With the immediate troubles of Okhema restrained—temporary as that shackle may be—Mydei quickly realizes just how much war has bled into his life. It isn't a surprise, and it shouldn't be. After all, he calls himself a warrior more than he calls himself a prince. Titles have nothing to do with one's combat prowess, and if anything, he would much rather boast about how little strength it takes him to crush a neck between his fingers rather than the prestige that comes with royal blood. 

Compared to Castrum Kremnos, the city blessed by Kephale is much too quiet for his taste. Perhaps that is why his discrepancies are blatantly obvious under the glaring sun and blazing truths of a city bathed in holy light. 

As always, Phainon is much too observant. It's inhuman, almost. Is it a direct aftereffect of the demigod trial? He can't imagine this was what Tribbie and Aglaea were also left to experience themselves. 

The message comes swiftly. Mydei doesn't exactly want to talk, but the stream of vibrations and incessant pinging noises coming from his teleslate are hard to ignore. This device—temperamental and annoying as it is— plays a crucial role in ensuring long-distance communication between the Chrysos Heirs. So, if possible, he'd like to refrain from destroying it in his rage. 

Shoving his head under his pillow, Mydei suppresses a groan, hissing and pulling the fabric over his ears as tightly as he can.  If it weren't for that damn teleslate's function, he would have picked it up and thrown it at the wall to save himself from being at the mercy of Phainon's childish sentiments. It's a shame that his petulance can only get him so far.

Buzz. Buzz. Ping!

Doesn't he have anything better to do? And even if that isn't the case, had he wanted to pester someone so badly, did it truly have to be him? Their latest adventure—no, that isn't the right word to describe it. Their latest trial in the Flame-Chase Journey has reaped them several new allies. Or, well, one. This so-called 'Astral Express', who are supposedly travellers from beyond the stars.

Of course, Mydei believed the tales they spun. It wasn't entirely implausible that other worlds existed out there. Space is, to his knowledge, a vast expanse of stars, suns, and moons that humanity has not yet managed to fully traverse nor exploit.

Simply put, it is merely the detail that of all people, Phainon actively chooses to meddle in his affairs, and not those of people who spend their time documenting the known universe and beyond. 

Especially—as Mydei caves in, out of curiosity unbecoming to him—for something as alien and as foreign a concept as Uno. Whatever that is. 

Judging that the suggestion itself came from Phainon, it can't possibly be something enjoyable. Phainon , this planet's declared, mighty Deliverer is the same man who spends an interminable amount of time deciding whether he wants a bronze or copper cooking pot. And that is not at all congenial. Not if you're Mydei, the soul unfortunate enough to have been the first person Phainon saw that morning. 

After that, Mydei couldn't even tell the difference between the colour of copper and the colour of bronze. 

Phainon has done them all the service—or disservice, in Mydei's case—of making an entirely new group chat specifically to plan this meetup. It is appropriately titled  Uno 101 , a name that rings alarm bells in his head. Surely Phainon jests. There is no way that he is being invited to play this immature game. There is no immediate problem with indulging the trailblazers—the other members of this party—and Castorice (even though he is sure she won't bother to show up either way), but Phainon, on the other hand? 

Absolutely not. 

Oh, he can already imagine that man's smug smile. He doesn't know what the rules even are yet, but he would be a fool to think that Phainon wasn't going to be good at this. This was merely another outlet for him to show off. And Mydei? He would rather be no part of that. Plenty of years have passed since they were first acquainted, and since then, his life has been filled with nothing but moments like that.

The other night was the one time that he had finally managed to settle the score with his fellow Chrysos Heir. But unlike Phainon, he would not rub it in his face. At least not for another decade, anyway. 

Bzzrt! 

Phainon

Mydei, I can see you. Don't pretend like you haven't read this text chain! 

Caelus

Wait, Mydei's in this chat? You invited him? 

Phainon

Of course I did! How could I leave him out?

Dan Heng

I'm quite certain that it will just be you two playing at this point. Miss Castorice and Mydei seem to merely be reading the texts that both of you have sent, and I highly doubt that I will be joining you, either. There are still some reports I haven't filled in on the Data Bank yet. 

Castorice

Agreed. Apologies, Lord Phainon. 

Mydei

Right.

There. Now Phainon can't come crying to him about how he never sent a single text message to the group. A faint smile ghosts his lips; at least there is someone here who can appreciate his sentiment. And that settles it. With a groan, Mydei tosses the device back down onto his bed and stretches his arms above his head. The bed creaks under his weight as he rises, swiftly strides to the door, and heads to Marmoreal Market for some pomegranates—getting through this useless charade is an occasion worth celebrating.

Without all of the other chaos likely unfolding across the rest of Amphoreus, this is the only real and tangible thing he can celebrate. 

Castrum Kremnos is a city known for avidly worshipping the Titan of Strife, Nikador. Strife, slaughter, and glory are the key cornerstones of its society—the young are not exempt from such values. Without them, the city of war would merely be like the rest of Amphoreus; gladiators and warriors alike would see no reason to journey there. Taking part in its tournaments and feats of combat in the central colosseum are the city's equivalents to Okhema's peaceful sightseeing. 

Of course, Kremnoans are not barbarians. They are all, to some degree, practiced and learned in other arts. It perfectly explains why some, after having lived a life of violence until the very end, are able to move on with some level of dignified grace—those who survive the horror and glory of war, that is. Some become carpenters. Others, seamstresses. The battle is an art that many see as bestial and savage, though Mydei is well aware that it is anything but that.

Among those educated, Mydei is perhaps the best testament to that. Amphoreus is by no means technically advanced in the same way that, say, the Astral Express, is, but he isn't an idiot, nor a buffoon. He may have been thrown into the Sea of Souls directly after birth, but that hasn't stopped his brain from working like a normal human being. Though, of course, it has since strengthened him to the point of immortality. 

And right now, he is absolutely baffled at the small, miniscule, infinitesimally tiny probability that he has just encountered.

Marmoreal Market has run out of pomegranates. 

Of course, this then begs the question: then, how exactly have they run out? 

For a moment, Mydei dares to ask the vendor, who is selling apples instead of her usual pomegranates, but the thought is quickly dismissed. Chances are, she doesn't know either. A handful of other potential customers are also lurking around the storefront, murmuring in hushed voices. Perhaps they have heard rumours of a supply storehouse being raided? Either way, the matter at hand is no longer his concern. 

That being said, he really would have enjoyed a fresh, sweet pomegranate. Oh well. 

Mydei turns on his heel, making to go back to his room, when he hears that equally sweet, sultry voice from across the marketplace. It could have come from anyone, really—Marmoreal Market is as alive as normal. 

People rush about in their throngs; they do not push and shove as Kremnoans would, hustling nearby travellers with their for-sale weapons. No. They are orderly, almost, in the way they cross the paved sidewalks, chattering and talking to one another. Some hold baskets filled with the enticing smell of fresh fruit. Others have their hands full with bundles of clothes. 

Distinct, he could never mix up that voice with one in the rabble. Mydei finds his eyes magnetically drawn to the sound, to the high, rising laughter, golden irises honing in on their target with a desperate urgency he didn't know he possessed. There, standing right beneath the dusted shop sign that reads Treasure of Ages...

Phainon. 

Thankfully, he's engaged in deep conversation with the shop's vendor, which would give Mydei plenty of time to slip away, unnoticed by the Deliverer's prying gaze. 

But he doesn't. 

For some reason, unknown to even Mydei himself, he doesn't. 

Arms at his sides, he pauses mid-step and watches. He watches Phainon throw his head back animatedly and chortle at whatever joke Theodoros bats his way. He watches Phainon stare intently at a necklace clutched in Theodoros’ fingers. He watches Phainon look his way—

—and wave a hand at him enthusiastically. 

"Mydei!" He greets, lips parting to form a soft smile. "I was just looking for you."

Was he, now? Raising an eyebrow, he cautiously sidles over, careful not to let his bulky frame touch any of the other artifacts standing sentry at the shop entrance. He seriously doubts he has enough money to pay for any of these antiquities. And even so, he is not a direct recipient of Oronyx's power—he cannot reverse time, nor the catastrophic amount of damage he would deal. Amphoreus is an ancient nation, yet adventuring these days is strictly off-limits, and only an option for those who are truly prepared to face the consequences. 

Rare relics such as the ones Theodoros hoards and places on display for sale are... precious in a different way to silver and gold. No manner of money would ever be enough to pay for them should they be destroyed. 

He says nothing in response. Only a non-committal hum even confirms his presence at Phainon's side. 

“L-Lord Mydei!” Theodoros stammers. Mydei doesn't miss the way he discreetly slides the necklace into his pocket. “It is an honour to have you in my humble shop…”

“Save the formalities for another time. I happened to be passing by.” The statement isn't entirely false. 

Phainon straightens from where he is leaned casually against the wall. “Well, I must be going, Theodoros. Keep that safe for me, will you?” That only makes Mydei even more suspicious of the necklace, but as he goes to take a look, Phainon quickly shoos him away with the back of his hand, like he's a feral cat and not ‘Mydeimos the Undying’. “Dei, a grand adventure awaits us!”

“Don't call me that.” He says this, but can't hide the small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

He's not mad. 

Not really.

“No, Lord Mydei—” Castorice shakes her head vehemently, shaking her head at him before he can place down another yellow card on top of Caelus’ blue one. “You can only match them if they're the same number.” He knows she doesn't mean to, but the robotic, gentle way she speaks makes it sound as if she is attempting to patronize him. It may well be that she knows the game much better than he does, but there is little need to rub the fact in his face. 

And that irks him. She doesn't mean to, and yet the simple, reiterated explanation stabs him in the heart like a fork into a vegetable. It's utterly belittling . Worse still, Phainon is here to witness it all. 

Phainon’s white hair flutters softly in the light spring breeze, legs crossed against the smooth marble. Nearby, water trickles from above them, mingling with the scent of lavender that Castorice has poured into the Hero’s Bath. The smell is supposedly relaxing. 

Apparently, small tricks like that have little to no effect on Mydei. His back muscles are clenched, rippling through his skin, as they would be on the battlefield. He can't relax , not when Phainon is grinning ear to ear like the title of the game’s winner is already within his grasp. 

With a grunt, he drops down another card to combat Caelus', withdrawing the yellow one back into his deck. Castorice silently nods at him, then places down a green card with the same number engraved on the front. 

Right. So… colours seemingly have no effect on the match, so long as the number is the same as the previous one. That doesn't seem so hard to understand. Mydei quickly reviews his remaining five cards. A few other numbers and colours—namely one red, two yellow, one blue, and one black—three of which bear odd symbols. 

For one, there's a circle with a line drawn through it, as if indicating some sort of stopping motion. Earlier in the game, he saw Caelus use it against Dan Heng and cackle maniacally whilst his companion merely rolled his eyes and gestured for Phainon to take his turn in his stead. Another bears a +2 on its front. Does that mean he has to take another two cards from the deck? 

Mydei wrinkles his nose while he waits for his turn. What a disgusting and truly pathetic addition to the game. The third card houses a smaller, curved rectangle inside, with differing card colours arranged against each other. It's easy to presume that this swaps the colour of the deck to one of his choice… But weren't colours irrelevant? 

Whatever. It's still only the first match. That gives him plenty of time to make a comeback—a good enough one that will wipe that smug smirk from Phainon’s face. 

There is, however, one minor problem: he still can't play the game to an adequate standard. Even if this round is the first of many, he still can't afford to lose. Or, better put, he can't afford to let Phainon win , even in a small, inconsequential ‘ family game’ , as Caelus had described it. The box even had enough audacity to say ‘suitable for 7+’. Mydei is an awful lot older than seven. 

He can do this. How hard can it be? 

Surprisingly, the round plays off swimmingly for the next ten minutes. Castorice ends up skipping a couple of turns, Caelus and Dan Heng consistently switch the colours from green to yellow, and Phainon placidly returns the non-aggression pact by shoving harmless card after harmless card onto the ever-growing pile. There are a couple of plus twos—it’s only after Mydei receives one from Phainon that he figures out exactly how much of a double-edged sword they are—and order switches thrown into the mix, but it's never anything drastic enough for Mydei to want to rip his hair out. 

Five minutes later, he wishes he had throttled the Deliverer before he had the chance to enact his grand scheme. 

The chain starts slowly, at first. Mydei places down his final plus two card, remaining motionless when Castorice reaches out to take her cards from the deck…

… Only to frown, and instead, place another plus two on top of his. 

Seriously? 

Caelus gleefully slaps his own, yellow plus two down, and Dan Heng quickly follows suit. Mydei can only watch in insurmountable horror when he sees Castorice subtly shaking her head at the Deliverer. There's an uncharacteristically devilish smile painted on Phainon's features. It marrs his otherwise playful features, softened by the light reflected upon the waters. He's on his last two cards, but his fingers play with the edge of one of them, adorned in a black plastic coating. 

“Well, Deliverer?” The words spill out before he can stop them. It's a taunt, and he knows full well that whatever Phainon is planning is due to fall on him, like a swift slice of a sword to the head. Taunting him was never a good idea, but the long standing rivalry between them has made the small habit into an urge he cannot control. 

He flips the card over and slams it down onto the pile. 

Mydei almost can't believe his eyes. Almost , because if there is one thing he has learnt about Uno in the past thirty minutes, it is that the game is as unpredictable as its players. And for all that he is, Phainon is one slippery man to deal with. 

It's a plus four. Exactly how many of them are there in the deck, anyway? Is it even legal to—no, is it even part of the damn rules to give someone a plus twelve in total? 

He stares at the sad, miserable fate laid out before him in the cards for exactly half a millisecond before he whips his head to face Phainon. 

“Oh, you've done it now .” 

Call him a sadist, but Mydei’s stomach flips, erupting into a storm of butterflies when he sees the abrupt change in Phainon’s facial expression. First, there is the joyous mirth, the loud laughter. He throws back his head and cackles like a witch, like the plus twelve is a deadly poison that he has spent years attempting to perfect, and he has finally mastered its brewing. Then, there's the elaborate pause, the dramatic frown. His face downcasts, and he cocks his head. Pitiful, how his curiosity is short-lived, quickly morphing into the panic that Mydei now sees in his eyes. 

Two things happen at once. 

Phainon squeaks, diving behind the couch as if the inanimate object will save him from the Undying’s wrath. Mydei stalks after him. There's a scuffle, a yelp, and two seconds later, Mydei emerged from behind the Tribios’ favourite couch, clutching Phainon by the scruff of his neck. “Ow! Mydei !” The Deliverer whines. His hands scramble against Mydei’s iron grip, but to no avail; he remains solid and unmoving. “I’m sorry! I won't do it again!” 

His plea falls upon deaf ears. Castorice, Caelus, and Dan Heng watch as Mydei drags the proclaimed saviour of Amphoreus towards the baths. Mutual thoughts are left unspoken—it is best if the lion is not awoken from its slumber. All three spectators, however, find some semblance of enjoyment in watching Phainon squirm under Mydei’s fingers, any previous trace of victory erased. Only the thought of survival remains. 

“No. ” Phainon’s voice sounds scratched raw. His eyes widen. “You can't be serio— Ahg!” 

Mydei doesn't wait for a reply before he kicks up a small splash of water with a scoff. Phainon is just… dramatic , would be the right word to use. And it's no less pronounced when the Deliverer can't get through his thick skull the fact that Mydei isn't trying to drown him. The water isn't deep, certainly not to the point that Phainon thinks he's making. Years upon years, decades upon decades, they have fought side by side. Naturally, Phainon should have honed his perception of the other man by now. 

Apparently not. 

The Deliverer splashes him back much, much harder, sending large ripples of water hurtling across the surface. Mydei blinks in surprise, having to shield his face from the worst of the splashes with his arm and hand. But it's not enough to stop most of it from drenching his clothes, his face, his hair . Surrounded by the choppy waves, Phainon’s face sticks out at him, grinning from ear to ear. Triumphant, his smile is bright enough to light up even the darkest of nights.  

They're equal—evenly matched—and Mydei likes it this way. A victory is a victory, whether or not it's his, and Phainon's win today has only added more fuel to the competitive flame that burns inside him. 

He will win. Next time. And the time after that. 

“Good match.” Phainon says nonchalantly. Stray white locks of hair cling to his face, and for a moment, Mydei allows himself to be envious. Envious of how good Phainon looks, even after all of that. His eyes haven't lost their sparkle. Instead, they reflect the same, youthful charisma he has always had. The very one that Mydei adores. 

“Wanna play again sometime? I'm sure you'll pay me back tenfold for what I did to you today.” It's a harmless joke, but Mydei commits the comment to memory with a silent nod. He will beat him, even if he has to message Caelus three times a week for strategies to do it. 

Together, they wade out of the water. Phainon reaches the steps first, and he turns to offer Mydei a hand. Of course, he bats it away with a small, muted snort and climbs out of the bath himself. Not before his breath hitches in his throat when his eyes trace up to meet Phainon’s amused gaze. 

Stray beads of water glisten atop Phainon’s skin, clinging to him like a layer of shine one would use to polish porcelain or alabaster. His damp hair is given volume, sticking up in a way that makes Mydei want to reach out and smooth. It looks so soft, so ethereal, that he wonders what it would feel like between his fingers. Water drops from his chin into the bath below them, and he follows its trail from the bottom tip of his right ear, all the way down his sharp jaw, right to his exposed clavicle. 

He looks absolutely breathtaking. 

“Lord Mydei—...?” Castorice murmurs. Thankfully, it's enough to break him out of his stupor. At least one person cares enough about his well-being to let him know that he has been staring for Oronyx knows how long. 

He thanks Dan Heng and Caelus as quickly and politely as he can and acknowledges Castorice with a slight tip of the head. Then he leaves. Phainon doesn't need a goodbye, for he already knows his answer. The heat of his smirk trails down his spine and he shivers against it. 

Today is a good day for swimming, Phainon thinks, as he laces up his sandals. 

The sun has barely crept above the horizon, and the sky is an inky blue backdrop, speckled with the white pinpricks of stars. It has been a cloudless night; pleasantly cool, but Phainon has not slept since the day Nikador was vanquished. With the Coreflame waiting at the Vortex of Genesis, he still can't believe that the weight of becoming demigod rests upon his shoulders, and that, by some miracle of Kephale above, he is not dead.

Briefly, he wonders if Tribbie, or even Aglaea, felt the same nerves as he feels now. His blood roars to feel divinity within his veins. It longs to feel it like a trophy too heavy to have won, a privilege only kings should be worthy of, and a burden that a small, country bumpkin like him shouldn't ever get to bear on their shoulders. 

The Coreflame never should have been his—

Today is a good day for swimming, Phainon thinks, as he takes one last, fleeting glance around his room. He's leaving it, again, exactly how it was when he first came here after that bloody, brutish battle. Scars were never healed by Castorice's slow, deliberate words, wounds were never threaded with Aglaea's golden strands, memories were never calmed by Tribbie, Trianne and Trinnon's childish understanding. 

There are also regrets, memories he holds close to his chest, wishes he never managed to properly fulfill. Phainon has plenty of those, and Mydei was never really there to gift him the words of curt consideration to comfort him. Words that only a Crown Prince possessing a undying body such as Mydei's can give. He is a truly noble man, who embodies the struggles of Nikador before he was enveloped in the black tide.

Sturdy. Strong. Immovable. 

Everything about him pointed to his fate, his future, and his destiny. His people believed in him, and if it weren't for that prophecy, perhaps Mydei could step up and take the Coreflame for himself—

—But instead, that damn man was simply too stubborn, too ignorant of the divine, and so the duty fell upon his shoulders. He rejected it, stating plainly that he had a promise to keep, that his people deserved better than a future full of strife, slaughter and glory. Indeed, it is an admirable wish, one that Phainon knows he ought to stand by and respect. Does that simply make him feel worse? 

What little comfort does he have, knowing that he, a man unfit for such a privilege, was now given a shot everlasting power? 

Today is a good day for swimming, Phainon thinks, as he arrives at the sequestered island, untouched by mankind. He dives right into the waters, and for a moment, as the sea caresses each curve of his skin, each hair on his white crown, each bone and cell in his body, he feels free. 

Free from all of the sorrow, the pain, and the doubt that still lingers after that fateful day.

He is an arrow impervious to the buffeting of the wind, or the strong pull of the currents. Instead, they guide him as he swims deeper. Corals bloom before his eyes, and Phainon grins at the sight. Fish of various shapes and sizes flit between the anemones, their intertwined fins creating an expanse of ever-shifting and ever-changing colour. 

The ocean waves kick up a salt spray that showers Phainon in a deluge of water when he finally surfaces, cool against his bare skin. Sand sticks to his feet as he wades towards the shore, slipping and sliding against the shells that litter the shallow seabed. Above him, the sun towers in its radiance, casting rays of light across the water. Up close, its iridescence is even more beautiful than he ever could have imagined. 

This small, secluded island is the only place he can find some semblance of peace. 

Phainon collapses into the sand some ways up the shore, and gazes up into the vast expanse of sky. Old, faded scars stretch as he wedges his arms behind his head to act as a cushion, lets them soak up the heat from the sand, watches as clouds battle each other at their slow pace. Content, he slowly, slowly lets his eyes close. 

It's then that the Okhema Nymph finds him. It's a little rude, actually, and if the Nymphs didn't obey the commands of Aglaea—his mentor, and a woman whom he deeply respects—Phainon would have  taken offence. At first, its touch is light; light enough to stir him from his shallow sleep. He feels its wings brush against the bridge of his nose, sprinkling gold dust all over his face. 

Then he sneezes. "What was that for, Aglaea?" He knows she can hear him, because a second later, there's a buzzing sound from beneath the sand—he must have accidentally buried his teleslate when he tossed it aside earlier. Who could blame him? It had been as if the ocean had a voice of its own, beckoning to him, calling to him. And who was he to resist nature's pull?

That was but a small gift, Lord Phainon. He chuckles, but doesn't grace her with a reply. Instead, he turns his attention towards the small manuscript clutched between the butterfly's feet. "Is this for me?" It must be. There is no one else on this island but him. The nymph showers him in dust again, as if snorting at his stupidity. 

He reaches out with delicate hands. The second he plucks it from the creature's grasp, it disappears in a flourish of gold. Phainon steadies himself first before reading the contents, propping his lithe figure up against the bank with a strong elbow. 

It takes him little more than several seconds to read all the way down the page. A dance? That is certainly interesting. He assumes that Aglaea will take the lead, and as the next demigod in line, he is expected to follow in her stead. He won't complain. In fact, it is quite the honour to be Aglaea's dance partner, but still, a thought as strong and as surging as the waves, crashes into the forefront of his mind. 

Mydei. The name soundlessly rings from his lips. 

He wonders what the great Crown Prince of Kremnos would say if he offered to dance with him instead. The ever-eternal flame of Kremnos...

Dancing, Mydei supposes, is somewhat similar to feats of combat. Or, at least, it is the non-violent equivalent. To him, though, it always seemed less honest. Dancing felt as if it was intended to be polite, elegant and restrained to the customs of society, with little to no regard for how you felt about your partner. Even so, he was certain as the sun that he would never come to enjoy the activity himself, no matter how much his people may have felt that way. The transition between combat and dance must have felt seamless for some warriors, but it only took two nights of observation for Mydei to know that he would forever be stuck on the sidelines. Confining his wild, unrestrained strength into such graceful and elegant moves felt more like a death trap than a custom.

And yet... There was no man in all of Okhema who could dance as well as Phainon. Admittedly, it feels dumb to watch him. Mydei knows this. It isn't their usual bicker, like over who would get the last honeycake, or who would get the best spot in the Hero's Bath. And in fact, Mydei couldn't even call this a bicker, because Phainon, presently, is completely oblivious to the Undying's thoughts and feelings.

Phainon is one of those warriors who finds the difference between dancing and fighting so miniscule that the two, otherwise separate articles might as well be considered the same thing. The fluid movements of his greatsword are very clearly transferred over to his quick, deft steps, as if he were merely dodging an enemy rather than following Aglaea's lead. He dances with the same perfection as he found he had pursuing other interests. 

Like that odd habit of articulating ancient Amphorean artifacts. 

Tonight, the Deliverer of Amphoreus is clad in a dark, midnight blue suit, his clavicle peeking out from the deep cut slashed into the collar. The cut goes all the way down, only just stopping short of his chest, and as he twists and turns along with Aglaea, Mydei's eyes slide down to his waist, where the jacket is completely and utterly transparent, hitched up like a crop top. At some point during the dance, when the violins jump an octave higher, the entire jacket rides up, flashing an even greater bandwidth of his pale skin. It looks smooth as glass, contoured and shaped by the hands of the Titans themselves.

It is by an uncontrollable urge that Mydei begins to wonder what it would feel like to brush his hand against the hard lines of muscle that lay there. 

As the music gradually dies down, Mydei tears his eyes from the sight and makes his way towards the banquet hall, adjacent to the ballroom. Here, the laughter and spirits are as high as ever, but it at least gives him some space to think away from that insufferable man and his equally insufferable habits. He dips a goblet into a fountain of what he presumes to be pomegranate juice, judging by the vibrant red hue, and takes a sip, assessing the rest of the room with a wary gaze. No one whom he immediately knows is here, save for the two trailblazing guests. With something caught between mild interest and boredom, he watches as the one with grey hair—Caelus, was it?—scoffs on some of the local delicacies, whilst his companion shakes his head in dismay. 

... That seems to check out. 

Mydei drinks again. The jewel-encrusted goblet almost catches his bottom lip, nearly spilling blood into his drink, but a little iron in his juice is the least of his worries now. By eliminating Phainon from his immediate line of sight, he thought that the nagging feeling in his brain would subside. 

Apparently not. 

The problem is, Phainon has a way of getting under his skin. Exactly how many times has Mydei found himself staring? How many times must he catch these thoughts and confine them to the bottomless pit, only for them to resurface moments later? At first, he had convinced himself it was a trifle, a curiosity, an innate desire to best him in combat. But there were always moments—fleeting, yet undeniable in nature—when Phainon's laughter made his stomach drop and temperature rise. For a Prince crowned in flame and blood, it was perhaps the most telltale sign that the worst was yet to come. 

And so it did. 

It was downright infuriating, to be shackled to this world's Deliverer by a thread he could not cut, invisible strings that he could not see, and a path that led to a world of darkness and uncertainty. Their opposing views were often the highlight whenever the Chrysos Heirs held a meeting. Phainon is vibrant, lively, animated, where Mydei is cautious, reserved, guarded. He builds his walls up so high, only to have Phainon smash them down in an instant. Greatsword against gauntlets and bare fists, their fight is as beautiful as any dance, yet laced with the prospect of a winner's name and victory carved out in their hearts. 

For Phainon, it is always about combat. Nothing more, and nothing less. 

Another sip. The liquid almost sloshes onto him, nearly ruining his jacket. 

They speak a different language, and they are the only ones who can understand. But right now, all Mydei wants is to turn off the translator. Some days, he wishes he had never opened Pandora's Box—

"Mydei, Mydei! Why, you're looking positively dashing tonight!" Phainon chirps, his voice grating against Mydei's ears. Had he truly been so absorbed in his own thoughts that he had lacked the perception to decipher even Phainon's steps: loud and annoying? 

Grunting in response, Mydei turns his gaze back towards his drink. Or, what little is left of it.

"That suit of yours..." Cerulean blue eyes roam across his form. "Truly catches the eye."

He's humouring him, surely. He can't even speak for himself, it seems. Any true compliment from Phainon isn't hard to achieve, either. Heck, he's complimented mere children for their shoddy swordplay, and merchants selling nearly rotten fruit. Chances are, he doesn't even have enough stomach to tell a person the damn truth if it would hurt them. That doesn't make Mydei special for being on the receiving end of more of his honeyed words.

It's comical, almost. He's seen this man slaughter Titankin in their hordes, and he's looked every bit as alive then as he is now. His emotions are palpable and sensitive to the human brain, yet his dissociation capabilities are far greater than he would have expected. Especially from a soppy snowflake like Phainon. 

When Mydei all but glowers at him, Phainon laughs and leans closer, his breath tickling the Prince's ear enough for him to flinch backwards instinctively. Placing his hand firmly against the banquet table, his fingers just about ghost the edge of Mydei's waist. It takes every last drop of his steel-clad resolve not to flinch again. 

"Out with it." He growls. "What do you want, Deliverer?" 

"I was going to ask you to dance, but—"

Unbelievable. He's been beaten to the chase yet again.  How utterly incorrigible. 

Mydei drains his cup. "I'll humour you this one time." He interrupts, as quietly as he can. Quiet enough to pull the tension between them taut, but not so quiet as that Phainon cannot catch his words.

For a moment, Phainon says nothing. He just stands there, motionless as if Oronyx has frozen him in time. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, for he lacks the appropriate words needed to fully encompass his own, jittery emotions. "R-really?" Mydei notes the way Phainon's eyes sparkle. It's not a trick of the light. He's sure of it. 

"The human mind is incredibly susceptible to change. If you're here to waste my time with your mindless babblings, I can easily retract my offer." He replies flatly, folding his arms across his chest. The sleeves shift a little as the suit tightens around his body, hiking up to reveal the red tattoos snaking across his skin like vines. If he weren't so absorbed in placing his now empty goblet onto the table, he would have caught Phainon ogling at him. 

Calloused, Phainon's palm is surprisingly cold in his own. For a man so perfectly jovial, his warmth and open hospitality does not reflect in the matter of skinship. He feels his way over bumps, half-closed cuts and scars that have never quite faded, glad that Phainon is far too distracted by the prospect of dancing with him to notice Mydei's blatant disrespect of contact. It's a subtle advantage, one that Mydei knows he must employ to remain in control of both himself and his erratic dance partner. 

They find themselves the ballroom once more, and greeted by a hall of familiar faces. Some are his own people—Kremnoans enjoying the change of pace—whilst others are merely figures blurred together by time and war. In the corner of the hall, he spots Aglaea and Castorice, both now watching from the sidelines. They don't seem to be talking, but their brief, shared glances indicate that they are indeed thinking along the same lines. 

Mydei and Phainon...

... I anticipate that they will be at each other's throats in approximately ten minutes. 

The strings start, slow and deliberate, and their waltz formally begins. Phainon cannot help but arch a brow when Mydei matches his pace, step for step; it's enough to make him smirk just the tiniest little bit, a rare occurrence. 

Together, they dip and twirl, spin and turn, their actions perfect carbon copies of the other. Mydei even finds himself the object of confusion. While it is true that he practiced hard for this moment, that practice would only hone his ability, not perfect it to such a degree that he hasn't, not even once, stepped on the Deliverer's toes. He's acting every bit a capable dancer as Phainon is, all in at least half the time and dedication. 

Not that it is supposed to be a competition, but with them, practically everything is. 

Phainon pushes at his fingers with a delicate fluidity, urging him to extend his arm, and so Mydei does. In turn, his eyes sweep downwards to check where his feet must line up. 

It is far too late to realize that this is a trap. 

He is immediately drawn to the sight of Phainon's defined lower body, kissed by the sunlight. A sight so utterly perfect, that pulling his eyes away feels more like a punishment than a prize. "Hey, eyes up here." Phainon's voice is a teasing, crooning alcohol that makes Mydei's world tilt sideways on its axis. A finger is splayed across his chin, tilting it up, just as their hands intertwine once more and the dance has them pressed up against each other. He can practically see the delight pulling at Phainon's cherry red lips. He can feel the flush creeping up his neck, powdering his skin a faint shade of pink. 

Mydei's eyes narrow, yet not before they betray a sliver of emotion from within. 

"That look in your eye... You want to kiss me, don't you?" Phainon laughs. They are close, so close now, that he can hear him murmuring a cadence under his breath, that he can feel Phainon's thigh pressing against him. The man's cerulean blue eyes stare through to his soul, though there is no malice hidden in them, only a childish mirth. 

"And so what if I do?" He counters, defiant. To that, Phainon does not answer. Mydei watches him blink, brain no doubt fumbling to come up with a coherent response. Something bubbles up in his chest: a mix between quiet, hot satisfaction, and muted amusement.

As the dance reaches the climax of the finish, he dips Phainon's head towards the ground with the refined grace of a prince. Another dash of heat blooms in his chest when he hears the Deliverer's squeak of surprise. The crowd bursts into cheer as they right themselves; Phainon panting and breathless, his cheeks bright red, and Mydei, gauntlets still clasped to his partner's shoulders. 

Strictly speaking, Phainon doesn't get to make remarks like that without consequence. 

"There." Mydei says, "I did you the honour of a dance." He makes to let go and slip away into the solitude of one of the gardens, but the Deliverer manages to catch his wrist first. He barely catches the words that come tumbling out. 

Mydei doesn't know what kind of rotten luck he has to have to find himself in this situation. He stares at the invitation in his hands, not quite believing what he sees. It's written in Aglaea's obnoxious golden script, the envelope complete with a butterfly-shaped stamp that shows it was delivered by an Okhema Nymph. Which in turn, means that his eyes do not deceive him; there truly is a gala two days from now. Much to his chagrin, Aglaea has just about enough spite left in her to write that it is compulsory for all Chrysos Heirs to attend. It isn't hard to figure that Mydei himself detests social events, not because he particularly dislikes people, but because he finds them boring and completely and utterly useless. 

So, to some extent, he understands. 

Yet he still has to attend all the same. No matter of understanding can make him feel better about this. No matter how much he stares at the piece of paper in his hands, left eye twitching madly, that fact will not change. It won't simply magically disappear in his hands. Skipping this isn't a luxury that he can afford, or at least, not this time. Now that Nikador has fallen, his Coreflame surrendered to Phainon, all that is left to do is celebrate, and with his people indebted to Okhema's kindness for taking them in, denying the people of their happiness wouldn't simply be unjust, it would be cruel. And as a Prince who vowed never to let his people fall into the hands of baying blood and homicidal traditions, he has to uphold that promise; regardless of whether that means he has to learn how to dance. 

In two days. 

"The things I do for these people..." Mydei huffs with a sigh, sitting up on his bed. For the time being, Tribbie was kind enough to lend him a room to stay before he returned to Castrum Kremnos (or what little remained of it), and it wasn't too shabby. Not quite to his tastes—too much gold, too much water, too much sunlight, but it sufficed to meet the rest of his needs. The only problem was that Phainon's room was right next door. To some extension, he was sure Trianne must have had a part to play in this, given she enjoyed his pain more than she enjoyed eating honeycakes. 

He crosses the room in a few, quick strides, peeking right around the doorway to check if Phainon can hear his mindless ramblings— 

The adjacent room is completely empty and... oddly sterile? Mydei frowns almost instantly. He takes one step, cautious. Two, heedful, his casting gaze wary. By his third step, all ensuing prudence has completely disappeared, and Mydei is entirely, triply, completely sure that Phainon isn't home at the current moment. Of course he isn't. The sound of running water (or lack thereof) indicates that he's not in the shower, and had he heard Mydei's earlier trifle, he surely would have spoken up about it at the time. Something along the lines of "The great Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos, struggling to dance? Now that's something you don't see everyday!" The worst part is that Mydei can imagine every contoured line of his face, the dimples on his cheeks, the bright, cerulean blue eyes staring up at him in jest.

He can see Phainon in his mind's eye, and somehow, that makes his absence hurt all the more. He can confront that man later, when the time comes. 

For now, he stretches, groaning in satisfaction when he hears a bone pop and crack somewhere below his spine. And then he walks back to his own room, sits down and scrolls through his teleslate for any good teaching videos. 

Contrary to what the citizens of Okhema whisper behind his back, he is not a clumsy, mindless oaf. Learning is not something that is beyond his grasp, and while it is true that he is only much good for slaughtering in their masses, he's not entirely incapable of being gentle, dare he even say elegant? 

Thirty minutes pass, and still, he feels no immediate sense of improvement. Sweat has begun to drip down his neck, which might have served him some form of entertainment were he not so frustrated in his apparent ineptitude. Exactly why he is struggling with something so piteously punitive escapes, he hardly knows. It isn't as if the instructions on the teleslate are difficult. Perhaps it is mererly his own nerves at the idea of stepping into a realm previously so unknown to him. His savage, almost desperate style of fighting would be a good excuse as to why his skills in that particular arena didn't transfer over into something like... this. It's tiring to always be on the qui vive. Perhaps it is because he is keenly aware of how utterly moronic he looks; dancing alone in his chambers. 

It is fine. He is fine. He would figure this out. Eventually. Maybe never. Existential dread begins to creep up his shoulder, and it's so unbecoming of a warrior's pride that he even contemplates asking Phainon for advice. Wherever the Deliverer was, he would surely come running if he sent him a message on his teleslate. Yet, tempting as the offer appears, Mydei internally shoves the idea down, as far down as it can go in his chest. The insufferable man would hardly help, anyway. Even with his eerily innate talent for dancing, he would only laugh at Mydei's pathetic efforts, and then at his own, half-hearted attempts to play the part of the female—not that dances were strictly bounded by that kind of tradition. And if there is something that Mydei simply cannot deal with at the present moment, it is that fatuous, overtly bubbly laugh. 

It isn't that Phainon was a particularly awful teacher. In fact, the real situation is quite the opposite. His mind simply isn't mallable enough for Phainon to bend to his liking. Mydei is rigid. Solid. Unlike the children that the future Chrysos Heir of Strife is very much used to having dealings with. 

And if that isn't already enough on Mydei's plate, Phainon would then ask who he wanted to dance with.