it has no right to want.

it is such an ugly thought, a feeling so unworthy of you, he fears it might taint you if he even dared to—

“then… when i grow up and become a princess who gets into all sorts of trouble—”

he blinks at you, as though the sweet sound of your voice had pulled him out of a dream. “all sorts of trouble?”

“yes,” you said solemnly. “you’ll come save me, won’t you?”

the boy paused, looking down at his calloused hands. the breeze rustles through the grass, carrying the faint scent of river water between you; he nods, surprisingly earnestly. 

“of course, i’ll save you, no matter what.”

you smile brightly at his response, holding out your pinky toward him.

“then it’s a promise!”

he hooks his finger with yours.

“of course, i’ll protect you with my life!”

that day, the sun may be blazing brilliantly overhead, yet its light pales beside the radiant warmth of your smile, a light that touched his heart with a tenderness no dawn could ever match.

ACT V: WHY HE COULDN’T BEAR TO SEE ME SMILE AT ANOTHER

after a pleasant conversation with the knowledgeable lord anaxa, you slip out of the ballroom, and as always—phainon falls into step behind you the instant you turn away.

you push open the imposing doors leading to the balcony; cool night wind rushes in, brushing across your skin like a blessing after hours drowned under chandeliers. the music dulls to a distant hum as the doors ease shut behind you.

exhaling, you lean against the marble railing, letting the air fill your lungs. phainon steps into the moonlight, his gaze softens when it lands on your back.

“my lady,” he says quietly. “are you alright?”

jealousy doesn’t show easily on him.

usually, he’s a man with no need to covet. but nothing about you, or the way he feels for you, has ever been “usual” to him.

every time a noble leaned in too near, every fleeting touch on your arm as if they had any right to—

“yes,” you murmur, tossing a look over your shoulder and offering him a faint, tired smile. “i just needed a breath of fresh air.” your gaze drops for a moment before lifting to him again. “thank you for staying by my side, phainon.”

it reminds him, cruelly, of the place he stands, of what he can and cannot reach.

a low hum trembles through the air before the first firework bursts into the sky, scattering gold across the night. you both look up instinctively, the sudden glow washing over your faces. 

another follows. then another. soon the sky is filled with blooming flowers, each one painting your skin in shifting hues of amber and rose.

“look phainon!” petals of light drift downward, reflected in your awe-filled eyes, “it’s lovely, isn’t it?”

his breath catches at the way you grab his arm out of excitement (moving just enough that the warmth of you grazes against his side), the soft delight in your eyes, the way you lean forward slightly, lips parted in astonishment—

it coaxes dormant parts of his heart awake, blooming slow and treacherous like flowers touched by the morning sun.

“yes,” he says before he could help himself. 

yet his gaze rests nowhere near the sky, but rather, on the spectacle that lives inside your gaze, the reflection turning your eyes into something soft and luminous.

he thinks that if there is beauty to behold tonight, it exists far closer than the horizon ahead.

and maybe that is why his next words sit so heavily on his tongue.

“my lady.”

“hm?” your expectant eyes meet his.

phainon swallows.

“in a week or so, i will be stationed at the frontlines away from the capital for some time,” he begins.

you blink, surprise flickering across your face, this is news to you. your fingers tighten on the railing.

you had hoped, more than you dared admit, to spend just a little more time with your beloved knight.

“how long?” you ask with a disappointment you try to swallow down. 

“a few years.”

“i see.” a hollow ache blooms beneath your ribs, as if something dear to you is slipping out of reach.

his fingers curl at his sides, knuckles tense; every word he’s buried for years pushes its way up his throat before he can stop it. “and there is also something i have been meaning to say. my lady, i—”

a thunderous crack splits the sky above, drowning out the rest of his words in a blaze of gold.

you tilt your head, “sorry, what was it?” you call over the roaring cascade. 

phainon’s mouth opens—then closes again.

“…nothing,” he turns his gaze away from you, “it can wait, my lady.”

and you, standing inches from him, remain blissfully unaware of the words he had finally dared to speak.

the ballroom is nearly unrecognisable once emptied. 

you and phainon’s footsteps the only sound left in a place that had been overflowing with grandeur only an hour ago.

“a shame i didn’t get to dance properly tonight,” you say, half jokingly. 

“is it?” he asks softly.

you shrug, smiling faintly. “i suppose so.”

“in that case…”  he bows lightly, “if you’d allow me, my lady.” 

“you know how to dance?” you ask, the hint of a smile tugging your lips.

he exhales a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth lifting. a flicker of playfulness ghosts across his face. “why don’t you see for yourself?” he returns with an unexpected hint of teasing gallantry.

you laugh and slip your hand into his.

his palm at your waist warms through the layers of your gown, its delicate threads woven by none other than the esteemed seamstress, lady aglaea.

he looks down, drinking in the sight of you—your flushed cheeks from the cold air, the soft part of your lips as you exhale. 

for a man so adept at his weapon, his hands felt remarkably soft on your skin.

phainon’s breath caresses faintly against your temple as he spins you gently under his arm.

you both fall into a gentle sway, soft laughter escaping every once in a while.

he lets himself savor the moment, allowing himself this small indulgence: to believe, if only for tonight, you might recognize him in the same way he has always known you.

ACT VI: WHY I WAS JEALOUS OF HIS 'SECRET LOVER'

phainon almost never left you unattended, but mydei (of all people) was someone he trusted without hesitation. and today he had been ordered to train the troupe preparing for the frontlines, leaving you in the prince’s hands for the afternoon.

left alone with mydei, you slipped into your chairs across from one another with a glass of wine in hand (while he sipped his familiar pomegranate juice). 

he regales you with stories of past misadventures, a surprising number involving phainon when he first came to kremnos; the image was so endearing you found yourself laughing, unable to picture that small awkward boy beside the tall composed figure you knew now.

“so how did phainon earn a place among the royal knights? seeing as he’s not of kremnoan blood and all.” 

“oh? and what makes you say that?”

you lift a hand in gentle surrender. “only a feeling.”

that earns a soft laugh from the prince. “you’re right. he’s from aedes elysiae.”

aedes elysiae… huh. you knew he feels familiar somehow, especially that scent of fresh meadow he carries that reminds you so fondly of the grassfields back in your homeland. “he arrived at the palace gates back when we were barely teenagers,” mydei begins. “walked right up to me, introduced himself, and challenged me to a duel on the spot.”

you blink. “a duel?”

“my thoughts exactly,” he says, amused. “he declared that if he won, i would have no choice but to let him join the royal training ranks. insufferably confident, even back then.”

your brows shot up. “and?”

“the duel ended in a tie,” mydei admits with a wry smile. “which, frankly, was the only reason father agreed to it. that old man said any boy who could match me blow for blow deserved at least a chance.” he pauses, swirling the juice in his glass. “we became sparring partners after that. i suppose as a warrior, it was impossible to ignore his determination.”

“in that case,” your gaze drifts toward the empty doorway where phainon had stood earlier, “i should thank that past version of him. had that duel ended differently, our paths may never have crossed.”

“so you’re saying you’re glad i didn’t best him?”” mydei arches one brow in mock offense. 

you huffed a soft laugh. “…i wouldn’t put it quite like that.”

he shook his head, the corner of his mouth lifting. “unbelievable.”

“well whatever the outcome of that duel might have been,” he says with unusual gentleness, “i have no doubt he would still have found his way to you.”

you blink, then let out a short incredulous laugh. “really? what’s that supposed to mean, your highness?” you wave it off as a jest, half flustered.

to hide the warmth rising in your cheeks (which now, is much more obvious than the pomegranate tint in mydei’s glass), you clear your throat and reach for the safest refuge you know: changing the subject! 

“anyway,” you say lightly, though your heartbeat has yet to settle, “do you happen to know why phainon wanted to be a knight in the first place?”

the prince hums, tapping a finger absentmindedly against his glass. “well, it would’ve been a waste not to put all that talent to use. but,” he leans back, eyes narrowing as he sifts through old memories. “truth be told, he mentioned it once. during a rather… heated match, of all times.”

you perk up. “he did?”

“he said he wanted to become strong enough to keep a promise he once made to an old friend.”

…an old friend?

“it seems he’s cherished that person above almost anyone else.”

you let out a quiet laugh, though it tastes oddly bitter in your mouth.

but before you can press mydei for more—

“talking about me?” phainon steps through the doorway, his eyes flicking between the two of you with a lopsided smirk tugging at his lips.

soon the three of you settle around the table, drinks in hand. laughter spills as easy as the flow of river; stories and playful jabs make the hours slip by almost unnoticed.

“so, almighty mydeimos! pray tell, does her highness know about the time i landed ten perfect strikes on you in a row?” / “even she knows that’s a generous exaggeration, captain…” "—i demand a rematch! it's not fair, you wear way less than me-" / “wait so… when you said ‘heated’ match you actually meant… a sauna battle?” 

rain spills from the sky without so much as a whisper of warning, chilling you to the bone in seconds. without a word, phainon shrugs off his heavy overcoat, lifting it above your head as a shield while the two of you hurry toward the carriage mydei had summoned.

inside, the carriage is dim and quiet, the only sounds are your uneven breaths and rain drumming against the roof.

when you arrive, phainon steps out first and offers his hand, guiding you to your chambers.

the warmth of the room hit you as you sway while fumbling for a towel. “i… i can manage.” you frown slightly, digesting the aftermath of the wine lingering in your system. 

“with all due respect, my lady… your alcohol tolerance is abysmal.” his voice carries a chastising tone as he steadies you by the waist before you can tilt forward again.

you ignore the comment, turning your body to face him directly. 

“now what are you d—”

his unfinished reprimand dissolves the moment your fingers slip into his hair. snowy strands cling damply to his temples as you gently pat his head, droplets gathering on your fingertips with every ruffle.

phainon goes completely still.

his hands remain at your waist, tense as if he can’t decide whether to retreat or hold you closer. you don’t know what came over you—but the more his ears redden, the more your hand (and your heart) insists on continuing. 

and gods, the thought flashes across your mind before you can stop it: 

he’s… kind of like a drenched puppy.

a really, really cute one.  

phainon swallows hard, collecting his words. “…my lady, it’s getting late. you should rest. i’ll take my leave—”

he steps back to excuse himself, but you catch his hand before he can reach for the door. 

“phainon.”

your fingers tighten around his wrist. “do you…like me?”

the tipsy haze in your veins makes every flutter in your chest impossible to ignore.

“of course i do, my lady,” he says quietly. “ there is no one i am more devoted to, my loyalty has always belonged to you.”

“then…” you swallow and lift your gaze to his, wavering. “do you like your ‘old friend’ more than me?”

phainon blinks, taken aback. “my—pardon? what do you mean?”

you push on, unable to stop the words tumbling out, soft and slurred with hurt you didn’t realize you were holding.

“mydei told me you seem to like them a lot,” you insist. “so much so that you even came all the way to kremnos just to train your best for their sake.”

you aren't sure what kind of reaction you expected. defensiveness, denial, irritation, anything—but certainly not the way his expression melts.

“...you really don’t remember, huh,” he whispers under his breath.

gently, he pries your hand from his wrist only to place it against his still-damp chest, right over the rapid thrum beneath his skin.

“you know,” he murmurs, eyes lowering. “every time you say my name,” beneath your palm, his heart hammers against his chest at a rapid pace. “this place becomes a mess.”

you can feel the tremor beneath his skin, sense the heat radiating from him as he lowers his mouth near your ear, breath warm against your neck. 

“i like… no, i love you. always, and only you.”

a warmth blooms in your chest, hot and dizzying. you let out a small, hiccupping laugh, words catching in your throat. “i—” you falter, leaning into him just as his hands come up to steady you.

phainon’s eyes meet yours again, the subtle lift of his brows showing relief that you don’t pull away just yet. “but please… get some rest now, my lady.”

his tone is tender, as if he fears staying too long might make leaving impossible for him. 

not that you’d mind if he didn’t.

(your head is a total mess the next morning. phainon was right, your alcohol tolerance really was abysmal.

amid the dull pounding behind your eyes, your thoughts flit between your childhood sweetheart… and then, to phainon. 

a part of you wonders, if maybe the two aren’t so different after all. could it really be that the one you’d always held dear is the same person standing beside you now? something about him makes your chest tighten in a way that feels… eerily familiar.

you can only hope to make sense of your own muddled feelings soon.)

ACT VII: WHY HE FEIGNED IGNORANCE (UNCONVINCINGLY)

there's a saying that once fear finally cracks a man, the truth often spills in fragments; grudging and ugly.

the warehouse reeks of iron and damp rot, the kind of cold that settles into the deepest parts of the bone. 

the assassin is long past any condition to resist. 

he hangs slumped against the pillar he’s been chained to for weeks, wrists swollen where the iron has scraped in too deeply. dark bruises bloom along his jaw; while dried blood crusts the corner of his split mouth.

a blade slides beneath his chin and tilts his face upward.

the wielder does not speak. he stands enshroud in shadow, his pale hair catching what little light the warehouse offers.

the assassin’s eyes flutter open to meet the cold, unwavering gaze before him. “i already told you everything i know.”

the white-haired man remains motionless, sword still pressing up beneath the prisoner’s jaw. “so she was nothing more than a tool to you.”

a hoarse, mocking laugh crawls out of his throat. “you’ve kept me here long enough,” he mutters. “don’t tell me you’re a coward, captain.” 

turns out provoking him was a bad idea.

“if her highness had died in that fire,” blue eyes almost delirious looking as they fix on the man before him. “you wouldn’t still be breathing right now.” 

the truth is, phainon had arrived late that night because he’d first cornered the assassin, swiftly knocking him unconscious, and dragging him here before sprinting back to the burning hall to reach you in time. barely in time.

and to think he has come so close to losing you again, was an outcome he simply could not accept. 

it disgusts him, tending even minimally to the prisoner chained before him. every scrap of bread, every cup of water—it all but fills him with revulsion. a man complicit in the attempt on your life, merits no mercy. 

“but you’re right,” the knight says at last. “i won’t forgive anyone who lays a hand on her highness.”

the assassin stiffens. “what…” “was i unclear?” phainon’s gaze does not waver, “your time’s up.”

“no—nonono… wait!” his chains rattle as he jerks to the side, narrowly avoiding the sharp blade now dangerously close to his neck. “i told you everything! everything you asked for. you said—you said you’d spare me if i spoke. you promised!”

he promised… he promised… he promised… 

phainon lowers his gaze, pale eyes devoid of heat as they drift away from the now pathetic man trembling at his feet. for just a moment, they hold the same softness they do when they rest on you.

“i did,” he says. 

relief washes over the assassin’s face. “s-so you are a man of your words! i knew you’d—”

“but understand this, she did nothing to deserve what harm you brought upon her. and while she begged for her life all those years ago, you refused to listen for your own gain.” 

phainon swears to fulfil every promise he makes…

“so i see no reason to listen to you either.”

—to you only, of course. 

a princess killed on foreign soil would more or less be an open act of war; most likely have triggered a major political crisis, straining relations between the two kingdoms and their respective allies. 

the knight knew that much the moment the truth spilled from the assassin’s lips. 

if the attempt had succeeded back in aedes elysiae, the damage would have been just as detrimental. a kingdom already seen as weak due to the lack of military strength—what faith would its people have left? panic would surely have spread, leaving its people gripped by fear and uncertainty.

the assassin stammers, panic shredding what little composure he had left. “but she’s still alive, isn’t she? that’s what matters, right? i mean, nothing happened in the end, so—”

his breath cuts off abruptly mid-word, collapsing into a sharp, broken gasp. he convulses, coughing violently, eyes locked on the hilt of the blade pressed against his abdomen, each rasp growing weaker than the last. 

“her life is not yours to bargain with.” 

ignoring the man now bleeding and sputtering before him, phainon picks up the cup lying on the floor, whatever liquid remains inside sloshes weakly against the rim. 

without a word, he tilts it over the assassin’s head. letting the cold liquid slowly cascade down, dousing his hair and clothes.

a hoarse groan escapes the man as the acrid sting of the liquid hits his senses. the sharp, unmistakable scent of gasoline makes his stomach knot with dread. 

he had assumed it was just water when phainon brought it earlier as he always did, but now, with the familiar tang burning his nose…

as if to confirm his dreaded suspicion, phainon lights a match. 

the tiny flame dances, casting a flickering glow across his sharp blue eyes. and for a fleeting instant, it reminds him of that night, vividly; the smoke, the heat, and your terrified gaze. it grates against every fiber of his being, seeing you in pain.

trapped in the inferno, the assassin is left to face what he set in motion himself.

through the haze, he sees it—that unsettling smile of a man who would burn the world down without hesitation, if it meant to keep you safe.

the fire spreads quickly, the knight takes his leave not long before the flames close in and the wooden beams collapse. surely by dawn, nothing of this place will remain but ash.

out of the corner of your eye, you catch a tall figure moving stealthily past you. 

nowadays, you can recognise your white-haired knight anywhere, even from a mile away. but still, your heart gives a small, irrational leap. 

“phainon?” you call out.

he freezes for a moment as if he was caught in the act, glancing over his shoulder before his eyes finally find yours. he jogs toward you as if nothing’s amiss, but you can tell that something’s off.

as soon as he comes fully into view, though his uniform is perfectly neat, you notice the strong smell of iron that clings to him anyway.

“phainon… are you okay?” you can’t stop yourself, concern spilling out as you step closer to inspect him. “what happened? did you get into trouble?”

he tilts his head, then flashes his signature grin. “i’m fine!” he says, “my lady, you know i’m really strong, you don’t need to worry about me.” 

given his habit of deflecting whenever the topic turns to himself, you’re fairly certain he’s just trying to avoid whatever it is. nevertheless, you can’t shake your concern—what if he’s hiding an injury again?

“uh my lady…?” he can tell you’re not planning to let it go anytime soon; your gaze is firm, a slight pout forming as your worry fuels your refusal to back down so easily.

before you can press him further, he steps closer and wraps you in a sudden hug. “see? i’m not hurt.” he murmurs, his tone unusually gentle, as if sensing the depth of your concern.

you stiffen at first, hands hovering uncertainly at his sides. “phainon—” you protest, trying (and failing) to sound stern. you give his chest a light push, but he doesn’t budge. instead, he loosens the embrace just enough to look at you, eyes soft, almost wounded, like you’d just kicked a puppy.

“…did i do something wrong?” he asks quietly.

your shoulders slump in defeat.

perhaps realizing it was futile to even attempt to stay mad at this big, stubborn puppy, you sigh and give in, ruffling the edge of his hair and patting him on the back. 

he leans just slightly into your touch, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, clearly satisfied with having “won” this little battle.

though the way his arms remain around you suggests he never planned to let go so easily in the first place.

today is the day the knights are to be stationed outside the capital for the upcoming war against the black tide. the courtyard is alive with farewells from families and friends, but no matter how far you search, you can’t seem to find phainon among the crowd.

just then, you catch sight of someone moving off to the quieter edge of the grounds. there he is—alone, kneeling by his greatsword and polishing the blade with meticulous care.

“phainon!” you call, your voice cracking slightly despite your effort to stay composed.

he stops, turning in surprise. for a brief instant, there’s that faint flash of shock in his eyes—but it vanishes as quickly as it came. slowly, he sheaths his sword and bows politely in greeting.

in the brief space between you, you raise your hand, trembling slightly, and reach up to his face.

“you idiot, were you going to leave without telling me?”

he freezes for a heartbeat, a faint chuckle escaping him before his fingers curl gently around your wrist. please forgive him, he couldn’t bring himself to say goodbye to you once more.

he lifts your palm to his lips, pressing them softly against your skin—tender and reverent. just like it was when he kissed your hand all those years ago.

“i’ll be back before you know it.”

you slip the necklace from around your neck, the chain sliding free with a soft clink before you place it gently into his open palm. 

“don’t lose it,” you say with a teasing lilt. “you’ll have to return it to me once you come back safely, alright?”

phainon’s fingers close around the familiar pendant, and a small, almost helpless smile tugs at his lips. “as you wish, my lady.”

“then i suppose i’ll just have to wait for you this time, phainon.”

what a ridiculous demand from such a cruel princess—not because it was impossible, but because it left him no choice at all.

the thought draws that same faint, almost incredulous smile to his lips.

there was never a world in which he would not do his utmost to return to you.

ACT VIII: WHY HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS it’s been two years since you last saw him. having returned to your homeland to visit your parents a few months ago, you find yourself wandering the familiar grounds of aedes elysiae. 

the fields are fragrant with late blooms, and the warm sun filters through the leaves, dappling the ground with light. 

ever since that night, when the truth finally dawned on you, the memory has clung stubbornly to your thoughts: his infuriatingly handsome smile, the way he presses your palm to his lips, the beating of his heart, his whispers in your ear—it all replays in your mind whenever you even remotely think about him. 

it has to be him… 

overwhelmed by nostalgia, you let your feet carry you almost without thought. soon, a familiar sight comes into view: the shimmer of lake water and the golden wheatfield you’ve returned to countless times as a child. 

you stand at the edge of the bank, closing your eyes and letting the wind brush across your face, a bittersweet feeling arises deep in your chest.

but a sudden rustle comes from the stalks behind you, pulling you from your reverie. you peel your eyes open just as a shadowed reflection ripples across the surface of the lake.

your heart leaps. instinctively, you spin around… 

“...phainon?” a familiar face greets your vision. “so you do remember me.”

your knees almost go weak, your chest tightening at the sound of his voice as you take in the familiar tilt of his head, and the way the sunlight catches his hair just like you remembered. 

and a rush of emotions—relief, joy, longing—crash over you all at once.

“you… you’re really here.” you step towards him, until the space between you is pretty much non-existent.

“i promised i’d return,” phainon murmurs, leaning closer. almost hesitantly, his earnest gaze flickers to your lips before returning to your eyes.

he waits patiently for your nod, and when you finally do, he closes the last of the distance between you. 

you’ve missed him terribly.

you melt into him, arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as his hands settle gently on your waist, drawing you closer.

but beyond all else, you love him more than anything. 

this closeness—the undeniable press of your body against his—is all he has ever longed for. it makes him feel light-headed even. 

holding you close, he savors the soft exhale that mingles with his own.

his world is finally back where it belongs.

maybe things would’ve been easier in another life, maybe the gods would take pity and give you both a kinder story.

but to phainon, it makes no difference. not this life, not the next, not the thousand before or after. because he has loved you in every one of them. in every form, his heart always finds its way back to you.

he remembers the warmth of your hand even when he’s born without one. he dreams of your voice in lifetimes where he never learns your name.

even if you so cruelly forget him again, if he must live through it all, he would. again and again.

because this is the most terrible truth of it all: it is the most human thing he’s ever known, to helplessly love you, despite it all.

he loved you, he loves you still, and he will keep loving you—for as long as the sun continues to rise, his heart will belong to you. 

as surely as yours is his.

before the assembled court, the king rises.

“for your service to the realm of aedes elysiae and castrum kremnos,” the king declares, voice carrying through the grand hall, “you are hereby granted a title befitting your deeds. from this day forth, you shall stand among the highest of my lords.”

phainon inclines his head in a respectful bow. “thank you, your majesty.”

“your actions have greatly strengthened the enduring bond between our kingdom, and kremnos.”

“so brave hero,” the king continues, “you may name your reward. gold, estates, influence—whatever you desire shall be yours.”

“i’m honored, your majesty.” he adds, “but i ask for none of those things.”

the king inclines his head, curiosity evident in his expression. “then what is it you wish for?”

phainon lowers himself to one knee. “may i have the hand of the princess of aedes elysiae?”

EPILOGUE: WHY WON’T THE CHARMING PRINCESS MEET MY EYES? 

first gifted by your beloved knight in your childhood, to countless days through battles, then at last all the way back from the frontlines—the necklace’s once-shimmering metal had lost its luster, spots of rust crept along the chain and the pendant bore a few small chips. 

you had told him a hundred times over it didn’t matter, insisting that it was fine just the way it was. you really didn’t mind, it was the thought that counted.

but phainon, being the ardent lover that he is, believed otherwise. 

“here you go, young man,” the old lady says, holding out the carefully mended necklace. its chain gleamed faintly now, polished and whole again.

“this is amazing! thank you so much, ma’am.” grinning, phainon takes the necklace from the goldsmith’s hands.

“it’s my pleasure, dear. come by anytime, okay?” the old lady replies, the wrinkles on her face deepen with her smile as she gently holds both of his hands in hers.

“of course ma’am!” phainon nods politely. 

you giggle. well there he goes again, stealing the hearts of every elderly he comes across. 

slowly, he lifts the necklace from his hand and clasps it gently around your neck. the cool metal brushes against your skin, and for the first time in so long, it finally rests where it belongs.

“there we go,” he says softly, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary, brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek. "all yours again." 

perhaps not used to such public displays, you feel your cheeks heat up. you find yourself unable to meet his eyes, staring instead at the necklace, your fingers fidgeting nervously with the chain. 

phainon notices immediately and can’t help but take the opportunity to tease you more.  

his hand deliberately brushes your shoulder, then trails down to adjust the necklace, fingers grazing your collarbone ever so slightly. 

that cheeky bastard… you can almost see the curve of his smirk from the corner of your eyes.

the sun rises behind you, painting the world in a mesmerising dawn. but in phainon’s eyes, you are the most ethereal sight of it all—because you are his sun.

with a mischievous grin, he tilts your chin upward, coaxing your gaze to meet his.

please allow him to be selfish just this once. he wants to fill your memories with him, to leave traces of himself in every corner of your life, ensuring you’ll never forget him again.

a man so terribly in love with you, phainon only has one wish: 

that is you’ll remember this moment—not just today, but tomorrow, and for all the days that follow.

so that he may always keep you in his sight, in his thoughts, in the quiet corners of his heart where no one else can reach.

won’t you promise him that, his lady?

extended author’s notes / fun facts: here (soon)

thank you for reading !! reblogs are appreciated <3

⊹₊⟡⋆ Sunday

⋆ He loves to kiss right behind your ear. What he loves more than kissing you is you kissing him right at the base of his wings. He also LOVES the classic on the lips. Regardless of your heigh compared to his, he'll still gently hold your chin in his palm and place a warm yet light kiss onto your lips.

⊹₊⟡⋆ Jing Yuan

⋆ Every kiss given by the general is deep and intimate. The includes the ones placed right at the pulse of your wrists. When he first greets you, expect a gentle peck to the top of your wrists as well. He also likes to place gentle kisses to your head if your leaning on him or cuddling with him. No, he in fact does not have a shampoo preference (although you notice more head kisses when you use a fruity scent).

⊹₊⟡⋆ Blade

⋆ Blade isn't known to be outwardly affectionate, at least not to most people. When it's just with you, however, he's practically GLUED to you. While Blade isn't a big kisser, when he does place his lips on your skin, it feels secure and sincere. Sometimes during wrestles nights, the swordsman will wrap his arm around you from behind and place long, gentles pecks in the nape of your neck.

⊹₊⟡⋆ Phainon

⋆ ADORES every inch of your upper body. He treats your torso like a canvas that he paints with his lips. If he somehow had to choose his number one most favored spot, it would have to be your neck. From your jawline to your collar bone, he covers your skin in warm, passionate kisses with a slight suck at the end of each one. Just enough to leave the most faint mark (I mean you are all his after all).

⊹₊⟡⋆ Mydei

⋆ Lord does this man treasure you. Practically kisses the ground you walk on. Kisses from Mydei are rough, but also have a feeling of security. When you two are in the mood, he'll kiss around your hips and even the inside of your thighs. Once the fire is dimmed, he will hold you in his arms as he gently places his lips on your temples and your cheeks.

⊹₊⟡⋆ Aventurine

⋆ Whether his mask is up or down, kisses from Aventurine are always intimate and rich. He knows just how to make you feel like a goddess under his touch. A place he's found have good results is right on your collar bone. He will go right across the skin and even gets the tiniest bites in (not with every kiss though, that ruins the surprise of course). He won't say it outright, but he very much enjoys just giving you a good kiss on the lips ESPECIALLY in public. You are his prize after all, why wouldn't he want people to know how much you melt under his affection.

PHAINON

Phainon never objects to affection. He short-circuits.

The moment you press a kiss to his cheek—seemingly out of nowhere—he freezes mid-motion.

Then he looks at you with those wide, warm, gentle eyes like you just whispered some divine truth into his soul.

“Ah…”

He blinks once. Twice.

His cheeks warm to a soft, helpless pink. “You’re… doing that again.”

You kiss him again.

And he melts. Leans into you like he’s absorbing sunlight, hands fluttering uselessly before eventually finding purchase at your waist.

“You can’t warn a man before doing that?” Phainon breathes, voice unsteady and a little breathless.

You kiss him again.

His sun mark seems to glow faintly. He grabs your shirt for balance.

His lips part on a soft, stunned sound. “That’s unfair,” Phainon manages, dazed. “Completely unfair.”

You kiss the corner of his mouth, just because you can.

He makes a tiny please-don’t-stop sound.

“You’re adorable,” you tease.

Phainon sputters. “I—That’s—You can’t just—”

You kiss him once more. Slow. Lingering.

His fingers curl in the fabric at your waist, trying to anchor himself—but he’s trembling too much for it to work. He leans forward like he’s being pulled by instinct alone, forehead almost touching yours, breath unsteady.

“Hah…” his voice cracks, “…you must know how such attacks affect me.”

You kiss the corner of his mouth again.

His knees buckle.

He catches himself on the wall behind you, arms bracketing your body in a way that isn’t intentional, just desperate.

“I can’t—” The words fall out in a whisper, raw and honest. “I can’t think when you do that.”

You kiss him again anyway.

He whines.

He presses his forehead to your temple, breathing hard.

“Your kisses need a warning signal,” Phainon murmurs, voice trembling.

Then, softer, he mumbles, “Or actually…” He leans in closer. “I prefer it this way.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

ANAXA

You kiss Anaxa while he’s working. On purpose. You lean over his shoulder, press a kiss to his cheekbone, and watch the exact moment his pen freezes over the page.

His eye narrows. “…Are you attempting to distract me,” he asks calmly, “or are you merely incapable of waiting?”

You kiss him again instead of answering.

His composure fractures for half a second. Just long enough for you to see the soft flush rising across his cheek. He exhales through his nose. Equal parts annoyed, fond, and extremely flustered.

“This is unnecessary,” Anaxa says.

You kiss his jaw.

He loses the thread of whatever he was writing.

“Unnecessary,” he repeats, quieter this time.

You kiss the corner of his mouth.

The pen drops.

“Enough,” he murmurs. Except he pulls you into his lap with one decisive tug, which really sends mixed messages.

Your knees bracket his hips.

His hands settle on your thighs—thumbs drawing idle circles that betray exactly how not composed he is. His grip is firm enough to keep you in place, gentle enough to ask permission without words.

“Comfortable?” Anaxa asks, voice perfectly measured.

You nod.

He leans back slightly, looking you over with the assessing intensity of a scholar cataloguing intriguing phenomena.

You.

“Good.” His hand tightens on your thigh. “You may continue.”

You kiss him again, deeper this time.

He inhales sharply. And then one of his hands slides up, fingers splaying around your waist, pulling you against him.

“That’s better,” Anaxa mutters against your mouth. “I prefer when I can observe your reactions.” His thumb strokes your thigh. “And feel them.”

You kiss along his jaw. He tilts his head into your touch.

Very quietly, almost impossible to catch, Anaxa murmurs, “…I dislike how easily you unravel me.”

His hand squeezes your thigh again.

“But I dislike it even more when you stop.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

MYDEI

You kiss him on purpose. In the middle of his sentence. On the jaw.

Mydei stops talking so abruptly it’s almost comedic.

He stares at you like you’ve just thrown a spear through his emotional armor.

“…You’re doing it again,” he mutters.

His ears are pink.

You kiss him again. Quick, playful, unapologetic.

His expression blanks. Then returns with a blunt, slightly offended look.

“Is this an ambush?” he asks flatly.

“Yes.”

“Hm.”

He crosses his arms like he’s deciding whether to scold you or drag you closer.

You kiss him again.

He exhales sharply, eyes dropping to your mouth like he’s studying a battlefield pattern he keeps losing to.

“Hmph. This is odd,” he says, voice even gruffer than usual.

“Why?”

“Because it works.”

You kiss him again. This time on the corner of his lips.

That does it.

A large, warm hand slides to your waist. He steps closer, body heat curling around you in a way that makes your pulse trip.

Then he lifts your chin with two fingers. Like he’s guiding your gaze to his.

“Again,” he murmurs.

You kiss him slowly.

Mydei makes a quiet sound into your mouth that absolutely does not match his fierce exterior.

His forehead touches yours, breath warm.

“…You’re something,” Mydei mutters, pulling you closer, thumb brushing your lower lip.

“Don‘t stop it. I never want you to.”

⋆ ✦ ⋆

A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. :)

Phainon finds you first. Of course he does.

You’ve been watching him from across the little antique shop, where he’s bent over a collection of old coins and ornate pendants, speaking softly with the shopkeeper about origin dates and mythic symbolism. His fingers trace the edges of a tarnished locket with such care, such genuine curiosity, that your chest aches.

He’s radiant like this. Focused. Earnest. Completely in his element.

And so tall—even hunched over the display case, he towers over everyone else in the shop. All broad shoulders and that impossibly fluffy white hair catching the light like fresh snow.

He turns with something cupped in his hands, ready to show you—

And freezes.

Because you’re already walking toward him. Purposeful. Eyes warm and soft in a way that makes something in his chest stutter.

“Dawnlight?” Phainon asks, confused but happy, a smile already tugging at his lips. “Did you find something you—”

You stop in front of him. Rise on your tiptoes.

You’re still not tall enough.

Phainon realizes what you’re trying to do before you have to ask. His expression shifts—softens—and he stoops down automatically, instinctively, bending that massive frame toward you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You kiss his forehead.

Not quick. Not shy.

A slow, warm press of lips that lingers against his skin, right where his hair falls soft and feathery against your mouth.

His breath catches.

His ears go pink, then red.

Someone a few steps away lets out a soft, amused “Aww—”

Phainon doesn’t even hear them.

He just blinks at you when you pull back, stunned and shining, like you’ve handed him something precious he doesn’t quite know how to hold.

“…What was that for?” he asks, voice quieter than usual.

“You’re cute,” you say simply.

And then you reach up—he’s still stooped, still frozen, still close enough—and ruffle his hair.

Your fingers sink into that impossible fluff. Soft as clouds. Warm from the sunlight streaming through the shop windows. You card through it gently, tousling it, and Phainon makes a sound.

A small sound.

The kind of sound a very large, very dignified man makes when he is being completely and utterly undone.

He melts.

Actually melts—shoulders loosening, eyes fluttering half-shut, posture tipping toward you like gravity itself has changed its mind about where he belongs.

“You—” he starts, voice slightly strangled. “Dawnlight, that’s—”

You ruffle harder. Scratch lightly at his scalp.

His next words dissolve into something that sounds suspiciously like a purr.

“There,” you murmur, grinning. “Good?”

He doesn’t answer. He just leans further into your hands, chasing the touch, apparently forgetting that you’re in public and that he’s supposed to be a composed and dignified individual.

“Very cute,” you amend.

His eyes open. Find yours. There’s something dazed and wondering in them—and underneath that, something warmer. Deeper.

“You can’t just—” he tries.

You kiss his cheek.

He stops talking.

His hand comes up, gently cupping your waist as though steadying himself, not you. Like he’s the one in danger of falling.

Someone behind you snickers. “Get a room—”

Phainon turns his head slightly.

Gives them one look.

Just one.

Polite. Calm. Expression mild.

But his hand tightens on your waist, and something in his blue eyes says very clearly: I am having a moment with the person I adore and you will not ruin it.

The laughing person walks away.

Phainon’s gaze returns to you—and softens immediately. His ears are still red. His hair is a complete disaster now, sticking up in all directions. He’s never looked more handsome.

“Do it again,” he murmurs.

“The kiss or the hair thing?”

“Yes.”

You laugh—bright and delighted—and rise on your tiptoes again.

He meets you halfway this time. Doesn’t wait for you to struggle. Just bends down and stays there, close enough that you can see every shade of gold in his blue eyes.

“Hi,” you whisper.

“Hey,” he whispers back, smiling.

You kiss his forehead again. Then his temple. Then the bridge of his nose.

Each one makes his smile grow wider.

Each one makes his hands pull you a little closer.

“You’re impossible,” Phainon murmurs, but he sounds delighted. Giddy. Like a man who can’t believe his luck.

“You love it.”

“I do.” He says it simply. Easily. Like it’s the most obvious truth in the world. “I love you.”

Your heart stutters.

And then you kiss him properly.

He makes a tiny, helpless sound against your lips. The kind that says he’s trying very hard to stay composed and failing beautifully. His hands slide around your waist fully now, pulling you flush against him, and then he’s kissing you back.

He kisses you like he’s been wanting to do this all day. Like watching you watch him across the shop was its own kind of torture. Like now that he has permission, he intends to be thorough about it.

Someone wolf-whistles.

Phainon ignores them entirely. Just tilts his head, deepens the kiss, and makes you forget there’s anyone else in the shop at all.

When you finally break apart—breathless, flushed, probably looking just as wrecked as his hair—he rests his forehead against yours.

His smile is incandescent.

“You make it very hard to focus,” he whispers.

“Good.”

He laughs quietly—that warm sound you love.

“That’s what I thought.”

He steals one more kiss—quick and sweet—before straightening up. His hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together.

“Now,” he says, voice light and happy, “would you like to see what I found? It reminded me of you.”

He holds up the tarnished locket from before.

Your heart melts all over again.

“Phainon…”

“We can get it cleaned properly. The metalwork is from an old tradition—the shopkeeper was telling me about it. I thought…” He hesitates. A flicker of shyness beneath all that warmth. “I thought you might like it.”

You look at the locket.

You look at him. Hair ruined, ears still pink, smiling at you like you hung the stars.

“I love it,” you say. I love you.

He beams.

You follow him back to the counter, still flushed, still giddy.

Phainon approaches the shopkeeper with remarkable dignity for a man whose hair looks like a bird attempted to nest in it.

“I’d like to purchase this, please.”

The shopkeeper’s eyes flick between his disheveled state and your equally wrecked appearance. Their lips twitch.

“Of course, Lord Phainon. Lovely choice.” They begin wrapping it carefully. “A gift?”

“Yes.“ Phainon nods toward you, utterly casual, as if he isn’t about to ruin your entire composure. “It reminded me of my partner the moment I saw it.”

“Oh?” The shopkeeper glances at you with a knowing smile. “How so?”

“The locket was crafted to hold something precious,” Phainon says, thumb tracing the delicate metalwork. “Something irreplaceable. Something worth protecting and keeping close at all times.” He looks at you. Soft, earnest, completely sincere. “I saw it and thought: yes. That’s exactly right.”

The shopkeeper actually sighs. Dreamily.

You want to melt into the floor.

But also—your heart is pounding. Aching. Because he said it so easily. So sincerely. Like you being precious and irreplaceable is simply a fact. A truth he carries with him always. How are you supposed to get used to this beautiful man?

“Phainon,” you hiss, face burning. “You can’t just—SAY things like that—”

“Why not?” He blinks, genuinely confused. “It’s true.”

He says it like it’s obvious. Like there’s no world or timeline in which it wouldn’t be true. You’re falling in love with him all over again. Right now. In this shop.

“In PUBLIC—” you utter instead, completely flustered.

“Shall I only adore you in private?” He tilts his head, smile turning teasing. “That is both inefficient and insufficient. Privacy is for worshipping you, yes. But I adore you constantly. The location is irrelevant.”

The shopkeeper is now looking at you with curiosity.

“He’s always like this,” you tell them weakly.

“You lucky thing,” they murmur, the smile inevitable.

The shopkeeper gives you a discount. Whether it’s because of Phainon’s charm or because they witnessed that entire display and are now emotionally invested in your relationship, you’ll never know.

Phainon accepts the wrapped locket and takes your hand again, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“Shall we?”

“I’m going to ascend,” you inform him.

“I’ll follow you anywhere,” Phainon says warmly. “I always do. Always will.“

Outside, the air is cool against your flushed cheeks. Phainon is still holding your hand, the locket tucked safely in his pocket, and he’s still smiling. That quiet, radiant happiness that makes your chest ache.

You tug him to a stop.

He turns, eyebrows raised. “Dawnlight?”

You rise on your tiptoes again.

He starts to stoop—

But this time, he laughs quietly.

Then—before you can react—his hands find your waist and he lifts you.

You yelp, grabbing onto his shoulders as he hoists you up like you weigh nothing, bringing you face to face, eye to eye, your feet dangling above the cobblestones.

“Phainon—!”

“Much better,” he murmurs, smiling. “No more tiptoes.”

And then he kisses you.

Slow. Deep. Thorough. The kind of kiss that makes you forget you’re suspended in the air in the middle of a public street.

When he finally pulls back, you’re breathless. His hair is somehow even more wrecked than before—you must have grabbed at it without realizing.

He glances up at your fingers still tangled in his hair, then back at you.

His smile turns playful.

“Well,” he says, voice warm with amusement, “since you’ve already thoroughly tousled my hair, we might as well make the most of it.”

“Make the most of—?”

He kisses you again.

And again.

And once more, just because.

By the time he finally sets you down, your legs are unsteady and his hair looks like he’s been caught in a windstorm.

He doesn’t seem to mind at all.

“I think,” Phainon says, his hand brushing your cheek, “that I rather enjoy being tousled.”

You laugh. Bright and giddy and completely in love.

“Good,” you manage. “Because I plan to do it often.”

His smile softens. Glows.

“I’m counting on it, dawnlight.”

___ A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. :)

More Phainon to follow soon. :)

He bellows orders, cutting down another soldier that charges, but the tide is against them. The line collapses. War banners fall to the mud. One by one, his comrades vanish beneath the enemy’s press until Phainon realizes he is the last.

A spear grazes his helm, and agony bursts white-hot across his skull. His vision reels, the world washing red. Blood spills hot down the side of his face, searing his eye. He staggers back, fighting only to keep his legs moving.

The battlefield is lost. To stay is to die.

He turns and runs. Through smoke, through brambles, through the jeers and shouts of pursuit, he forces his battered body onward. Each step is heavier than the last; each breath feels like fire. The enemy’s shouts echo behind him, but the forest swallows him whole, branches clawing at his armor as he crashes deeper into the shadows.

The forest is deep and strange—the deeper he runs, the quieter the world becomes, as though the trees themselves conspire to swallow sound.

He is alone, save for the thundering of his heart and the wet drip of blood from his helm. His sword slips from his hand, forgotten. The world tilts and Phainon collapses onto the forest floor.

His vision blurs, and just before the darkness takes him, he hears the soft crunch of leaves close by. Then, a gentle meow.

And, nothing more.

𝐈𝐈. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇

He wakes to silence.

His eyes open slowly. A wooden ceiling looms above him, beams dark with age, the air tinged with the scent of herbs. He doesn’t recognize it—doesn’t recognize anything.

More than that, he doesn’t remember who he is.

His chest tightens as he searches the fog of his mind for something—a name, a memory, a place—but it’s like reaching into smoke: everything slips away before he can hold it.

He swallows against the dryness of his throat. He’s in a bed, blanket heavy on his chest. Around him, there are shelves sagging with jars and bottles, books are stacked haphazardly, and there are strange trinkets laid out everywhere. None of it sparks recognition.

He sits up too quickly. The room tilts, his skull throbs, and he grips the blanket bunched at his waist until the dizziness fades.

A sound draws him out of himself. Meow.

He turns his head. An orange cat sits on the windowsill, its yellow eyes fixed on him, tail flicking lazily. They regard each other for a long moment, as though the creature expects something of him. Then, without ceremony, it leaps down and pads out the door.

His body protests as he pushes the blankets aside, muscles stiff and uncooperative. He staggers when he stands, catching himself against the bedpost. His legs are heavy, but the need to follow propels him forward. Each step is unsteady, but he manages, trailing the soundless paws through the narrow hall and down a creaking stair.

The cat doesn’t wait; it moves with a purpose, leaving him to stumble after, forcing his pace to match.

At last, a door yawns open onto light. He blinks against it, squinting as the cat pads outside. He follows, and he emerges into air crisp with pine and soil.

What he sees makes him stop in the doorway.

You stand at the heart of a small clearing, bathed in the dappled light that falls through the trees. Birds perch on your shoulders and fingers as though you were a branch. A fox lingers at your feet. Rabbits, a deer, and a dozen other forest creatures circle you in attendance. Your lips move, and though he can’t hear the words, he knows you are speaking to them.

The orange cat trots toward you and lets out a sharp meow. You turn at the sound.

Your gaze meets his across the clearing. For a moment, the world holds its breath. His heart lurches in his chest, stuttering in a rhythm he doesn’t understand.

The animals scatter at once, startled by his sudden presence. Birds lift onto the trees, the deer bounds into the shadows, and rabbits vanish into the bushes. In their wake, only you remain, standing alone at the center, the cat padding to your side.

Your hands lower slowly, and then you turn to face him fully.

“You’re finally awake,” you say. “That’s good. You’ve been unconscious for two weeks. Actually…” You tilt your head, frowning faintly. “Why are you here? You should be in bed still.”

The words are simple yet he barely hears them. His heart stumbles against his ribs, as though it recognizes something his mind cannot. He can’t look away from you. He doesn’t know who he is, but standing beneath your eyes, he feels anchored, as though some missing piece has found its way back to him.

You stride towards him with quick steps. Before he can speak, your hands press lightly against his arm, his shoulder, steering him back toward the house. The touch makes him jolt more than the cold air outside, small and unassuming but somehow enough to stir heat into his chest.

You push him gently through the doorway and into the living room with the small couch. “Sit,” you insist, ushering him down.

He obeys clumsily, lowering himself into the cushions. His body sinks into them, but his gaze drifts back to you, searching, wondering.

“I followed your cat,” he says at last, voice rough with disuse. The words feel inadequate, almost foolish, but they’re all he can manage against the pull inside him.

“Ah, yes,” you call from the kitchen. A moment later, you return, a glass of water in hand. You press it into his grasp and he accepts without protest.

“His name is Mydei, short for Mydeimos,” you explain, settling opposite him. “He keeps an eye on you when I can’t.”

As if summoned by the mention, the orange cat leaps onto the low table between you. Mydei sits with practiced elegance, tail curling neatly around his paws.

“Oh. Thank you?” he says, though the words sound uncertain, like a question.

Mydei blinks slowly, then offers a soft meow, as if in reply.

You hide a faint smile. “Aside from disorientation, what else are you feeling? Is your head aching? Any nausea? You lost a great deal of blood.”

He takes a long sip of water, letting the coolness ease the dryness in his throat before lowering the glass to his lap.

“My head…” he hesitates, pressing a hand to his temple. “It aches, yes, but not… unbearably.” His brow furrows as he tries to chase the thought further. “Everything feels… heavy. Like my body isn’t mine yet.”

He falls quiet, eyes dropping to the glass in his hand. A moment passes before he adds, “I don’t remember much. Hardly anything at all. Not even my name.”

“Hm… how inconvenient,” you say, thoughtful but not unkind. “That means we have no way of knowing how you came into my forest looking as though you’d just walked away from a battlefield.”

At the word battle, something stirs in him—sharp, jagged pain flickering behind his eyes. He winces, a hand lifting instinctively to his temple. And just as quickly as it comes, the ache fades, leaving only the echo of something he cannot grasp.

You watch him carefully, noting the shadow that passes across his face, but choose not to press. Instead, your voice softens, “But I do know your name.”

His head lifts, hope in his eyes.

“Your broadsword carried an engraving,” you continue. “Phainon. I believe that’s your name.”

The name strikes something inside him—a resonance, like the toll of a bell. He mouths it once, tasting the syllables, then again with more sound. “Phainon…” The word feels both foreign and familiar, like a garment he once wore but has long since outgrown.

“I had a little trouble carrying your sword back with me,” you admit, a faint crease forming at the edge of your brow. “It’s a good thing Mydei was there to help while I carried you.”

Phainon blinks, gaze sliding toward the orange cat perched on the table. Mydei is calmly licking a paw, utterly unconcerned.

A cat—carrying a broadsword. He can’t wrap his head around it. The image his mind conjures—this small, sleek creature dragging a weapon nearly as tall as he is—strains against reason.

“What a strange thing,” Phainon mutters.

You tilt your head at his remark, an amused smile flickering at your lips. “Strange as it may be, but it’s true. Mydei has his ways.”

Then as fast as it came, the smile on your face vanishes, replaced by a more solemn look. “Listen… you’re still in no state to be wandering. You’ve lost too much blood and your memories are—” you hesitate, choosing the gentlest word, “—foggy.”

“Foggy,” he echoes.

You nod, and continue, “I have room here. Stay—at least until you’ve recovered your strength. Until your memories start to return.”

The offer hangs in the air. Phainon looks at you as if the world had shifted beneath him.

“You want me to… stay?” he repeats. “And that’s fine with you? I… I’m a stranger.”

You nod once, and the corners of your mouth lift into a reassuring smile. “Yes. Stay.”

Something flickers across his face—relief perhaps, though he’s not sure himself. With quivering lips and a shaky breath, he says, “Then… thank you.”

Mydei hops down from the table, tail swishing, and curls up at your feet as though sealing the agreement.

𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘

He learns the days by the way the light moves across the floor. Morning begins when the window fills with golden light, when the air smells faintly of herbs and boiling water. Evening comes when the shadows stretch long enough to touch his bedpost.

At first, he only watches.

You move through the house with quietness and certainty, hands always busy with something—stirring, pounding, pouring, stitching. He studies the rhythm of your motions, how even your smallest gestures seem to have purpose.

He tries to mimic that quiet. He sits when you tell him to rest, eats what you place before him, drinks the bitter teas you prepare without complaint. But still, there’s a restlessness under his skin. His body remembers movement, command, duty—even if his mind has lost the names for them.

Sometimes you catch him standing by the doorway, staring at the forest beyond. His hand will twitch faintly at his side, as though reaching for something that isn’t there. Other times, he startles when you enter a room too quietly, muscles tensing before he realizes it’s only you.

Once, you find him outside before dawn, shirt clinging to his back with sweat. He’s been trying to split a fallen branch with a knife far too small for the task. The effort leaves his hands trembling.

“You should be in bed,” is what you say as you approach him from behind.

He freezes mid-motion, then turns to look at you—like a child caught stealing bread. “I thought… I could help.”

“You’ll help by healing,” you say, taking the knife gently from his hand.

He hesitates, then nods, slow and obedient. When you turn to leave, he follows you back without another word.

After that morning, he still rises early. But now, when you catch him watching the light through the window, he stays seated—if only for a little while. He tries to rest, but rest does not come easily. His wounds are healing, and his memories remain unsteady, yet idleness feels wrong to him.

Before long, he begins to move again.

He knows what it is to serve—to repay debt with labor—so he volunteers for small tasks.

At first, you refuse him. You tell him he’s still healing, that his hands should hold nothing heavier than a spoon. But the more you insist, the more it seems to ache in him. One morning, he follows you out to the clearing, eyes earnest.

“Let me help,” he says. His voice trembles with something close to pleading. “I can’t just sit here while you work. Please—give me something to do.”

You study him for a long moment—the way his shoulders hover between tension and apology, the way his fingers twitch restlessly at his sides as though already reaching for a task. Finally, you sigh, gesturing toward the axe resting by a stump.

“Fine,” you relent, “If you insist, start with that. But take it slowly. If you reopen your wounds, I’ll make you drink every bitter tonic in this house.”

He nods—too eagerly, too grateful—and moves to take the axe. When his hands close around the handle, his posture shifts into something almost reverent. He runs a thumb along the grain of the wood as though it was something more than a tool of work.

The first swing is clumsy. The second lands better. By the fifth, the rhythm begins to find him. And though sweat beads at his temple and his breath comes hard, there’s certainty in his motions, like something dormant has remembered its shape.

When the pile at his feet grows, he looks toward you, expectant and seeking approval. And you only nod, smiling faintly. “That’s enough for now.”

But later, when you find the buckets by the well filled to the brim, or the latch on the cupboard newly repaired, you don’t comment. You only notice the way his shoulders ease when you pretend not to notice.

And soon it becomes habit—his way of contributing, his way of belonging.

However, he is not alone in these routines.

At first, he thinks it’s a coincidence—the way Mydei always seems to appear wherever he goes. The cat follows him everywhere, always just a few steps behind.

Even at night, he’s there.

The first evening, Phainon nearly trips over him on his way to bed. Mydei is already settled on the doorway, tail curled neatly around his paws.

“Are you keeping watch?” Phainon asks, but the cat only blinks.

The next night, it’s the same. On the third, Phainon tries again. “You don’t have to guard me. I’m not going anywhere.”

Mydei’s ears twitch, but he says nothing.

Phainon sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Right… You only respond to her, don’t you?”

The cat tilts his head slightly. Then he curls into himself, and the glow of his eyes fades in the dark.

After that, Phainon stops trying—he lets the silence stay between them. So now, when Mydei pads after him at dusk and settles in his usual spot, Phainon simply lets him be. There’s a strange comfort in that quiet surveillance, even if the cat doesn’t feel like opening himself up to him.

And eventually, the days fall into rhythm.

At dawn, he shoulders the axe, splitting logs until the ache in his arms feels almost right. His palms blister, but he swings as though they’ve blistered a thousand times before. At midday, he hauls buckets of water from the well, stride steady but gaze far away. In the evenings, he mends what he can: roofs, fences, tools. His fingers fumble over the smaller work, but when they curl around a hammer’s grip, they fall into familiar certainty.

The quiet is a kindness, but also a cage. The hush of the forest presses in on him, and though the air smells of pine and earth, he feels his muscles twitch for an enemy that never comes. His hands ache not only for work, but for the heft of a blade, for the moment of strike and counterstrike.

At night, he lies awake staring at the broadsword propped in the corner of his room. You had cleaned it for him, oiled the leather of its grip, and even polished the steel until it caught the sunlight in sharp glimmers during mornings. Beside it rests the armor you had stripped from him when he first stumbled into your care—dented, scarred, but whole again after your diligent scrubbing.

The sight always stirs something in him. He cannot recall the battles that scarred that armor, cannot name the men who might have stood by his side, but his body knows. The urge to stand guard through the night, to patrol the forest, to protect this small house and the one who sheltered him—it thrums in his chest as if written into his blood.

Perhaps he was a knight once. The thought explains much: the impulse to serve, the hunger to protect, the restlessness that drives his muscles even in peace. Yet the longer he gazes at the steel, the heavier his chest grows.

A knight without memory is little more than a stray dog—trained to bite, yet wandering without a master to serve.

One evening, over the simple fare you’ve prepared—stew and bread—he sets his spoon down. “You never cook meat,” he observes. “Do you not care for it?” His tone is casual, but his eyes search for you carefully, as if gauging whether it’s want or scarcity that keeps it from your table.

“I could hunt for you,” he adds after a pause, almost eager. The thought of the chase, the draw of the bow, the kill—it would give his restless muscles something to do, something they know.

But you decline immediately, shaking your head. “No. Thank you, but I don’t eat meat or poultry.”

He frowns faintly, confused. “Why not?”

“Because land animals are my friends,” you say simply. “I will not ask one to die for my plate.”

The words settle heavily between you. His shoulders ease, and though the hunger for action still coils within him, he swallows it down.

“I see,” he murmurs, glancing down at his hands—hands that probably (surely) once lived by killing—and does not press further.

Sometimes, like today, he pauses, standing in the clearing with the axe poised above the wood, and the thought comes unbidden: I could split a skull just as easily. And the image lingers too vividly in his head.

His grip tightens on the handle. Then, something flashes behind his eyes.

He’s no longer in the forest, no longer holding an axe. The weight in his hands is heavier. The air reeks of smoke and oil, and the light is wrong—it comes from fire, not sun. Around him, armored figures move through around a narrow room. There’s a table overturned, and he hears a child crying; a woman’s voice is pleading from somewhere behind the door.

But Phainon’s eyes are fixed only on the man before him—kneeling, trembling, faceless. Then, his arm moves before he can think. The blade arcs down.

Then the vision is gone.

He staggers, and the axe is heavy in his hands again. The forest is quiet and his pulse hammers against his ribs like it’s trying to escape.

He doesn’t notice at first that Mydei has been watching from the fence post. The cat’s yellow eyes never waver, tail flicking. And when Phainon grips the axe too long, when his breath grows heavy, Mydei meows, and it pulls him back.

Phainon exhales, and then he goes back to work.

The pile at his feet is already enough for weeks, but he keeps swinging, each crack and thud a way to drown out the darker images that slip too easily into his thoughts. For a moment, he grips the axe too tightly, staring at the blade as though it might turn on him.

Slowly, he sets the tool aside. For a long while, he just stands there, palms raw, trying to shake the violence from his body. He wipes his hands from his tunic, as though the gesture might wipe away the images too.

“Phainon.”

Your voice pulls him away from his thoughts. He startles slightly, caught off guard, and he turns toward the sound of you.

“You’ll wear out both axe and arms if you keep at it like this,” you say, walking toward him. “The forest can only give so much.”

His expression falters into sheepishness. He wipes his brow with the back of his wrist, then rubs at his neck. “Sorry. I just… want to be useful.”

“You’ve split enough to last me a month,” you reply. “There are better ways to be useful.”

He blinks. “Like what?”

“You can come with me to town today. I haven’t gone in some time—too busy making sure you don’t fall apart under my roof.”

His brows rise. “Town? There’s a town nearby?”

An amused smile makes it way to your lips. “Of course. Where else would I get fish and flour? You didn’t think I pulled them out of thin air, did you?”

“I thought…” he hesitates, “I thought you just made them appear. You are a witch, aren’t you?”

That earns him a laugh. “You’re a funny one, Phainon. Yes, I am a witch, but I don’t conjure what I can craft and gather. I could, but I’d rather make things than have them simply appear.”

“Sorry. It’s just—” Phainon shifts awkwardly, scratching at the back of his neck again. “You’re probably the first witch I’ve ever met.”

Your smile tilts, and almost teasingly, you say, “Probably? We wouldn’t know, would we? Not with your memories still fogged over.”

Before he can answer, you turn briskly. “Come on, then. To town. My apprentice is likely wringing her hands by now, wondering where I’ve gone again.”

He hesitates. “Wait—what about the house? Won’t you need someone to guard it while you’re away?”

“Mydei can handle it,” you say, as though it’s obvious. Right on cue, the orange cat slips from behind your skirts with a little meow, brushing against your legs. Phainon blinks at him, incredulous.

First, the creature can drag around a broadsword. Now he’s expected to stand sentry over a house?

You catch his expression and suppress a laugh. “Mydei is a magical cat. He can do anything a person can do—sometimes even better.”

Phainon gives the animal another long look, but Mydei only flicks his tail and yawns.

“And besides,” you add, lowering your voice conspiratorially, “this forest is spelled. Anyone with ill intent who tries to cross the border won’t make it far.”

His brows furrow. “What happens to these people?”

“They get lost,” you answer, too calm, too uncaring. “Until the forest swallows them whole.”

The words echo long after you’ve spoken them.

Phainon can’t quite shake the thought of the forest, and of those who would enter it with dark intent. And what it might do to him, should the forest ever decide his heart was not so clean.

Even as you set off together, the sound of your voice lingers in his skull, heavy as the axe he left behind. The path out of the woods is easier beneath your lead, but he cannot help glancing over his shoulder, half-expecting to see eyes in the trees.

By the time the trees thin and the road spills into a village, the shift is jarring. Voices rise and tumble together—market cries, children’s laughter, the thud of cart wheels on earth. Smoke curls from chimneys, and the scent of bread and roasting meat hangs heavy in the air.

It should feel safe, yet Phainon’s chest stays tight. There are too many people—too many voices overlapping, too many faces he doesn’t know, too many bodies moving in patterns he can’t predict. In the forest, it was simple: just you, him, Mydei, and the animals. It was a world he can hold with his hands.

Here, everything is too much and too loud. A child darts past, laughing, and he tenses. A shopkeeper calls out prices, and his back straightens. Someone jostles his elbow in passing, and his hand twitches and aches for something akin to a weapon.

He keeps close to you, shadowing your steps as though your presence alone is a tether. You are the only familiar thing in this sea of strangers.

You lead Phainon toward a quaint shop draped in hanging plants and vines. When the two of you step inside, something white blurs past the shelves and barrels toward you. It collides with your chest in a soft, squeaking impact.

Phainon reacts instantly: his hand shoots to his back, grasping for the familiar weight of his broadsword, but only air greets him. His other hand curls into a fist as his shoulders tense, but you lift a palm to still him. A subtle shake of your head halts his instinct.

There’s no enemy here.

His jaw tightens, though his stance relaxes slightly. He lowers his hands, still watching the odd being as though it might bite.

There’s… a creature nuzzling against your neck. Plump and round, with soft white fur tinged in pink and turquoise, its tiny wings flutter uselessly against your shoulder. It makes a plaintive, piping sound, halfway between a whistle and a squeak.

“Yes, yes,” you murmur, your hand smoothing over its mane comfortingly. “I’m back now. You can stop crying.”

“What… what is that?” Phainon asks.

“This is Little Ica,” you reply, tone far warmer than it had been earlier in the forest. “They’re a pegasus and my apprentice’s familiar. Speaking of…” You glance around the shop, scanning the shadows beyond shelves. “Where’s Hyacine?”

As if on cue, the sound of hurried steps come rushing through the backroom. Then a voice, light with relief, exclaims, “You’re back!” Hyacine rushes, her curls bouncing with each step. She stops short when she sees Phainon, but her worry swiftly overtakes her surprise.

“You were gone so long! I thought maybe you’d forgotten to eat again.” Her gaze flicks over you, searching for signs of weariness. “You didn’t, did you? You always lose track when you’re mixing stuff, and—oh, never mind, at least you’re safe and alright.”

Her eyes soften further when they land on the pegasus nestled against your shoulder. “And Little Ica found you first, hm? No wonder I heard them crying.” Then her eyes fall on Phainon again, who’s all tall and stiff behind you. “And you’ve brought someone with you. You never even come to town with Mydei, yet here you are—walking with another man.”

Hyacine’s voice takes on a teasing tone, and you sigh at once. Her words, however, make Phainon’s head tilt curiously.

Another man? Is she hinting at someone else in your life? But he has never seen another soul in the forest besides you, Mydei, your animal friends, and himself. Who is Hyacine talking about?

“He’s a stray I picked up not long ago,” you answer lightly. “He’s the reason why I’ve been absent.”

Hyacine’s brows lift with interest. “Are you taking him in as an apprentice too? Ica and I wouldn’t mind another friend!”

“Oh, no,” you say quickly. “He’s only here for a short while.”

“Aw, that’s too bad.” She juts her lips, pouting. “What brings him here with you today then?”

“A change of scenery,” you reply. “He’s been shut away in the forest for days. I thought the bustle of town might do him some good—help clear his mind. He’s lost his memories, you see.”

Hyacine’s face softens. She glances at Phainon, expression turning gentle, almost pitying. “How awful. What happened to him? And how did you even find him?”

“Mydei found him actually,” you explain. “Just at the edge of the forest. He said Phainon looked like he was running from something. But whoever—or whatever—it was, they’ve probably already lost their way.”

“Oh, Phainon? Is that your name?” Hyacine tilts her head toward him.

He shifts slightly, before giving a curt nod. “Apparently.”

Her lips twitch, and a small giggle escapes. “Well, it suits you. Lucky you stumbled into our forest. Not all who dwell in the woods—witch or not—are half as kind as my teacher.”

“Are you speaking ill of Anaxa again?” you ask with an amused smile. “You know you would’ve been his apprentice if Ica hadn’t liked me better.”

Anaxa. A man’s name, and it snags in Phainon’s mind. Is that the man that Hyacine must be hinting at? The other man?

Hyacine huffs. “If I’d known you were such a stubborn and neglectful teacher, I would have accepted Mr. Anaxagoras’s offer instead!”

“Of course you would.” You shake your head, smiling faintly as though you’ve had this argument before. “But enough of that. I didn’t come here just to banter. I brought new wares for the shop.”

At that, Little Ica finally detaches from your shoulder, wings fluttering as they drift toward Hyacine. You lift your hand, and with a casual flick of your fingers, the air beside you ripples. A pocket of space yawns open, and without hesitation, you slide your arm inside, as if reaching into another world.

Phainon stiffens, heart thudding hard at the sight of your hand disappearing into nothingness. He surges forward, hand shooting out to seize your shoulder before the void can swallow you, but before he can touch you, your free hand lifts and presses lightly against his chest. The touch halts him more effectively than a command.

“What are you—” His voice is harsher than he means it to be, the tension audible.

“Relax,” you murmur. “It’s only a space pocket. A safe place to keep what I can’t carry on my own.”

The warmth of your palm lingers through the fabric of his tunic, and he finds himself frozen there, caught between embarrassment and the urge to insist you step away from the rippling darkness.

He swallows hard, forcing himself to still. His eyes, however, don’t leave the pocket of space that devours your arm with casual ease.

A moment later, you withdraw, arm still intact and holding neat bundle of herbs and jars. You brush the dust from your hands as though you’d done nothing more extraordinary than fetch something from a shelf.

You hold the things out to Hyacine, and she stretches her arms to take them. Phainon lingers behind, watching the exchange.

“You could have used me to carry them for you,” he says.

Because he would have. He would have if you had only asked. For you—his savior, the one who let him stay even though he had nothing to offer but a name he didn’t even remember and a sword he can’t quite recall how to wield—he would carry far heavier things. That’s what a knight does, isn’t it? They pay their debts with their own body, their own service, their own small pieces of loyalty chipped away until they belong entirely to the one who spared them.

A knight serves. A knight owes. And what is he now, if not a man shaped to serve?

“You’re still recovering,” you answer. You don’t even look at him as you say it, which makes it worse, as though the matter is already decided and he doesn’t get a say. “You shouldn’t even be chopping wood at all, but you insist on chores. You are a very hardheaded patient.”

At that, Hyacine bursts out laughing, her curls bouncing as she hugs the bundles to her chest. “Finally,” she says, bright and teasing, “you’ve met someone who can go toe-to-toe with your stubbornness!”

You roll your eyes, but Phainon blinks at the words, tilting his head slightly, as though he’s unsure whether to feel stung or proud or both. His mouth opens like he might protest, then shuts again. He looks away instead and curls his fists, as if silently promising himself next time, he’ll carry the burden before you even get the chance to deny him.

When the two of you finally leave the shop, you guide him through the streets toward the wet market. The air is damp and heavy with the smell of fish, blood, and mud, and there are voices calling out prices and children darting between stalls.

Phainon notices the eyes—not just glances, but lingering looks that follow wherever you walk. And he hears whispers too, words he cannot make sense of but knows must be about you, because they never started until you appeared.

And you don’t say a thing. Maybe you don’t hear it, or maybe you’ve grown used to it—so used to it that it slides right off you. But Phainon can’t let it slide; it scrapes against him like grit in an old wound.

Why do they look at you like that, as though you are something to be feared and mocked all at once? Why do they whisper with so little care, as if you aren’t standing right here among them? And the vendors—the boldest of them all—jeer openly when you pass, muttering under their breaths as though you were powerless, as though you weren’t a witch, as if you’re less than them when he’s certain it’s the other way around.

It builds in his chest—that hot, bristling urge to step in front of you, to bare his teeth, to silence them all. And he almost does, but you just keep moving, intent on the stalls, so he forces himself to match your pace.

At a cart piled with pale cabbages and spotted apples, you pause. He leans down close, words caught between clenched teeth, low enough that only you can hear.

“Why do they behave like this toward you?”

You’re turning an apple over in your hand, examining its bruised skin. “Because I don’t belong here,” you answer simply. “They’re always like that. Just ignore them.”

“But how could they be so… crude?” His voice carries the disbelief of someone who still doesn’t understand how people can bite the hand of someone who has never even done them wrong.

“That’s just how ordinary folk are,” you murmur, putting the apple back with a faint shake of your head. You mutter something about the fruits not being fresh, before moving on to another stall. “It’s not as though they can do anything to me anyway. This is the most they can do—whisper, sneer, look away when I pass. I’m fortunate enough to even set foot in their home. And if they did try to drive me away…”

Your voice tilts, even quieter, “Well. They’d lose the one thing I can give them that they need most—which is medicine.”

Phainon frowns. “They don’t have doctors here?”

“No.” You shake your head. “This town is poor, though it may not look like it at a glance. They have too many mouths, but not enough coins. They would all be dead if not for me.”

You say it so easily, so matter-of-fact, that Phainon almost misses the weight of the words. His frown deepens; he wants to say they should be on their knees before you for that. That they should build shrines to your name if you’re the reason they’re even breathing.

Instead, you add, “Hyacine helps too, of course. She knows how to heal, how to prepare salves and teas. But she’s still learning, and I won’t let her rely on magic for curing sickness.”

Phainon tilts his head. “Why not? Wouldn’t that be easier?”

You shake your head again. “Because magic can fail, or worse—it can hurt if used carelessly. Herbs, remedies… those are reliable. A cure has to last longer than a spell. Hyacine is clever, but she still has much to learn before she can craft medicine without error.”

You turn another piece of produce in your palm, and mutter something about rot and poor harvests again. Phainon doesn’t say anything anymore, because he’s thinking about the eyes that lingers, the whispers, and the jeers circling endlessly in his mind.

He shadows over you as you move from stall to stall. And though he’s silent, his hands keep twitching at his sides, as though itching for a sword—or something, anything—that could cut sharp enough toward anyone who dares linger too long in their staring.

The walk back is quieter.

The sun hasn’t moved much—still hanging somewhere between noon and after—but the streets are emptier now, and the voices from the market have faded into the distance. The air smells of pine again, of damp earth and dust.

Phainon walks a step behind you, carrying the bundle of things you bought: produce, cloth, jars, and even the small pouches of salt and spices you insisted was light enough to carry yourself—until he looked at you as if you’d insulted him just by suggesting so.

You’d argued, of course. You’d said, “I have a space pocket. It’s far more convenient and easier.” And he’d said, “But you told me earlier there were other ways to be useful. This is me being useful.”

You’d gone quiet after that, lips pressing thin before you muttered something under your breath that sounded a lot like stubborn man. So now, here you are, walking through the road that leads back to the forest while he shoulders all the weight like it means nothing.

“You know,” you say all of a sudden. “You behave so much like a knight sometimes.”

Phainon blinks, caught off guard by the sudden remark. “In what way?”

“Apart from the sword you carried and the armor you wore when you came here, I can also sense it in the way you can’t sit still,” you answer, looking straight ahead. “You always need to be doing something. Helping. Chopping. Fixing. Carrying things that aren’t yours to carry. You get anxious when you’re idle. You want to be useful.”

He huffs a small laugh through his nose, not because it’s funny, but because the words land too neatly in him. “That sounds accurate.”

“I thought so.” You tilt your head. “You’re like a dog, really.”

The word hits him like a strike. He stops walking.

Something moves behind his eyes—a flicker, a flash, a sound. A voice, deep and cold and too familiar though he’s certain he’s never heard it before.

My knight.

My beast.

My hound.

The words echo through his skull, and the world seems to lurch with them. The road blurs, and for a moment, he isn’t standing on dirt beneath the dappled light of the noon sun. Instead, he’s kneeling on marble, head bowed low, and wearing his armor—he also feels a hand, heavy and pressing, resting on his head as though he were some animal that needed taming.

The weight of that imagined touch burns through him.

He sucks in a breath, and his shoulders tense. The bundle in his arms shifts, jars clinking faintly. His skin has also gone cold, yet his pulse races like it’s trying to crawl out of his throat.

You notice instantly. “Phainon?” you call his name, stopping in your tracks as well and turning to him. “What’s wrong?”

He swallows hard, but the words don’t come right away. His mouth is dry. The memory dissolves quickly as quickly as it came, leaving only the echo of the words lingering like an aftertaste.

Finally, he speaks, voice low and rough, “Don’t… don’t call me that. I don’t like it.”

You blink. “Like what?”

“A dog. I don’t…” His throat bobs. “It doesn’t sit right with me.”

You study him for a moment—his pallor, the way his knuckles whiten around the things he’s carrying, the faraway look in his eyes, the strange stillness in his face as if he’s holding himself together by sheer will.

“Alright,” you say, softly, kindly. “I won’t call you that again.”

He exhales, a small, uneven breath that sounds like it’s meant to be a thank you but gets lost somewhere before it reaches his tongue. The silence that envelops between you is fragile—like something that could break if either of you spoke too loudly.

When you start walking again, he follows, though quieter than before. His mind hums with the ghost of that voice, that hand, the word that shouldn’t have stung as much as it did.

Once you arrive back at your home, Mydei is the first to greet you.

He’s waiting on the porch, tail curled neatly around his paws. The moment he spots you, a soft meow slips from his throat. He rises and stretches, then pads down the step to brush against your leg. His fur carries the warmth of the afternoon sun.

“Missed us, did you?” you murmur, stooping to run your fingers through his coat. Mydei purrs, low and content, circling your ankles once before glancing up at Phainon.

His gaze lingers. Then, with a flick of his tail, he turns and follows after you as you step inside the cottage. He doesn’t brush against Phainon.

Behind you, Phainon lets out a short huff that sounds like laughter. “He still doesn’t like me,” he says. “So I don’t think he missed me as much as he does you.”

“Yes,” you agree without a second’s hesitation.

Phainon stares at you, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he can’t decide whether to feel offended or amused. “That was very quick.”

“Well,” you shrug, “I wasn’t going to lie. Cats can be quite territorial, you know.”

He hums, pondering. “He must think I’m going to steal you from him.”

You laugh, sudden and melodious—one of those bright little sounds that seem to catch him off guard every time, as though he hasn’t quite learned you’re capable of making it. And maybe that’s because you don’t laugh like that often. Most days your amusement comes out quieter; just a small puff of air through your nose paired with a smile, the kind of understated warmth one only notices if they’re paying close attention.

But this one—this clear, unguarded laugh of yours—is rare enough to feel like a gift. So rare that Phainon goes absolutely still for a moment, as if unsure whether he’s meant to hold it, treasure it, bow to it, or simply let it wash over him.

“Now I wouldn’t go that far,” you say. “Mydei is just protective.”

“Of you?” he manages to ask, feigning neutrality.

“Of the house. Of the forest,” you say, trailing off. “And yes, perhaps of me, as well. He’s like the guardian of this forest. He protects everything and everyone here.”

“Even me?” he asks.

“Yes. Even you.”

The words hit him strangely—like something heavier than reassurance, lighter than a promise, and yet somehow both. Phainon rubs the back of his neck as if trying to hide the warmth gathering there.

He thinks back to all the times Mydei has stalked behind him (which is always, really). The soft pad of paws trailing a few steps behind, the quiet little huffs of breath, the occasional meow when Phainon’s thoughts spiral too far into places they shouldn’t go.

He remembers the nights when he would sit up in bed, palm pressed to his ribs, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob, and Mydei would hop onto the foot of the bed and simply stare at him.

Stop, the stare always seems to say. Don’t think of it. Don’t think about anything at all.

And somehow, it works. It helps. He helps. Though Phainon doubts the cat does any of it out of affection; more likely, it’s obligation. Or maybe, just like you said, it’s out of territorial instincts. Or maybe… the cat thinks he does it out of protection of you.

Protection from what? From whom? From himself?

That possibility feels uncomfortably plausible.

He wouldn’t put it past himself to hurt someone. He has the hands for it, the instincts for it, and the memories—though he could only recall half of it. But you? No. He could never deliberately hurt you. Not you—not the one who pulled him from the edge of death, the one who gave him a home before he even remembered who he was.

You are the one thing in his life that doesn’t feel stained.

Maybe Mydei is indeed magical like the way you claimed. You’re a witch; you produce pockets of space out of thin air and murmur words that make plants grow faster. So why not a magical cat? Why not a cat that can drag broadswords through forests or curse intruders or—he snorts quietly to himself—transform into a person if he wanted to?

The image almost makes him laugh. He can imagine it: Mydei as some unimpressed, sharp-tongued man, flicking his tail in human form.

“I really still can’t see how Mydei can do so much with his tiny body,” Phainon says, chuckling.

You smile. It’s the kind of smile that looks like you’re hiding the punchline to a joke the world isn’t privy to. “You have no idea.”

Your smile lingers for a heartbeat too long. And his gaze lingers on you for two heartbeats longer than that.

The house is warm behind you, with the smell of herbs drifting through the open doorway. The trees sway lazily, and Mydei sits between you both, tail twitching, as if monitoring the entire conversation.

It’s peaceful enough that Phainon’s shoulders lower without him realizing. Peaceful in the way a wounded animal might exhale when it recognizes that, finally, it will not be hunted today.

You turn first, heading toward the cottage, Mydei following suit. And Phainon trails after you—the same way he trailed after you into town, the same way he trails behind you whenever you lead the way.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the memory of the moment on the road when you called him a dog and he froze flickers. But now, in the warmth that follows you both toward home, that memory slides off him like water. It’s not gone, but it has dulled—tucked into a corner of his thoughts where it can’t bite.

He catches his reflection in a window: tired eyes, longer hair, and face still bruised at the edges. But then he looks at you again, and the heaviness in him eases.

He wonders if that is magic, too.

𝐈𝐕. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃

Days with you slip by almost unnoticed.

Phainon wakes each sunrise to the same rhythm: the scent of herbs steeping, the air filtering through the windows, and the distant chatter of birds gathering near your porch as if waiting for you to come greet them.

He falls into that rhythm without thinking, the same way a stray animal falls into step with the one who feeds it.

He still chops wood every morning. You tell him the pile is large enough already, that the shed won’t fit another log, but he keeps at it anyway. It’s habit. When he’s not swinging the axe, he’s repairing what needs fixing—the latch on the gate, the crack in the basin, the cupboard that hasn’t loosened in years. Sometimes, you suspect he breaks things just to mend them again. And he still carries water for you. Always insists on two buckets at once, even when you tell him the well isn’t going anywhere.

(And always, there is Mydei, watching.

Always, there is you.)

But lately, he’s begun to do other things too. He helps you tend to the herbs in the garden—kneeling awkwardly in the dirt, too big and stiff for such delicate work, yet careful, almost reverent when he’s handling the leaves. Sometimes he forgets how gentle he has to be, snapping a stem or bruising a sprig, and he looks so stricken you can’t help but laugh and tell him it’ll grow back.

(He notices, too, how you laugh more now. He remembers the early days when your laughter had been quieter, almost like you weren’t sure he could handle too much warmth at once. But lately—ever since that day the two of you first returned from town—your laughter has been different, looser. As if being beside him no longer requires caution. As if something between you both unlatched itself without either of you speaking about it out loud.

And perhaps he notices more than he should. Because now, whenever he fumbles with a sprig or accidentally uproots an entire seedling, you laugh openly and he tries to pretend it doesn’t strike him straight in the chest. He ducks his heads, pretends he’s checking the soil, pretends he’s not memorizing the way the sound curls around him like the light from the sun.

He doesn’t understand why it affects him so much. He only knows that he could grow addicted to it.)

He helps you cook too, though “help” is generous. He cuts too precisely, stirs too rigidly, like he’s following orders no one gave. He asks if he’s doing it wrong, and you tell him he can do whatever he wants as long as it’s still suitable for cooking.

He goes to town with you every now and then—to visit Hyacine, to restock your supplies, to carry the heavy things you insist aren’t heavy. The villagers still whisper when you pass, and Phainon pretends not to hear them. He doesn’t realize that sometimes, his silence is more of a comfort than his anger could ever be.

And then there are the forest animals.

At first, he only watched from afar as you fed them—the foxes, the deers, the flock of birds that perch on your arms as though you’re just another tree. Now, he feeds them too, though never alone. He says he’s afraid he’ll scare them off. You tell him the creatures like him, that they sense his good intentions. He doesn’t quite believe you, and the doubt sits quietly in his chest.

He knows what still sleeps inside him. The thirst. The edge. Whatever part of him remembers blood and command and killing. He fears that if he ever lets his guard down, if he ever reaches too fast, too hungry, he’ll harm something—someone—you hold dear. So he never feeds the animals without you.

When that fear starts whispering too loud in his head, Mydei is always there. The cat watches from afar, silent, orange, and unblinking. Never close enough to touch, but close enough to pull him back to himself. It’s strange—it’s been over a month, and the cat still hasn’t brushed against him. Not even once.

It doesn’t hurt him—at least that’s what Phainon tells himself. It’s just something he’s noticed. Especially since the forest animals seem to like him well enough when you’re near. Rabbits nibble on his boots, and once, a bird landed on his shoulder. He stood frozen for a full minute, afraid to breathe in case he startles it.

When he told you about it later, you only smiled and said, “See? They trust you.”

He thinks, sometimes, this must be what peace feels like. Not the grand kind—the kind the bards sing about—but something smaller and quieter. A hand brushing against his when you both reach for the same jar. The sound of your soft laughter spilling through the house when he hits his head over something. The faint smell of mint that clings to the sheets.

He catches himself watching you too often. The way your sleeves slip down when you knead dough, the small wrinkle that appears when you read, the way you hum to yourself while tending to herbs. It’s not that he means to stare; it’s that everything about you catches his eyes. You’re steady, like gravity, and everything about you feels natural. He doesn’t know when it started, but your presence has become the thing his mind drifts toward whenever it goes quiet.

Once, when you handed him a bowl of stew and your fingers brushed his, something in his chest stuttered—like when he first saw you after waking up from his injuries. It wasn’t just gratitude anymore. Gratitude was what he felt when you saved him. Now, this was something else.

The stray in him is beginning to settle, to rest its head.

He realizes, with a sort of frightened tenderness, that he’s been dreaming of this for a long time—long before he met you, maybe even before he lost his memory. The dream of belonging somewhere. Of having someone to come back to, to protect not out of duty but out of want.

But the dream has edges.

Sometimes, while he works, something flashes behind his eyes. A street, narrow and cold. The taste of hunger. The sound of a girl’s laugh, light and tired all at once. He sees her—his sister in everything but blood, small hands clutching a loaf of stolen bread. Her smile when she splits it in two.

He always shakes it off and keeps chopping. But the memories always return like waves, merciless.

He remembers the guards’ shouts. The blur of armor. The day he was caught with his hands full of the king’s silver. How strange it was, to kneel before a man so terrible and live.

The king had looked at him and smiled. Said something about sharp eyes and quick hands. Said he could use a creature like that.

And so, Phainon became what the king wanted—a hound that learned to bite on command.

He was fed, clothed, and trained. He rose through the ranks not out of pride, but out of survival. Each order he carried out, each throat he cut, each village he burned—he told himself it was for her. For the girl who still called him brother. For the one who deserved better than hunger.

He became his king’s favorite, his lapdog, his executioner. And with every life he took, his own slipped further away.

He doesn’t remember when the love of his sister’s laughter turned into pity of what he’d become for her sake. Only that he kept going, because stopping meant she could starve.

Now, when he dreams, he hears the king’s voice again. And in the dream, the voice follows him home.

Not your home, not your house, but theirs. The one he built long ago from stone and spite and blood, where the walls gleam faintly of red, as if still remembering the men he felled to pay for them. A house bought with his master’s coin, built from the bones of his enemies, yet raised with love for her—for his sister, his tether to what little of him remained human.

The door is open when he arrives at their home.

At first, he thinks she’s sleeping. The way she lies on the floor, hair spilled like ink across the floor, one hand curled loosely as though still clutching a dream, but then he sees the blood seeping beneath her.

His body moves before thought does. He falls to his knees beside her, calling her name—Cyrene. Cyrene. Cyrene!—until the sound breaks. His hands are useless against the stillness of her body. He doesn’t know where to press, what to hold, what to fix—all he knows is how to strike, what to break, what to snap. There is too much red, but none of it are his or his master’s enemies.

When the fire from the hearth flickers, he looks up and knows exactly where to go.

He storms through the marble halls of the palace, sword still strapped on his back. Guards scatter like birds before a storm, for even they know better than to bar the way of the king’s beast. The throne room yawns open, and the king is there, as he always is—calm, immaculate, cruel.

“Your Majesty,” Phainon rasps. “Someone murdered my sister. I need your leave to find them. I—”

The king doesn’t even look surprised. He only tilts his head, voice as smooth as oil. “There’s no need to look. I gave the order myself.”

Phainon stills. At first, he doesn’t understand. He only stares, chest heaving, waiting for the jest that never comes. Then, he asks, “What do you mean?”

“She was a distraction,” the king says, amusement curling at his lips. “A hound does not need a sister. A beast does not need a home. You are mine, Phainon, and I am your master. You will serve me until there’s nothing left of you.”

The memory shatters there.

He wakes drenched in sweat, heart hammering, half expecting to find blood on his hands. But when he sits up and looks around, it’s only the faint glow of the candle on his nightstand. Only Mydei’s eyes, glowing yellow in the dark. Only your soft breathing from the other room.

And the contrast between the two worlds—the one he lived and the one he’s living now—gnaws at him. Because here, in your small house at the middle of the forest, he’s learning what gentleness feels like again. He’s learning to speak softly, to hold things that break easily. He’s learning what it means to be seen as something other than a weapon once again.

And every time you smile at him, every time your hand brushes his shoulder, he feels something bloom that he cannot name. Something that hurts and heals in the same breath.

He wonders if this is what redemption looks like; not a cleansing, but an illusion—fragile and fleeting. He wonders how long he’s allowed to have it before the world remembers what he is.

Afternoon comes, and you’re both in the garden, knees dusted in soil. Phainon’s fingers, broad but careful, move between the roots as if he’s afraid of breaking them. He’s learning how to tell weeds from the herbs now, though he still hesitates sometimes, glancing toward you for confirmation.

There’s peace in it. The small sounds, the rustle of leaves, the buzz of insects, the distant lap of water somewhere. And you hum under your breath, something tuneless.

Then he stops. Abruptly. A stem snaps between his fingers, hanging limp. His shadow falls over the patch of rosemary.

“What if my memories return,” he speaks, sudden and quiet, “but I don’t want to leave?”

You blink, turning towards him. His eyes are somewhere far off, and there’s soil in his cheek, a smear like paint that doesn’t belong there.

You don’t think before you answer. “Then don’t leave.”

He breathes out a small laugh, half disbelief, half something else. “Really? You’d let me stay? Even though my stay was only meant to be temporary?”

“Yes,” you say simply. “And honestly… I’ve grown quite fond of you.”

The words drift out like a sigh, unplanned and unpolished, but they catch in the space between you and hang there. It’s the kind of sentence that doesn’t need an echo out loud to still reverberate.

Phainon doesn’t move for a long time. He only stares, as if your words were something he needed to memorize before the air could take them away.

I’ve grown quite fond of you.

It isn’t a confession, not really, and he knows that. You said it like one might admit the sun’s warmth or that the rain falls where it wishes. Simple, natural, true. But gods, it’s close enough to make something twist in him.

The words dig in, take root, and the warmth that spreads through his chest feels almost unbearable. Because if kindness could be fatal, it would sound like that. It would sound exactly like you.

He turns back to the soil before you can see the way his expression softens—because if you did, you might realize that those simple words have already undone him. The ache in his chest isn’t the old kind anymore; it’s gentler, the kind that he doesn’t want to fade.

He works in silence after that, slower this time. You get back to work too, humming once again. And though nothing else is said, he feels the shape of your voice in his head—circling, settling, steadying.

Then don’t leave.

He won’t. Not if he can help it.

𝐕. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐃𝐎𝐆

“Go and take a break.”

From the soil, Phainon stares at you like you’ve just cast him out. His hands are still half-buried in the dirt, wrists streaked with soil. He blinks once, twice, as if trying to understand a language that shouldn’t apply to him.

“Why? I’m not tired. I can still help—”

You shake your head, shushing him before he can finish. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… you need to go outside every now and then, Phainon. Don’t be a hermit like me.”

He blinks again. “Outside? But aren’t we—” He gestures vaguely at the sky, the trees, the garden that is quite literally outside. "—already outside?”

He’s pouting. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

You sigh, pulling off one glove. “Don’t get smart with me. You know what I mean. And our trips to town don’t count. You need… enrichment time.”

“Enrichment,” he says flatly, as if it’s a punishment. “What do I even do while I’m on break?”

“I don’t know,” you say, shrugging. “Take a walk. Lie in the sun and pretend to be a rock. Anything that doesn’t involve heavy lifting or chores.”

He exhales a small sound that’s almost a whine. “Then I’ll take a walk.”

“Lovely.” You clap your hands in delight. “Get back before sunset.”

He lingers a moment longer, as if waiting for you to rescind the order. When you don’t, he dusts his palms on his trousers and straightens, a little stiff. He hesitates, opens his mouth like he might say something, then thinks better of it. Finally, he nods once and turns towards the trees.

The forest receives him the way it always does—too quietly, as though listening. He walks without direction. The world is still; only the sound of water in the distance, a bird calling, and the faint crunch of leaves beneath his boots can be heard.

A break, you said. But rest feels foreign, like a word from a tongue he’s forgotten. His hands itch for work, for something to hold, something to guard. The axe, the bucket, the rhythm of doing—those are easy. This, the wandering, the having-nothing-to-do—it gnaws at him.

He keeps glancing behind him, half-expecting Mydei to appear, silent and judging, but the cat is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps you’ve sent him to make sure Phainon really does rest. The thought makes him huff, amused despite himself.

The path slopes upward until he finds himself on a small ridge overlooking the glade. The air here smells different—warmer and faintly of wildflowers. He sits down, awkwardly at first, like a man trying to remember how to sit. He closes his eyes.

It feels like he can hear the forest breathe. He hears the wind through leaves, a frog croaking by a creek, and even his own pulse, slow and steady for once. For a long moment, he lets himself sink into it.

Then he hears something crack—a branch somewhere behind him—and instinct surges before thought does. He’s already on his feet, shoulders squared, gaze snapping toward the sound. There’s no sword, but his stance remembers one.

He prepares himself for an attack, but when only a doe comes out from behind a tree, blinking at him innocently, Phainon exhales shakily. He forces his body to ease, hands unclenching one finger at a time.

“Sorry,” he mutters, voice softer than he expects.

The animal watches him a while longer before flicking its ear and turning away. After the doe disappears, Phainon stands still for a moment longer. He exhales slowly, then straightens, scanning the woods. He decides to keep walking.

You had said to take a break, and he supposes walking counts as rest if he pretends hard enough. Besides, the forest is vast and he’s still learning its edges. If he means to protect this place, he should know its bones as well as his own.

He moves deeper into the forest. The air grows cooler the further he goes, the light dimming where the trees thicken. He marks the way as he walks—fallen birch, hollow trunk, crooked pine—and imagines how a blade might catch there, how a man could vanish behind that ridge, how once could defend this place if it ever needed defending.

He doesn’t notice the sound right away. It starts fainly: metal against metal, faint and stuttering. He stills, listening. Then comes another sound: the low murmur of men’s voices.

His breath catches. Phainon turns toward it instinctively.

The forest dips ahead into a narrow clearing, and between the trees, he glimpses movement—a cluster of figures in armors gathered around a small fire.

Knights.

He recognizes their bearing even before he sees their faces. The stance, the way they hold themselves, how their swords rest close to hand even at rest.

He should leave, he thinks. But curiosity—or perhaps the ache of recognition—roots him in place. He edges closer, silent as he can be, until he can see them clearly.

Five men, all armored in the same style. The sigil painted on their breastplates is faint, scraped by battle and time, but the mark is unmistakable—a lone tower wreathed in flame. The paint has peeled away in places, yet the shape endures: proud, ruined, unyielding. It is the symbol of the king’s dominion. The brand of the beast he once served.

His throat closes. That symbol burns behind his eyes, familiar as the weight of a sword hilt.

Phainon doesn’t remember their names, but he recognizes their faces. He’s seen them before—fought beside them, maybe. Bled beside them even. Before he can decided whether to step forward or vanish back into the woods, his voice betrays him.

“Who are you?” he calls out, and his tone is sharper than he means it to be. “Why are you here?”

The men jolt up at once, startled. Hands fly to hilts, blades drawn with the rasp of steel. For a moment, the clearing brims with threat. But then, one of them speaks. His voice cracks around the edge of disbelief. “Commander?”

Another lowers his sword, eyes widening. “Sir Phainon—by the gods—it is you!”

The rest follow, faces lighting with something between awe and relief. They drop to their knees before him, blades pointed down in salute.

Phainon doesn’t move. The sound of his name—his title—rings hollow in his chest. Commander. The word fits him like an old wound reopening. “I…” He swallows, searching their faces. “Do I know you?”

The question makes their joy falter. They look at one another with confusion. One of them—a younger man with a scar beneath his jaw—takes a hesitant step closer. “Of course you do, sir. We’re your men.”

Phainon’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He looks at them—these ghosts of a life he’s certain he doesn’t want back. “I remember your faces,” he admits. “But not who you are.”

The men exchange uneasy glances. Then one of them speaks again, almost reverently, “Commander, we’ve been searching for you for weeks. We thought you’d died.”

Another one poses a question, tentative. “None of our other comrades had made it when we came to check the battlefield. How did you survive? Have you been living here all this time?”

Phainon doesn’t answer. The question hangs in the air, unanswered, because the truth—that he woke beneath a witch’s roof—feels too strange to speak aloud.

When he stays silent, another knight fills the space with words. “The king sent us to find you,” he says. “Dead or alive. He said the kingdom couldn’t lose its hound just yet. You were his best, Commander. His right hand.”

That word lands like a blade. Hound.

Phainon feels his pulse stutter. Images flash in his mind—marble floors, cold as stone. Then a gloved hand pressing down on his head, forcing him to kneel.

My beast.

My hound.

My creature of war.

He inhales sharply, and the forest tilts back to normal.

“I’m not his anything,” he finally says, low and certain.

The knights exchange uneasy glances once again. Then one speaks first, laughing, as if to cut through the tension. “Sir, surely you jest. We can return together—tell His Majesty you’re alive! The king will be overjoyed to have you back.”

Phainon’s gaze snaps to him, sharp enough for the smile to fade. “No.” The word startles them. “I’ve seen what he is. What he makes of men. I’m not going to kneel to that beast again.”

Their faces harden. “You… would defy His Majesty?”

Phainon doesn’t flinch. “I will no longer serve him.”

There’s a pause, before one steps forward and draws his sword. His voice is strained, almost pained. “Then you leave us no choice.”

Another shakes his head, eyes full of regret. “You taught us loyalty, Commander. You told us a knight without his king is a blade without purpose. Don’t make us turn ours on you.”

Phainon huffs, almost amused. “Then perhaps I taught you wrong.”

The knights exchange one final look, grim, before they raise their blades in unison.

“Then you must die for such treachery,” one of them says, and the sentence carries all the weight of a verdict.

For a moment, neither side moves. The forest waits, silent and breathless. Then the first knight lunges. Phainon ducks the first swing, feels the wind of it graze his cheek, and moves instinctively. He grips the knight’s arm, twists, and bone cracks beneath his hands. The man drops his sword, but Phainon doesn’t bother picking it up.

Another charges—younger, faster, but clumsy with fear. Phainon sidesteps, grabs the back of his neck, and drives his face into the earth. “You shouldn’t hesitate,” he says, too calm. “Did no one teach you that?”

Someone shouts something—an order—but it’s drowned in the sound of metal striking bark. The next blade skims across Phainon’s ribs, opening a shallow line that burns hot and wet. He hisses through his teeth, eyes narrowing.

A third swings high. The tip catches his cheek; though shallow, it paints his mouth red. He tastes iron, laughs low and breathless. With the back of his hand, he wipes the blood from his lip and smears it across his jaw.

“Did I train any of you?” he mocks. “None of you move like your lives are on the line.”

They circle him, three blades catching the light. He moves through them like shadow and muscle—less a man than a reflex. He takes a blow to the shoulder, catches another’s wrist, and wrenches it back until steels clatters to the ground. He drives his knee into a stomach, his fist into a jaw. He hears the crunch of something breaking, and something in him exhales in relief.

This, his body remembers. This is what I was built for.

But even as the fight unravels into chaos, another thought threads through him. He isn’t doing this for the king, or the crown, or the memory of command. He’s doing it for something smaller, gentler, kinder. For the quiet house in the woods. For the one who said then don’t leave.

A knight swings wildly at him, and Phainon catches the blade barehanded. Blood spills between his fingers, but he only smiles. “You should find a new master,” he says, shoving the man back, voice low and rasped with laughter that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Someone who’d actually care whether you live or die.”

The knight staggers, gasps. “And you? Who do you serve now?”

Phainon’s grin fades, eyes darkening. Someone worth dying for, he thinks, but what leaves his mouth is far different— “You should worry more about your lives.”

The last two come at once. He meets them head-on. The world blurs into motion and noise—boots slipping in mud, armor crashing, the hiss of breath through teeth. He drives an elbow into a throat, hears the wheeze, feels a blade glance off his arm.

By the time the silence returns, it’s thick with the smell of iron and pine.

Phainon stands alone in the clearing, chest heaving and hands slick and trembling. The fire the knights have set is still alive and crackling. His knuckles are raw and his tunic—torn. This is what his hands are made for; what the king carved into him. And for the first time, he thinks maybe he’s learned how to use that curse for something good.

He wipes his mouth again, smearing the blood across his face again, then he starts back toward home.

You are waiting outside the cottage, entangled in conversation with the birds and a bold red fox who refuses to mind his manners. The animals cluster around you as if you are a tree with fruit, and the fox keeps yipping—short, sharp sounds, tail swishing as he tries to startle the songbirds from your shoulders. They scold him in return, fluttering just out of reach, and you laugh softly at their quarrel.

Then the heavy scrape of boots over leaf sounds through the forest, and everything stiffens. The birds that were on your shoulders flutter once and go. The fox tucks his tail and runs off. Even the rabbits that had been lackadaisical in the grass bolt into the bushes. They do not scatter because of you; they scatter because of him.

Phainon steps into the clearing like a thing that has been pressed through a grinder. He is all torn cloth and the smell of iron. There is a thin line across his cheek where the blade kissed him; the corner of his lip is dark. His eyes are wide, lit at the edges with something like hunger. For a moment, the look is almost feral—it is the look of a man who has found what his hands were made to do and will not stop until they are still.

You don’t recoil from the stench of iron or the hunger in his eyes. You only watch as the animals skitter away, as the clearing empties itself of gentle things.

He halts a handful of paces from you and breathes, long and ragged. His fingers flex at his sides, as if still aching for more.

“What happened to you?” you ask. “You scared away my friends.”

He exhales. The sound is brittle. “Your spell isn’t very effective against people who change their minds.”

You pause, humming. “Hm… I suppose you’re right. Is that what happened?”

His answer is simple: “I killed them.” The words are delivered without flourish, like he hadn’t just admitted he committed something immoral. Then he drops to his knees, head lowering toward the earth in a soldierly bow. He doesn’t look at you as he asks—asks as if testing, “Did I do a good job?” There’s a faint, needy tremor in his voice, a whine dressed up as obedience.

There is a hand on his head before he can taste the mercy of your reply. It lands there the way it once had, long ago, by a different hand—heavy and owning. For a moment, the past flashes behind his eyes: a gloved palm, a crown’s amusement. But your touch isn’t the same. Your fingers are softer, and the pressure doesn’t claim him.

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t balk. He allows himself that small thing: to be steadied by the one who steadies him. Instead, he folds into the touch.

“You’re acting quite like a dog right now,” you murmur, fingers combing through his hair as if you’re ruffling the coat of an animal. “You told me you don’t like being compared to a dog. And yet here you are.”

For the first time since he arrived, the edge in his eyes melts. Adoration pours in like warmth. He lifts his head and looks at you, and the feral light in his eyes shifts into something gentler, more worshipful. The hand on his head trembles; he wants—wants so small, wants so large—to kiss it, to press it to his cheek and seal the gesture there. But he fights it, fingers curling just enough to catch your palm without taking it.

“Yes,” he says, earnest and raw. “But if it’s you, then I don’t mind.”

You let the silence make itself then, and he drinks the sound of it. And when you draw your hand away, he instantly misses your touch. It’s visible in the slump of his shoulders—in the small twitch of longing at his lips.

“Stand up,” you say at last. “Show me where you left them.”

He rises, obedient as a man trained to obey. Though he lingers. “Why?” he asks, the eagerness leaking back into his tone. “I can dispose of them myself. Just say the word.”

You shake your head, slow and certain. “I would like to bury them properly.”

He hesitates, incredulous and almost petulant. “Even when they tried to kill me?”

“Yes.” You tuck a stray curl behind your ear. “I believe giving them a proper burial would be their last and greatest mercy.”

His mouth opens to retort, but then closes it immediately. He nods his head just slightly and, without another word, turns toward the path that leads away from your cottage and back to the clearing he left.

Phainon’s footsteps drag heavier the longer he walks, as though the earth itself is trying to pull him down. His breaths are shallow and he keeps his eyes on the ground, like he’s ashamed of letting them rise.

It makes no sense.

You’re not angry. You didn’t recoil from the sight of him returning, with blood on his face and running down his arms, chest heaving with the aftermath of killing, and eyes blown wide from the adrenaline. Yet the silence between you gnaws at him—it burrows into the hollow places inside him like something alive.

He doesn’t know why he feels like he’s done wrong.

And he has. He definitely has.

The forest doesn’t judge him. You didn’t judge him. But he judges himself.

He killed people—men who once followed him into battle, who once trusted him enough to put their lives at his back. Even if he can’t fully remember their voices, even if their names are like dust in his mind, their faces still tug at something buried deep within him.

He slaughtered them with his hands.

And the worst part is that some part of him felt relief when it was over. Relief that the violence had someplace to go; relief that the hunger in him had been fed, even for a moment.

Phainon has always been hungry. The kind of hunger that isn’t for food, but for survival. For purpose. For something to strike, to break, to destroy before it destroys him.

He remembers stealing bread for his sister with shaking hands. He remembers stealing coins from the king, and how that single act shaped the rest of his life. He remembers the moment the king looked at him and saw not a boy but a weapon.

His guilt began there; and it only grew sharper, heavier, uglier. But today it feels different.

“It’s up ahead,” he says, voice strained.

You keep walking until the trees open into a clearing.

And there they are—five bodies, scattered where they fell. Their armors are dented and darkened with drying blood, and their swords lie discarded in the ground.

Phainon stops at the threshold of the clearing, breath caught in his throat. You step past him, skirts brushing the grass.

Watching you walk toward the bodies—toward the carnage he caused—tears at him. He watches the way you kneel beside the fallen men, brushing dirt from their armor, and straightening their limbs with gentle hands. And something in him collapses. Because now, watching you give them the tenderness he never could, something new forms inside him—

Shame.

Not for killing them—that part he understands, that part he can justify—but for how quickly and easily he did it. And for how you treat the dead better than he ever treated the living.

Is that why his guts twist? Is that why his throat feels constricted?

The thought coils tight, tighter, until it hurts to swallow, to breathe.

Would you have shown him the same mercy? If he had died out here, would you have buried him too? Would you have cared?

If he hadn’t killed them, they would have killed him. And then they would come for you. They would have torn through this forest, through your home, through you, without hesitation. And he can’t—will not—imagine that.

You are the only thing in his life untouched by blood. The only salvation he has left. The last thread tying him to the person he wants to be instead of the creature he was made into.

So why—why are you burying them? Why do you give them peace when they came here to retrieve him? When they didn’t hesitate on killing him for breaking his oath to the king? Why do you care enough to kneel beside their corpses?

The questions claw at him until they finally break free from his mouth, “Why are you doing this?”

You pause. “Doing what?”

“Showing mercy,” he says. “To men who tried to kill me.”

You brush soil from the gauntlet of one knight, studying the cracked metal with dried blood. “Because death is still death and they were still human,” you reply softly. “Someone raised them. Someone will grieve for them. Even if they came here with violence in their hands… they still deserve rest.”

Phainon stares at you like he’s seeing you in another light. His throat bobs almost painfully. “If I had died that day when you found me…” His mouth feels dry. “Would you have buried me too?”

“Yes,” you say without hesitation. “I wouldn’t have left you alone to rot.”

His chest tightens so sharply he almost mistakes it for pain. He stands rigid, and for a moment, he looks less like a warrior and more like a man who’s been struck by something he never learned how to guard against.

You lift your head. “Will you help me dig?”

He nods before he can think. His body moves clumsily at first, as though the guilt has made him heavy. You step back from the bodies, life your hand, and with a small twist of your finger, your space pocket emerges into existence. From within the pocket’s glow, you reach in and draw out a shovel. You offer it to him readily.

Phainon stares at the tool, then at you, still bewildered by how easily you conjure magic like it was as natural as breathing. He takes the shovel, his fingers brushing yours, and his heart stutters. He doesn't dwell on it too much; instead, he walks to a patch of soil near a tree and thrusts the shovel into the earth with a thunk.

He doesn’t speak anymore the moment he starts digging. The soil is loose near the roots, but the deeper he goes, the heavier it gets, and you can hear how strained his breathing is. He keeps wiping at his face with the back of his wrist, but he doesn’t stop working.

You don’t speak either. Somehow, it feels wrong to make any noise.

He keeps going until the grave is deep enough. You help move the first body, slow and careful. He barely looks at the faces. Maybe he doesn’t want to. Maybe he can’t.

You both place them on the ground. Then more dirt, then another grave, and another.

Phainon doesn’t rest. His shoulders shake sometimes, but he doesn’t stop. His hands are bleeding a little from gripping the shovel too tight. You try to take it from him once, but he jerks away like the touch seared him.

“…I can do it,” he mutters, voice rough and low. He’s not angry. Just… tired.

So you let him.

By the time the last mound of dirt is in place, the sun is low. The light is soft and warm and it hits the graves in long strips. Phainon stands there with the shovel planted in the earth, head bowed. When he finally lifts his head and turns to you, he’s pale. Too pale.

“Let’s go home,” you say.

He nods, but it feels like he barely hears you.

You walk side by side, though he drags a little behind you. His steps are slow and heavy, and sometimes you hear his breath stutter. You keep glancing back, checking to see if he’s still upright. He is, but it’s like he’s walking because he doesn’t know what else his body should do.

No animals cross your path. Everything is silent.

When the house comes into view, something changes in him. Maybe it’s the relief of seeing it. Maybe it’s the exhaustion catching up. But when he steps up into the porch, his foot catches a little and he stops completely right in front of the door.

He stares at the wood, and then his knees give out.

It’s like watching a tree slowly tilt and finally topple. He catches himself with one hand on the knob, but they tremble badly. His breath is shaky—like he’s trying not to let it turn into a sob.

“Phainon—” you rush to him, grabbing his arm before he can fall forward. “It’s alright. Come on.”

He doesn’t respond. His eyes are unfocused, staring down at the ground beneath him. Dirt sticks to his palm and his clothes, and there’s blood drying on his knuckles.

You slip an arm around his back, trying to steady him. “Let’s just go inside.” You guide him in slowly. He leans heavily on you, and you can feel how cold his fingers are.

Inside the house, it’s dim and warm. You lead him to the couch and ease him down. The moment he sits, his shoulders sag, and he looks like he’s sinking into the cushions without meaning to.

You kneel in front of him, brushing dirt off his hands with your thumb.

“You’re okay,” you whisper. “You can rest now.”

For a second, his mouth opens like he wants to say something, but the only thing that leaves him is a shaky exhale. Then he lets his head drop forward. Not onto the cushion, but onto your shoulder.

You don’t leave.

𝐕𝐈. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐄𝐏𝐓

When Phainon finally wakes, it’s slow—like surfacing from deep water. His body feels heavy, almost numb, and for a moment, he isn’t sure if he’s really awake or just stuck somewhere between dream and memory.

The first thing he sees is the ceiling.

He knows this ceiling now, but his mind still does that small, confused stumble, like it’s trying to compare this moment to the first time he opened his eyes here.

Back then, everything felt new. Confusing. He had no name, no anchor, nothing to hold onto. He remembers sitting up too fast, gripping the blanket, and the world spinning while he tried to make sense of anything.

It feels weird thinking about it—like remembering something from someone else’s life. Like it was a whole lifetime ago, but also kind of like yesterday.

He blinks a few more times, trying to clear the fog of his mind and in his eyes. His wounds don’t hurt as much now, but his body still feels like it’s been squeezed dry and left in the sun.

He turns his head, and there he is.

Mydei.

Perched on the windowsill again, in almost the exact same spot he was the first time Phainon saw him. Light behind him, tail curled neatly around his paws, and staring at him with those bright yellow eyes like he’s been waiting for this moment.

Phainon doesn’t say anything. He just laughs, though nothing is funny. Something inside him loosens at the sight, something warm and kind of embarrassing. He didn’t realize how much he missed that little face until right now.

Mydei blinks once, slow. Phainon blinks back. It feels stupid, but he does it anyway.

They hold eye contact for a while. Then Mydei lets out a meow, before hopping down from the sill. His paws barely make a sound as he lands. He gives Phainon one last look and then pads toward the door. He slips through the gap like he always does, tail swaying behind him as he disappears without another sound.

Phainon watches the doorway long after the cat is gone. He breathes out and sinks deeper into the mattress. He lies there for a while before the room starts to feel too quiet without Mydei in it.

It’s silly, he knows that, but the silence presses at him in a way he doesn’t like. So he pushes the blanket off and sits up.

He regrets it instantly.

His whole body aches—like his muscles are reminding him that he hasn’t used them like that in a long time. Not since before he came here. Not since before… everything.

He presses a hand to his side, where the knight’s blade had caught him. The wounds have closed, thanks to your care, but the memory of the fight still thrums under his skin. That sudden burst of violence—after weeks of calm, of chores and menial tasks—had knocked him. He’s not used to being idle, and though his mind aches for it, he’s also not used to being that monster anymore, either. His body feels caught between two selves.

He stands anyway.

He steadies himself on the bedpost, like he did the very first time he woke here. It’s strange how easily the memory returns—how he remembers the spinning room and the ache in his skull.

And how he had followed that same meow down the hallway.

“Mydei…” he murmurs, more to remind himself that he’s not dreaming.

He steps forward. His gaut is uneven, but Mydei is already waiting in the hall, sitting like he knew Phainon would follow. When their eyes meet, the cat flicks his tail once and turns around, walking ahead.

Phainon huffs a weak laugh. “We’re doing this again, huh?”

Mydei doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t. He just keeps going, trotting ahead with that almost smug walk of his.

So, Phainon follows. Down the hallway, down the stairs. Each step is familiar but also feels new because he’s remembering the last time. But this time, the uncertainty isn’t there. There’s only that soft ache, the echo of what he used to be and what he doesn’t want to return to.

The sunlight spills in from the the door just like before. Mydei pads out into the clearing without waiting for him. Phainon stops in the doorway, and it’s exactly the same.

You’re standing there again—in the clearing, surrounded by animals. Birds are perched on your arms, a fox is pressed against your leg, rabbits are scattered around your feet. A deer lifts its head when it sees Phainon, as if acknowledging his presence, but it doesn’t run. None of them run this time.

And somehow, that makes his chest feel even tighter.

You’re smiling at something one of the birds is doing; he can see your lips move as you speak to them even from where he is, and it makes the whole scene looks unreal—like it’s been pulled straight out of some dream he once had. He feels the same sudden stutter in his chest that he felt the first time he saw you like this.

His heart jumps, but it’s not painful—just… loud. Like it’s calling out to something. Like it remembers something even if the rest of him doesn’t.

He thinks back to that very first moment, when he stood here confused and disoriented, and you had turned toward him. How his breath had hitched without him knowing why. How something inside him had reached out.

Maybe it had been a sign.

Maybe his heart had already known back then—when he didn’t yet know his name, when he could barely stand, when everything was just fog—that he would come to love you. Maybe that’s why it reacted the way it did. Maybe it was already trying to tell him something.

Maybe falling for you was always going to happen, no matter what path he took.

His fingers curl lightly against the doorway. His legs feel unsteady again, but it’s not because of exhaustion or his wounds this time.

And then you turn—hearing Mydei’s meow, or maybe you just sensed him like you always do—and your eyes meet his.

His heart jumps again. Just like before. Just like it was always meant to.

And then you smile.

Not the polite ones you give to the townspeople even when they sneer at you. Not the teasing one you shoot him whenever he messes up a chore. Not the fond one you save for Little Ica when they fly into your arms every time. No, this one is different—like something you kept tucked away, something you didn’t think anyone would see. Something only he gets to see now.

And Phainon doesn’t know what to do with the feeling that hits him. It’s sudden—like warmth blooming in his chest and running all the way up his neck until his ears throb.

This time, he moves first. His feet carry him before he even finishes thinking about it. Last time, it was you who approached him first, walking toward a stranger who couldn’t even remember his own name. But now he remembers enough to choose.

And he chooses you.

You, who he’s decided is the safest thing he’s ever seen.

You, who he thinks looks even more beautiful when your eyes are on him and only him.

He’s so focused on your face—your smile—that he forgets to watch his step. His heel catches on a root, and he stumbles. He braces himself for the impact, for his knees to hit dirt, for humiliation, but he doesn’t hit the ground.

Instead, you catch him.

Your hands come up quick, holding him by the arms just like the first day—except it feels different this time. He’s no longer a stranger with your hands pressed against him as you lead him inside your home. He’s just… Phainon. A grown man tripping over nothing because you smiled prettily at him.

He feels stupid. He feels warm.

“You should be in bed,” you say, a teasing lilt in your voice.

It’s the same thing you’d said the very first time too—except now there’s a faint laugh in your voice, like you know exactly what you’re referencing. Like it’s an inside joke the two of you have shared for weeks. And Phainon can’t stop the laugh that bursts out of him.

“I followed Mydei here,” he says, almost breathless. His face is still burning, but the words come easily. Like they’ve been waiting.

You shake your head in amusement. “Of course you did.”

He huffs another laugh, rubbing the back of his neck even though your hands haven’t let go yet. “It’s becoming a habit, I think.”

“It is,” you agree. “Every time you’re not where you’re supposed to be, I find out you’ve wandered after that cat.”

“Well,” he mumbles, eyes lowering before lifting again—slowly, shyly, wanting desperately to keep looking at you, “he usually leads me to you.”

You blink at him, surprised by the sincerity of his words. Phainon seems to realize what he’s said only after it leaves his mouth; his hand lifts to rub self-consciously at the back of his neck again.

“…Oh,” you murmur, and it comes out far too soft. You clear your throat quickly, trying to smooth the fluster from your voice. “Well… he does have a talent for finding me.”

Phainon watches you, puzzled by the sudden shift in your demeanor. You avert your eyes, looking at everywhere else but him.

“You must be hungry,” you say. “Let’s get you inside.”

You slip an arm beneath his, steadying him at the waist with your other hand, and his breath stutters—not from pain, but from the shock of contact.

You help him upright, guiding his weight with ease. His body leans into yours without resistance, as though the simple act of touching you turns his bones to water. For a moment, he stands there, closer than he normally allows himself to be. Close enough that he can feel the heat of your skin through the fabric. Close enough that when he lowers his head, he can smell the faint scent of herbs clinging to you.

But then you step back.

The moment your hands leave him, Phainon deflates. You pretend not to notice, though your eyes soften imperceptibly.

“Come on,” you say. “Inside. You should sit before your legs give out again.”

He nods, but the stiffness in his jaw betrays him. He tries to straighten his posture, tries to pretend he didn’t melt the second your warmth left his skin. His hand hangs awkwardly at his side, fingers twitching once, as if resisting the urge to reach back for you.

Mydei meows and pads ahead, trotting toward the house with the confidence of a small prince. You turn toward the cottage as well, and Phainon follows you instantly.

Not because he’s weak, not because he needs to be led, but because following you feels right in a way nothing else in his broken memory does. Because he feels steadier with you in front of him. Because the ghost of your touch still lingers on his arm like something he already misses.

The forest closes behind him, peaceful and green.

The house waits, warm and familiar.

And Phainon trails after you through the door, shoulders relaxing the moment he steps inside once again—as though he hasn’t just returned to shelter, but something else entirely that is close to belonging.

Phainon wakes in the middle of the night that same day.

For a long moment, he lies there, staring at the ceiling. Then he swings his legs over the side of the bed.

Moonlight spills across the floorboards, guiding him to the corner where his old life rests—the armor you cleaned for him when he was still unconscious, and the broadsword propped beside it like a soldier.

He crouches slowly. His fingers brush the cool metal.

It should feel familiar. It only feels heavy.

Phainon stays like that for a while, hand on the breastplate, and staring at the blade that once answered every command except his own.

He huffs a quiet breath. Then he hears a meow. Phainon turns.

Mydei is awake on the windowsill, body a small silhouette against the moon. His golden eyes are open and fixed on him, unblinking.

Phainon lifts the armor slightly, voice low. “Sorry for waking you.”

Mydei’s tail flicks once.

Phainon gestures toward the door with a nod. “I was just about to go outside.”

The cat doesn’t move, nor does he make any sound. Then, as if his attention drifts, his head dips, eyes flicking to the armor in Phainon’s hands.

Phainon lets out a soft laugh. “Oh, this?” He turns the breastplate a little. “I was thinking of burying it, that’s all. I have no need for it now.”

He pauses, then adds lightly, “Do you want to come with me?”

Mydei yawns—a long and slow yawn that nearly splits his tiny face in two. Then he curls his tail around himself and settles back down, closing his eyes like the affair is beneath him.

Phainon smiles. “Okay then.”

He tucks the armor under his arm, takes one last glance at the sleeping cat, then quietly slips out the door and into the cool night.

Phainon steps off the porch, careful not to let the armor clatter in his arms. The cottage behind him glows faintly with the warm candlelight from your room—the only star in the forest that never seems to dim.

He heads deeper into the forest, barefoot in the grass, toward a place where the forest breathes differently. Where you once told him the land grows thick with roots.

It just feels right to go there.

The armor in his arms feel heavier now—not because of the metal, but because of the memories it drags with it. The weight of commands. The weight of kneeling. The weight of everything he did because someone else told him to.

He sets the armor on the ground.

For a long time, he just stares at it.

On any battlefield, it would have marked him as something to be feared—something deadly. Here, under the rustle of leaves, it looks small and lost. Like a relic of a life that no longer fits him.

Phainon exhales slowly. He kneels, digs his fingers into the soil, and begins to carve out the first handful of earth.

It isn’t burial like one does for a corpse.

It’s burial like one does for a curse.

When the pit is deep enough, he rests back on his heels. For a moment, he hesitates, fingers brushing the sigil painted on the breastplate. The mark is faint, shaped by years of blood, years of being the hound of another beast.

“…But not anymore,” he murmurs.

Then he slides the armor into the earth.

Metal thuds softly as he settles it into the ground. For a moment, he doesn’t move. He just stares, half expecting the armor to glow with some remnant of his past—rage, violence, loyalty that tasted like rust. But there’s nothing; only silence.

Phainon releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

He covers the grave with slow motions. Soil over steel. Dirt over duty. Earth swallowing a past that nearly swallowed him. And when he finishes, the mound looks like nothing more than a soft rise of ground.

There’s no marker—no trace, no legacy.

He sits back, knees bent, arms resting loosely over them.

For the first time since he woke in your house, he feels… light. The kind of lightness that makes his chest ache. That makes his eyes sting. It makes him almost laugh at the strangeness of it.

He tilts his head back. Above him, the stars blink at him. And for a brief moment, Phainon feels the forest shift around him—like it, too, recognizes what he’s done. Like the earth has finally accepted the weight he has carried for too long.

Then he stands, wiping dirt from his palms. When he turns to walk back home, the cottage glows faintly through the trees.

Your light.

His direction.

His reason.

He moves toward it without hesitation.

© 2025 kominigiru.

end note: the “man” hyacine was talking about is mydei; she knows mydei can shift into a human. i didn’t write a scene where he reveals himself to phainon as one bc i feel like it wouldn’t match with the vibes or whatever i was going for in here, but he was in his human form when he carried phainon’s broadsword :3 ALSO I DID NOT MEAN TO MAKE THE LAST FEW SCENES SO SOFT AND FLUFFYSVDJEBFJD the fluff writer in me just had to make an appearance ig 😔 it may have ruined the vibe i was going for a little but at the same time it felt as if the last act was begging for me to write some romantic shit so there’s that. this fic was self-indulgent anyway (just like the rest of my works tbh) so pls no bashing 😣 /lh

anyway! writing this was so fun and even though i struggled a little with it, it was still such a wonderful experience! i mean, what’s writing without a little challenge, right? i usually don’t like most of the things i write because i always feel like i could’ve executed them better, but i honestly think this might be my magnum opus LMAO. it still needs improvement of course but i really like how this one turned out yk!! it’s also the most i’ve ever written for a one-shot! and even though it took me a while before i could finally post this fic, i’m pretty proud of it :’]

if you’ve read some of my works, you probably know i often stick to fluff and whatnot, but i really really REALLY enjoyed writing phainon in a different light this time. he’s such a versatile character and in a way, this fic just made me love him even more hahahaha. though yes, i did still write him like a fool in love but i love it when he’s silly