#manuscript.

You should break that unhealthy routine, yes, you know, you know, all that talk about not bringing work to home, but it’s not so easy when a portion of your responsibilities has to be done remotely. Well, alright, it doesn’t have to be, but it’s better this way than to travel and sit in a mildly inconvenient office instead of your comfortable chair.

The train of thoughts stops abruptly when a cold nose nudges your cheek and — before you can even react — Phainon slumps all over your shoulders, heavy and toasty. He’s ready for sleep, but he won’t do it (or very reluctantly) without you. So he pesters you, laps up your cheek, tries to squeeze into the chair even though he knows it can fit only one person and definitely not a hybrid as big as he is. But he tries, nonetheless, because it’s where you are. He crowds you, takes up your entire space, and whines.

“What is it, boy?” you ask, giving him an absent-minded scratch behind his ear.

He’s impatient, too.

The small lamp is still on; it casts a subtle light, but it’s too bright for him to attempt sleeping. He will constantly flutter his ears and check if you’re coming to bed; it’s obvious to him that’s not how it should be and certainly not how he would want it to be. Because what he wants — to cuddle with you, to inhale your scent and soak in it as you rest beside him, please, at least this one time, not even that focused on mounting you (just a little, as always) — is taken away from him.

He hates when you work.

So he whines again. Looks at you with those round, puppy eyes, nearly begs you to join him on the blanket (and let him sleep, too, because otherwise he won’t be happy or rested at all the next morning, not without mounting you first— but he doesn’t think about it all that much now, yes).

“I still need to finish my work.”

“Not now,” he pouts. “Let’s sleep.”

“I really do have a deadline,” you try again, but even you can hear the lack of conviction in your own voice. You are tired. The clock on your screen feels like a distant, irrelevant concern now that you’re held captive by his love. You’d rather be with him, warm and cosy, than staring at glowing text on a screen.

He kisses your forehead, then your temple, a trail of gentle, damp affection that melts away your remaining resistance.

“The deadline can wait,” he says, his voice a whisper against your ear. “I can’t.”

“Fine,” you sigh, persuaded by his charm.

His tail gives an emphatic wag and he tucks his head under your chin, his fluffy ears tickling your skin. In just a second, you’re swept up from the chair, up from your feet and into his arms; he immediately locks a strong embrace around your waist and hoists you so you have no other choice but to wrap your legs around his waist and let yourself be carried into bed.

With a soft thud and your hybrid already hovering above you, all happy, tail wiggling, drool gathering in the corner of his smile, you finally agree to proceed with the usual routine. His head bows down and he kisses your mouth. It’s a slow, gentle kiss that’s nothing like the hungry ones he gives when you both have time to waste. You reciprocate, giving him all the love that you’ve stored and let him know you’re tired, and all you need right now is to hold him and let him hold you.

With a final, loving nip on your bottom lip, he parts from you and with another, just as soft thud, he lies down on the bed beside you, still holding you close. It’s hard to believe that this big, strong hybrid, with muscles that ripple beneath his skin and claws that could shred anything in an instant, can be so careful, so soft with you. Well, sometimes. Most of the time, yes. He wraps his paws around you and pulls you onto his chest, his tail still wagging happily, though slower now. He’s comfortable and warm, and he smells like freshly baked bread and sunlight.

You listen to his steady heartbeat for a moment (you try to ignore his soft whines as he tries to get even closer to you, fumble with the hem of your nightwear). He smells you, he breathes you in and out, and he hums a low, happy tune. You trace the lines of his muscles with your fingers and scratch his scalp until he closes his eyes. You know what he wants, you know his routine, so you hold him tighter, and he gives you a little headbutt in return.

And just as you’re about to nod off, he pounces on you, tail wagging, and his ears straight up in the air. He’s happy, he’s playful, and he wants you.

“Can I…?”

You can’t say no to him, you just can’t. You’d never even dream of it. So you give him all your love, you kiss him, you lick him, and you let him have his way.

“Yes, you can.”

Phainon is still slightly unfamiliar with doing it while facing you. Sometimes, yes, he is bold and so full of love he just cannot stop looking at you, especially when it’s so easy to fluster you; but other times, it’s just proper, so much more like it should’ve been done with a mate, when he takes you from behind. He’s licking long, wet stripes with his tongue, from your clit up between your asscheeks, his hands greedily pawing as the supple flesh — squeezing and caressing until every part of you is attuned to his touch — and drooling some more on both of your holes.

Unable to decide whether to resist or accept the inevitable invasion that awaits you, you teeter somewhere on the edge of the tantalising affection. But then Phainon’s nimble fingers brush against your sensitive clit, and your resolve weakens.

Fuck, it’s just too much…

It’s your time to whine. And Phainon nearly scowls at that sound, a full-body shiver halting his movements for a second or two— but then he’s doubling his efforts until you’re soaked, hot and wanting. His digits probe deeper into your folds as they dance around your pulsating nub, teasing it mercilessly until it’s throbbing with need. You want it— want him so so badly now. With each stroke of his tongue and each press against your sweet spots, you find yourself drowning in desire. Your body shines from a mixture of sweat and arousal, making the inevitable entry of his cock all the more tempting.

And no, he will not stop until he can force the bulbous head of his shaft inside without tearing you apart, just enough to crowd your pliant walls until they mould to his shape, down to the very base— fuck, he’s already so hard, so painfully swollen and leaking.

“Phainon, please— I want you…”

I want you so badly it’s unbearable.

“More?”

“N-no, enough. Take me, please… Take me.”

Fill me.

You beg and sob, but to him it’s the clearest of commands. He can mount you. He can pin you underneath and pound until there’s a wet and slick mess joining your bodies, until you’re full of his cum and too exhausted to not fall asleep right afterwards…

This is exactly what he wants. What he needs. What you allow him to have.

He’s an expert in getting out of his pants in a single breath; he doesn’t really try to get out of them completely now, for he only needs to free his cock. Finally, with an impatience bordering on frenzy, he positions himself to enter you, his tip quivering with barely restrained desire beneath the loosened waistband. Measured to your puffy folds, he breathes in loud at the sight, mesmerised with the comparison how the flesh against flesh looks so beautiful, raw, primal, like both should merge together, essence mingled with his pre in a concoction of arousal. It’s his instinct to mate. He sees someone so perfect, as if made just to fit the description of his dreams, his requirement to breed.

(Even if it’s impossible, the thought overrides everything else within his mind).

You reach out behind to slow down his eagerness — trembling hands struggling to maintain any semblance of control — but all Phainon does is simply intertwine your fingers together.

As he pushes forward, you feel as if you’re being split open, stretched wider than you’ve ever been before (somehow your mind resetting after every night spent with him) — and yet, despite the initial sting, you can’t help but be drawn towards him. He pushes deeper, his muscles tensing with the effort of holding back. You gasp, your hips arching involuntarily as you try to meet his thrusts, your nails digging into the sheets and your face hot against the pillows.

This is exactly what you want. What you need. What he so eagerly gives you.

He waits, just for a moment, letting you adjust to the feeling of being completely filled by him, before he begins to move. Albeit it is nowhere near slow, not even in the beginning, immediately turned into a feral, teasing rhythm that has your hips swaying against his, your bodies slick with sweat. He kisses your neck, your shoulder blades, purring and growling like he’s losing his sanity and sense of self.

Because, really, he’s just a hybrid. A dog loyal to his owner.

His pace quickens, turning into a powerful, forceful pounding. You whimper, once, twice, a continuous, muffled song — your senses overwhelmed, your body a symphony of sensations. He’s no longer a domesticated pup, but a wild animal, a predator, and you’re his prey— no, his mate. That’s the right word. Mate. His movements are fast and deep, each thrust driving you further into the mattress, as if to remind you that, yes, he is your big, strong hybrid, with muscles that ripple beneath his skin.

“I can’t… I can’t take much more…” you cry out, on the verge of tears.

I want more. Please, give me more!

“More?” he taunts, growls, this time already knowing the answer.

And yet, you find yourself unable to resist begging, “Please…”

The world narrows down to just the two of you — the scent of him, the feel of his skin against yours, the sound of his breathing. You’re riding a wave of pure sensation, back and forth, back and forth, impaling yourself on the bulging cock. As Phainon pushes further into your slickened depths, he begins to harden and thicken as he breaches your tight resistance.

The sensation of each inch conquering your cunt feels like an exquisite agony and electrifying pleasure. With a guttural groan of encouragement from your hybrid, you feel the urge to draw him even deeper into your core. Your body trembles as it responds with a primal instinct, yearning for the ultimate connection that only he can provide.

He takes advantage of his strength over yours; he begins to thrust with purpose, deliberately pumping in and out of your quivering pussy with a force that is equal parts overwhelming and exhilarating. Your arousal reaches a fever pitch as his balls smack against your clit with each powerful stroke.

“I’m close,” he groans, his voice a guttural sound of pure ecstasy.

You’re close, too. And way too tired to tell him that knotting would be too much for you tonight…

The movement of his hips grows shorter and more urgent as he battles to maintain control over the raw power surging through. The base of his cock is now a throbbing mass that pulses in rhythm with your own racing heart, seemingly threatening to swell at any moment.

Your cries grow louder; every fibre of your being saturated, overflowing with desire. With the surge fuelled by desperation and an insatiable hunger for release, Phainon pulls you into a tight embrace, crowds you between his heavy body and the soft mattress, as he begins to knot inside you — his cock enlarging until it becomes impossible to discern where his body ends and yours begins.

With one final push and a guttural cry, his body stiffens atop of yours, and you feel the sensation of his bulge stretching your walls; a thick, powerful bundle of intense pleasure that holds you captive within its grasp. The pressure is immense, but, rather than causing pain, it sends waves of ecstasy rippling through your malleable body as he continues to grind into you with renewed vigour. To ensure that you’re properly locked around his shaft.

Yielding to the intense feelings that threaten to shatter you into pieces, you both surrender completely, finally, at last. And then he floods your insides, wave upon wave of scorching hot cum. The sensation of being filled beyond capacity is overwhelming; it feels like an endless torrent of pleasure that rebuilds you from the inside to make you his. He collapses on top of you — his body a heavy, suffocating weight, a sizzling heat that trembles and quivers with each pulse of seed that travels to his overly sensitive tip and engorged shaft. And it stays this way, long, long, long minutes stretching into eternity until the darkness swirls before your eyes and it’s wet between your legs from the copious globs of mixed essences.

You’re exhausted, but you’re happy, so happy. Filled. He’s yours, and you’re his, and nothing else in the world matters.

There are no late hours, no deadlines, no glowing screens. All because he seems to effortlessly adapt to your life’s demands, maintaining an instinctual balance that keeps your sleep schedule in check. His need for an early night and his insistence on cuddling (more than that, much more than that, actually) are the very things that have begun to pull you away from your unhealthy work habits.

It’s almost as if Phainon is absorbing your stress and anxiety, allowing it to be washed away with every stroke of his tail against your leg or soft kiss on your forehead. (Or heavy pounding.)

“Aren’t you a good boy?” you breathe out mindlessly, the words tumbling from your lips in a daze of post-orgasmic exhaustion.

Phainon’s fluffy ears perk up at these words, and he gazes down at you with an intense sparkle in his sapphire, nearly heart-shaped eyes. His lips curve into a smile and he leans down to place the subtlest of pecks upon your cheek, sealing his adoration with that delicate press of his lips against your heated skin. This is what praise does to him.

“For you? Always.”

He isn’t just a pet — he’s your life companion, your lover, your guardian, your saviour. Dramatic, maybe, but it’s true. With each passing moment and his scent all around you, the lingering remnants of passion slowly fade, and the night wraps around you like a tender cocoon. You find yourself smiling as you drift away into sleep.

Except this time, he hears an impatient banging at his door, directly. Nothing of great strength, so that at least confirms it’s not one with the extreme personality (like Delmon) who otherwise would soil his lovely start of the day.

Well, it’s you.

“Good mornin—”

“Hi Tamsy!” You interrupt his slow greeting, followed by a questioning raise of his eyebrows. But you’re quick, too quick, and continue immediately, almost putting your hands straight into his face. “Please, please, you gotta help me!”

“Calm down, first. What happened?”

“See?!”

He sees. Clearly.

One of your arms, from wrist to shoulder, is wrapped up in a total mess — a good quality rope or a net of some kind, whatever — and your skin has already lost a fraction of its colour. Looks painful, that’s for sure. And, unfortunately, complicated. There’s barely anything he can deduce in just a few seconds from seeing you in front of his room to having to hold your elbow so you stop wriggling your shoulder, so he may examine the situation further.

“Why didn’t you just cut it off?”

“Because I can’t! I just can’t! Semiu said it’s something expensive that the boss had bought a few years ago, but the kids started playing with it while cleaning the main hall, and then they bumped into me, and then— well, nevermind! Can you please get it off me before I lose my arm and Semiu comes for my throat next?”

There goes his peaceful morning.

He takes a deep breath, ignoring that first wave of annoyance after being disrupted so early when it’s his day off, and lets go of you so he can retrieve some tools from the drawer. Probably a needle or a pin, anything of that sort, will have a use in that case.

“Come in. Untangling you shouldn’t be hard, but it might take a while…”

“Aren’t you well-oriented with the ropes and stuff like that? Isn’t your vital instrument a distaff?”

“Heh, I guess I am well-oriented with the ropes and stuff.”

You watch him curiously, sniffling and fidgeting all over the place with your nails, scrambling the coarse threads in hopes that maybe you will get out of them by yourself.

After a moment, Tamsy drags you across the room, nudging you to sit on the bed.

“Yeah, this will take a while.” He mumbles out, eyes already focused on the task. “But you won’t lose your arm.” He chuckles at that. Mayhaps a subtle joke will take your attention away from the bubbling anxiety.

“What about my neck?”

“Working on it. At worst, we’ll both lose our heads.”

You hum under your nose, entertained and not so stressed anymore, and lean to look at his hands. Working carefully on the rope, unwrapping one by one, all this while trying not to poke the pointy end of the pin through your skin. To be honest, it looks more like you’re a bird caught in a net left in the wind for at least a year, but if he considers how chaotic Guita and other teenagers can be, let alone running around together, then maybe it’s not that impossible to cause such a disaster in the first place.

The moment you feel Tamsy’s fingers pull out of the loops and brush against your skin where the short sleeve doesn’t reach, you lower your head as if it’s suddenly forbidden. You get the feeling, again. The one you dislike because it makes you act like that, like you cannot just enjoy being casually acquainted with him.

This is not love. No. Love doesn’t exist for people like you. Not on the Ground, not at all. But the idea of it lingering at the edge of your consciousness doesn’t leave you alone, and brings shivers down your spine every time he so much as glances at you.

This is not love. This is the worst.

“I’ve never noticed that you’re missing a part of your little finger. It’s not causing you any problems?” You pick up the most random topic, your stupid brain just letting anything get on your tongue.

Tamsy doesn’t even flinch when you mention it.

“I forget about it all the time.” He admits in a heartbeat.

“Oh. Well, good that it’s nothing serious then. Sorry…”

“It’s okay.” He sighs.

Really, it’s hard to be angry at you, especially since this isn’t your fault you got into whatever happened in the main hall, but he doesn’t want you sitting on his bed, in his room, acting so awkward. It would be annoying if it were only him treated this way — it could suggest you’re developing certain feelings for him, regardless if positive or negative — but you’ve always been weird when interacting with others, unable to get the clue, even after working with them many times, and even befriending some of them.

Sure, you’re all over the place, but you’re not the only one among the Cleaners. However, Tamsy considers you a complication and a distraction. Only you. It’s entirely on him that he’s starting to like you, against his own rules. But then again, do you even notice that, or are you just enjoying the quiet company? He wants to make sure he isn’t wrong, because he could use an ally, yet… You don’t seem to think of him that way. It’s too risky to even consider sharing the truth with you.

“Ouch!” There’s a sudden rush of pain down your shoulder that gets you to squeak and jolt in place. Distressed once again, you look at your limb and then at Tamsy, and back at your limb.

“Don’t worry. The circulation is back, but you’ll feel sore and ticklish.” The lukewarm fingertips trail up to your elbow, just to make sure everything’s back to normal, and he stares at your expression for a moment with an absent gaze. “I’m almost done, so try not to move too much for one more minute, okay?”

You nod, a bobblehead toy, hot in the face, unable to hold eye contact anymore. Instead, you fixate on his palms (yes, again, how obvious), on how delicately he holds your wrist while he takes care of the last tangles. It’s just too funny, the sensation of a pulse returning to your arm; you giggle and shiver, but try your best to remain calm despite the numb tingling rushing down your nerves.

Along with the last loosened loop, Tamsy pinches at your skin on purpose until you laugh and shy away from his grip. That one time you look back at him, you get the feeling again, the same one he was wondering about earlier.

What a fool you are.

“And everything’s alright again.” He announces, that pretty face of his softening, like he’s comforting you after some traumatic experience and not just a small predicament. Although you were, in fact, seriously scared for a moment there. Well, if it came to that, you would just cut off the ropes in the last resort, much to Semiu’s displeasure.

“You sure?” Still doubtful, you examine your limb, worried about the splotches of bruises and angrily deep imprints waved into the soft flesh.

“Just be careful. It looks… hmm, that’s expected given how tight this net was digging in.” He cannot say what’s actually on his mind. The wince doesn’t escape you, and Tamsy immediately regrets that he let his voice falter. The next second, he covers his mouth and scratches his jawline instead, trying to keep the smile off his face, but failing miserably at it.

“I don’t get it. Why are you smiling?” You pout at him, attempting to sound offended by his reaction. “It hurts and looks awful.”

“I’m sorry. I really hope the pain goes away soon. It’s such an absurd way of starting the day. It’s funny.”

No, Tamsy isn’t cruel, it’s just… he really finds it amusing. He will never say it out loud that his face got warmer after having the chance to look at your arm, unable to not imagine that this is exactly how you would end up if caught in the threads of his vital instrument.

Give him a break, damn.

With defeat, he has to admit in his thoughts that it looks pretty on you. He likes the image of it. Not the fact that it’s painful for you — or precisely because of that, but he wishes not to ponder on that possibility — but it was probably inevitable in this case.

Maybe he’s becoming a sadist? No, no, not at all. If anything, he would prefer you unharmed and untouched. No, what is he even thinking about now? He should know better than this.

“Try not to get caught in more nets.” He gets up from the place beside you and puts the pin away. “I will help you take it back to Semiu and the boss. But I wouldn’t recommend using your hand until the marks disappear.”

“Thanks…”

“Are you sure you can work, though? Maybe it would be better if you take the day off as well?”

“No, I’ll be okay. There are things to be done, so I’ll just focus on something easy until that numbness goes away.”

Tamsy isn’t pleased with that answer, but shrugs that off. Instead, he walks back to you to grab the neatly untangled net (it’s quite heavy, which wasn’t so noticeable when it was still wrapped around your entire arm) and guide you back to the exit.

There’s a limit to how much time you can spend alone with him in his room, and this one comes to an end. A pity.

“You’re a lifesaver.” You let out a tired sigh, the stress that weighed you down finally dissipating.

“No problem. I’m glad I could help you out.”

It would be such a waste to give up that opportunity, he thinks to himself, almost caving in to pull you close enough for a brief hug; he eventually gives up on that idea, biting his tongue and only putting a palm flat against your back. A friendly gesture to gently push you forward, like he often does with other members, whilst he’s busy locking his door behind you two and following your steps.

You’ve been nothing but trouble, occupying his mind when he should have clarity; that memory of ropes digging into your skin engraved just as deeply in his brain.

You are whisked away from the courtyard by silent attendants, your robe hastily adjusted over the sticky imprints pulsing with disgust on your skin, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs — a mix of dread and fragile hope, a confusion of scenes transpiring too quickly.

What will the King of Heroes decree? Will he see you as sullied goods, unworthy of his divine gaze, or something entirely else?

The thought coils in your mind like smoke from a brazier, for you are no one, really, maybe but a vessel for the gods’ whispers if you try hard enough at the temple — like everyone else, you still bend to his will.

In the throne room, you dare not look up from the floor, following veins of lapis cutting through the stone that mimic the rivers of Sumer. The guards, these wretched dogs, stand assembled before the dais, their bodies glinting dully from perspiration from the afternoon heat (and you know that also from the interrupted game only they would’ve enjoyed), faces pale and slick with the sweat of impending judgement.

Before you can even cling to Siduri, your mentor and the current head priestess of one of the temples, you are positioned at Gilgamesh’s side, brought despite reluctance, close enough to feel the warmth emanating from his perfectly proportioned body, like the sun’s own fire veiled in flesh. No wonder priests call him the very personification of Shamash’s seed.

Your heart is but a wild bird trapped in your chest; he could have cast you aside like a cracked bowl, replacing you with any untouched maiden from the temple groves or a silken courtesan from the hanging gardens. Yet here you stand, in his shadow, your body still humming with the memory of rough hands that dared trespass, not far, which is all, merely, you can be thankful for.

Without preamble, his arm snakes around your waist, other fingers clamping your arm. The world tilts as he yanks the folds of your robe downward in one fluid motion, exposing your breasts. The linen whispers against your skin like a lover’s sigh turned cruel, falling away to bare the soft curves, the same ones that the guards tried to possess.

You gasp, cheeks burning with a shame that floods your body like the inundation of the river; the faint scent of labdanum from your morning bath now mingled with fear and sweat.

Oh, merciful gods, why this public unveiling?

“Look upon her, you mongrels!” Gilgamesh’s voice booms forth, laced with the arrogance of one who views the world as his birthright, forcing the guards’ gazes upward. His crimson eyes pierce like bloodied spears anytime someone dares to move.

The men flinch, confronted with the sight of your half-naked body — the soft flesh yielding under his grasp, pliable, and the faint tremor in your breath that betrays your doubt. Their discomfort is palpable, their earlier courage crumbling like dried clay or burnt incense ash.

What will Siduri think of all that? Your thoughts reel, tumbling like scattered offerings. It is utter mortification, your silhouette reduced to a spectacle before men who sought to claim you, and you’re too afraid to even search for the only pair of eyes that could bring you comfort now, any of the fellow priestesses now hiding in the shadows of the columns.

But Gilgamesh has not discarded you.

You are his, after all, a possession in the king’s vast treasury, and that knowledge wraps around your humiliation like a silken cord, binding gratitude to the sting of objectification.

“You have dared to lay hands upon what is mine,” he snarls, his irises narrowing, each word dripping disdain of a demigod for lesser beings.

His hand gestures dismissively, golden rings catching the light like captured stars, then descends with a sharp smack upon your bare breast. The impact blooms fire across your skin, a stinging heat that radiates inward. You bite your lip to stifle a cry, futile, and you still whimper like a wounded animal, tasting tears of your own restraint and embarrassment.

Exposed, marked, utterly owned. But that’s different from being at the mercy of those crude guards.

This is his way of bringing justice forth, raw and brutal.

Your mind pleads for the earth to swallow you whole, the shame spilling from within in the form of salty droplets. But he has chosen to intervene, to pull you from the jaws of violation, even if his methods strip you bare in body and spirit.

A different kind of asserting dominance.

The guards shift uneasily, their eyes darting to the floor, cheeks flushing with the guilt of witnessing their king claim what they coveted — his fingers cupping the swell of your breast with an intentional possessiveness, a confusing tangle of degradation and divine favour.

“Avert your eyes no longer!” His words cut through the air like blades. “Earlier, you circled her like starved beasts, seeking to intimidate my possession — my priestess. You dogs, thought to soil my treasure with your unworthy grasp? To waste her prospects on the rut of lowly mutts? Face the humiliation you have wrought upon yourselves, for in touching what belongs to me, you have invited my wrath!”

You feel a cursed sort of relief that he has named you his, even as the exposure leaves you not your own person, your mind melting in gratitude laced with the erotic undercurrent of his authority, your body burning away the disgust from the guards’ earlier behaviour.

“Mark this well, mongrels,” Gilgamesh continues, eyes sweeping over them like a scythe through ripe barley. “The next trespass shall demand a fiercer approach. You will summon your wives before me and bear witness as I claim them, gifting them with the seed of a demigod, siring heirs that eclipse your own spawn. No longer shall your lineage fester in the shadows, ha! I will supplant it utterly, leaving you to mourn upon the fruits that take over your bloodline!”

How your skin prickles at the image he conjures, how you battle the tempest in your chest, how you want to fall to your knees and beg him not to involve others, not other women, not hurt them over their husbands’ wrongdoings, but you only shudder in his grip like a withered desert rose.

Mercy, great gods, have mercy, and teach the great king how to use it!

The gathered crowd recoils as if scorched; courtiers and attendants press against the walls, fingers grazing the columns like roots digging into the ground. The women, especially — priestesses with their hennaed hands clasped over amulets of lapis and carnelian — shrink back most keenly, their eyes wide with dread.

“My king, I—” you start, but a mere whisper, but your voice dies in your throat.

“Begone from my sight, and let this lesson carve itself into your marrow,” Gilgamesh says to all, ignoring the way you clutch to his arm. “The rest of you return to your labours. This spectacle ends.”

With a disdainful flick of his wrist, golden bracelets clinking like temple chimes, he dismisses the guards who slink away like whipped jackals. The crowd disperses in a murmur of hurried steps and rustling garments; the chamber empties like a river receding from flood.

Then his eyes lock upon you. “Veil your dignity first and wait near my chambers.”

“Y-yes, my king, as you wish…”

(Only yes, yes, yes, so insistent that you doubt if there’s anything else to your voice, any other quality that it could be used for.)

You clutch the fallen folds of your robe, drawing it tight across your chest as if you wish to make sure this time no one pulls it down from you; the remnants of grace, scattered like little beads and crystals, come back and line your muscles, every tiny movement regaining your usual pace and rhythm.

The corridor swallows you as you flee the throne room, bare feet slapping against warm tiles inlaid with tiny stars that gleam under torchlight. Servants part before you, eyes averted, whispers dying on their lips as if your haste carried the king’s own blaze.

You know you cannot face him in a state like that, for you must bathe first. Just fortunate for you, near his chamber is an adjacent one with bathing supplies. You take fine sand in your hands, brush away all sweat and anything disgraceful from your skin; it feels harsh, not scraping you, but enough to make you burn a little.

Busy, locked in the palace of your own mind, you don’t even notice Gilgamesh entering the room in the meantime and observing you from under the columns. He watches, still as stone, the crimson of his eyes tracking each sweep of your hands across your skin, each desperate attempt to scrub away the shame that clings tighter than any dust.

He comes closer, footsteps silent despite his stature, and dips the cloth in the bowl with water. For a moment — brief, almost grudging, as if his hands move against the very nature of his divine blood — he washes specs of sand from your shoulder, the touch neither gentle nor harsh, simply there. He would never lower himself so far as to bathe you or anyone else, never demean his station by playing servant to mortal flesh, but that single gesture is enough to make you understand something you hadn’t dared hope for. That he cares, in whatever strange, twisted manner befits a king who acknowledges no equals. But before you can melt into that gossamer compassion, before you can lean into the unexpected warmth of it, he tosses the cloth into your open palms with a flick of his wrist.

“Do it yourself,” he commands. “You are an independent adult. Never again rely on me for what you can accomplish with your own two hands.”

(Isn’t he the one who moved first before you could even realise?)

“Yes, my king. Of course…!”

Yet he remains, lets his fingers rub oil into your neck, applies perfume that immediately takes over your senses, thick like syrup, something akin to balsam and rose clinging to your throat with every breath. You feel guilt bloom fresh in your chest, a different kind now — not worthy of his attention, dirty and soiled despite being clean again, despite the sand washed away and the sweat scrubbed from every limb. How could you possibly face Siduri or even dream of standing right next to her as one of the main messengers between the gods and the people? And then there’s the king, the golden one, higher in position than anybody else, proud above all, now expecting you to follow with the conversation when all you’d rather ask of him is to bury you underground, not touch you.

“My king, that’s—”

“Still valuable,” he interrupts, his voice an absolute certainty that brooks no argument. “I would be a mere idiot, no better than those dogs who pawed at you, if I wasted a lovely being such as yourself.”

“But your speech…” you venture, the protest weak on your tongue. Your behaviour, too, you wish to add, but bite your tongue in time. Treating you like his possession (which you are, you cannot deny), the sensation of his palm against your breast not quite gone, now deeper than a surface contact on your skin, seeping inside.

“An amplified performance, if anything,” he says, circling around to face you properly now, those inhuman eyes boring into yours like a snake approaching an unsuspecting bird. “And you had better learn the ways of it if you wish to take over the duties of the head priestesses one day. I do not tolerate what is average; I do not suffer what is mediocre. I scold because you can be better. Because you must be better, if you are to serve me.”

You nod, gathering what remains of your composure. You beg silently, you pray that your mind plays foul tricks on you, that he doesn’t mean what you normally would assume hearing a man talk to you in such a way. The robe clings to your body where it drank rivulets of poured water, wee uncomfortable around the seams, but you refuse to adjust it. Any movement might shatter this peculiar equilibrium, and you dare not do anything that wasn’t explicitly asked of you.

Gilgamesh rolls his eyes, a gesture so profoundly human it startles you more than his divinity ever has.

“Stop that,” he commands, gesturing at your rigid posture. “Your spine will crack if you hold yourself any tighter. Relax.”

“My king, I—”

“I will not expect from you any close company when you’re still shaken by the beastly behaviour of those mongrels,” he says, settling himself upon a low cushion with the casual authority of one accustomed to being obeyed. “Your nerves are frayed like old hemp. It would be pointless.”

You exhale slowly, attempting to soften your shoulders, though the effort feels absurd under his gaze. The tension merely shifts rather than dissolves, pooling instead in your chest where your heart still flutters in an uneven rhythm, where the ghost of his hand still remains.

“My king, in the throne room... your threats to those men’s wives...” Your voice trails off, barely above a whisper. The words taste like soiled copper on your tongue.

“What of them?” He doesn’t even glance your way, examining his golden rings with apparent disinterest, mocking you.

“Did you... did you mean it?”

“I already told you. A performance.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Amplified for effect. Do you think I waste my divine seed on mongrels’ mates?”

You should feel relief. You do feel relief, but it mingles with something you cannot digest. The stories surface unbidden in your mind — events from years past when the king walked through Uruk like a lion among sheep, taking what he pleased, crushing resistance beneath his heel. Before Siduri. Before Enkidu. Before whatever changed in him softened certain edges whilst sharpening others.

A shudder runs through you despite the warm air.

His eyes snap to yours, that maroon gaze missing nothing. “You doubt my word.”

It’s not a question.

You shake your head frantically, but tears already prick at your eyes, hot and shameful.

“Please, my king, I only—” Your voice breaks. “I beg you, don’t frighten those women for what their husbands attempted. They’ve done nothing wrong.”

“And why,” Gilgamesh leans forward slightly, eyebrow arched in something between curiosity and challenge, “should I listen to your pleas? What claim do you possess that grants you the authority to question my judgement?”

Your gaze drops below your knees. “I have none, my king. I am nothing. But they—”

“They suffer punishment enough by binding themselves to such vermin,” he interrupts. “Had they possessed any sense, they would have requested an audience, demanded I save them from marriages to dogs masquerading as men.”

The argument rises to your lips before you can stop it — that most fear him too much to hope for such clemency, that approaching a demigod with complaints about their husbands seems as futile as asking the Euphrates to flow backwards. But you swallow the sharp words, reshape them into something gentler.

“They... many believe you unreachable, my king. Too far above mortal concerns to—”

“Then they are fools as well as victims.” He interrupts you again. It’s frustrating. “Though I note you’ve still not answered my actual question.”

You blink, confused.

“Why do you care more about the fate of women you’ve never met than about proper punishment for the men who attempted to violate you?” His head tilts, studying you like a scholar examining cuneiform. “They circled you like jackals. Touched what they had no right to touch. Terrified you. And yet you kneel here weeping for their wives instead of demanding their blood.”

You realise you have no answer that won’t sound either foolish or condemning; the question hangs above your head like the sun burning strong enough to split stones into valleys, too heavy for you to rationalise. It’s just a deeper kind of fear, something unfair and unjust that simply works in this world when it shouldn’t.

“I can give you the means to get rid of them,” he offers, his voice dropping into something almost conspiratorial.

You eye him in shock, the words catching in your throat. Get rid of them? The meaning crystallises slowly, horrifyingly clear. Your mouth opens. Closes. No sound emerges.

“What troubles you?” His crimson eyes narrow with what might be amusement.

“I—” Your voice cracks like dried mud. “My king, I do not wish to— that is, I could never ask you to—”

You cannot finish. Cannot even voice the thought of death, of those men’s bodies cooling in the city’s grounds, of their families wailing. Your hands curl into fists at your sides.

“You fear I would execute them for their transgression?” He tilts his head, studying you as one might examine a curious artifact. “That I would paint the stones with their blood simply because they dared lay hands upon what is mine?”

The words blur together. Yes. No. Both. Your mouth opens and closes uselessly. Again. You’re stuck, unable to escape, unable to decide, the pressure coming from all sides like it’s possible to crack your head open just from stress.

Gilgamesh laughs, rich and entirely without mercy. “This was but a jest, priestess. A mere amusement at your expense.”

The relief does not come this time. Instead, it pools uneasily in your belly, mixing with the lingering dread. A jest! He was testing you, toying with your hysteria like a child with an insect. You nod because nodding requires nothing of you, no words that might further entangle you in the web of his caprice.

“Though,” he continues, crossing arms in front of his chest with fluid grace, “do not mistake my restraint for weakness. Should they attempt such trespass again, I would not hesitate. The guards exist to serve order, not to disturb it. Their usefulness ends the moment they become a liability.”

Your hands remain clasped before you, tingling from how hard you squeeze your fingers. You understand now that his mercy is not kindness but calculation — that you live and breathe at his sufferance, that your worth fluctuates with his mood as surely as the Euphrates rises and falls with the seasons.

“You will remain here tonight,” he says.

“My king, I could never!”

“Ha! Now you’re disobeying me? Over something like that?” He’s genuinely entertained, chuckling under his breath. “Here is the safest place in all Uruk. Sleep if you can, for I know you wouldn’t be able to do so anywhere else.”

You swallow hard, the protest dying before it fully forms. He’s right, of course, of course he is — the thought of returning to your quarters, of lying in darkness wondering if those guards might return emboldened by drink or spite, sends thunder through your veins. Your fingers twist in the damp linen of your robe.

“I understand, my king.”

“Good.” He gestures towards the far corner where thick cushions line the wall, lavish things embroidered with golden thread that catches the lamplight. “There. Not the floor like some common slave.”

You move carefully, aware of his gaze tracking your movements. The cushions yield beneath you as you sink down, softer than anything you’ve ever touched. Gilgamesh reclines on his own bed across the chamber, propping himself on one elbow. He doesn’t dismiss you or turn away. Simply watches, those crimson eyes glowing faintly in the dimness like embers.

“You’re still trembling.”

You press your palms flat against your thighs, willing the shaking to stop.

“I apologise! I—”

“Stop apologising.” His voice, tired, almost an exhale, cuts through your stammering. “It’s tedious…”

Silence falls, heavy and strange, a bile in your throat, an ache behind your eyelids. You focus on the rise and fall of your own breathing, on the sounds of the palace settling for the night — steps in far corridors, the low murmur of guards changing watch, distant songs and chatter of the city still awake in the warm light of torches and braziers. Anything but the consequence of his attention. And he is staring, right into your soul, piercing through your heart, luring your gaze to meet him despite your utmost wish to bury yourself under the pillows and shawls.

“They didn’t succeed,” he says suddenly, startling you. “In whatever they intended.”

Your throat tightens. “No, my king.”

“Then you remain untouched. Whole.” He shifts, the movement sending shadows dancing across the walls. “What occurred was an attempt. Nothing more. Do not grant them power over you by dwelling on what might have been.”

The words should comfort you. Oh, how you wish they could. Instead, they feel like an order, as if you could simply command your mind to still, your hands to stop shaking. But perhaps that’s exactly what he expects — absolute control, even over your own terror.

“Yes, my king.”

(Yes, yes, yes— for once, dear gods, let this word disappear!)

“Such a sickening thought to have other men occupy your thoughts more than my brilliance does.” You hear him laugh, soft and quiet, and it almost convinces you to raise your head, but he’s quick to notice your shifting attention. “Come here for a moment.”

Your legs obey before your mind catches up, carrying you across the chamber on unsteady feet. He doesn’t reach for you, simply watches as you approach, waiting to see if you’ll collapse or compose yourself. You stop at the edge of his bed, uncertain whether to kneel or stand.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the space beside him.

You settle carefully, the closeness overwhelming — the heat radiating from his body, his golden skin glowing faintly in the candlelight, unmarred and perfect in a way that reminds you he is not entirely of this world, but from somewhere unreachable.

“Your mind races like a startled hare,” he observes, reaching out to trace a single finger along your jawline, neither gentle nor harsh, but simply possessive. “It must be exhausting.”

“I—” You swallow hard. “I don’t know how to be otherwise, my king.”

“Then perhaps you should learn. The head priestess position requires more pride than you currently possess. Fear serves no purpose here.”

“I will do my best. To not disappoint you. To… make sure you don’t have to exhaust your energy on farces below your status.”

“I do not require servitude born of fear. You need to understand the distinction between a fool’s obedience and one’s choice to serve.” His fingers now brush around your nape, where the perfume still clings to your skin. “The head priestess must counsel me, not merely execute my whims like a trained pet.”

Your breath catches. “My king, I’m not certain I’m capable of—”

“Neither am I,” he cuts in with the faintest curve to his mouth. “Prove yourself. Amuse me.”

His hand drops away, and you feel the loss of it like a physical ache. (It’s sickening how easily he bends you to his will — in one moment you’re frightened, in the next leaning towards his touch.)

“Go to sleep now,” he says, settling back against his pillows as if the conversation has concluded.

You remain motionless, uncertain whether to stay or retreat to your cushions.

“Did I stutter?” His eyes snap open, that crimson gaze pinning you in place. “Move.”

(As declared earlier, he does not need you in his bed tonight. A blessing, as rough and cold as it is in its meaning, but for that dismissal, you can be more than grateful.)

You scramble back to your corner, pulling cushions around yourself like a fortress. Your heart pounds against your ribs, though whether from fear or something else entirely, you cannot say. You curl onto your side, drawing your knees up slightly, too sensitive to every tiny sound and move he makes across the chamber, and you wonder how one can possess such even breath while bearing in one’s hands the destiny of so many people, dealing with the annoyance of such lowly creatures as yourself, unable to even fathom the vastness of his confidence.

Sleep feels impossible, yet exhaustion pulls at you like an undertow.

(And you do not want to disappoint him any more than you already did…)

“Off! Off of me!” You complain, almost a squeak of discomfort, when this large bulk of a man slops down his weight on your shoulders, and you immediately sense the stuffy, sharp smell of cigarettes. “You stink! Were you smoking again?!”

“Just came back from a break. Where’s my kiss?” The pout in his voice makes your ears wither and your eyes roll at the theatrics of his pleading gaze. Two golden orbs staring at you with the sweetness of a small child, as if it’s not a man who towers over you and is probably twice as wide, especially in that baggy outfit.

“As if you would get any smelling like that!”

“Pretty please?” He makes a childish whine and lifts you off the ground, leaving your feet to dangle, forcing you to wrap your arms around his neck or risk falling face first. That piercing scent of cigarettes now hovers around your face and makes you sneeze.

“No chance!”

It’s the softness hidden somewhere beneath the layers of his coarse, sand-grated clothes, a gentleness of his bony arms that overlap your midriff. Dealing with the strong nicotine smell, your nose still scrunched and burning from the inside, but you bite back any further comments to enjoy the short embrace. An unspoken confession, honesty spilling through the hesitant gesture, that he will miss you.

“You know I’m leaving soon. A goodbye kiss is a lucky charm.”

Sure, a few days of separation is nothing. A good heated argument could make you avoid each other for longer; that much is true. That much used to be true.

According to overheard discussions, the missions turn more and more dangerous, the stakes higher, and finally on a trail for something more meaningful than a horde of wild trash beasts. But nobody has yet explained to you what is so valuable, like suddenly someone sewed their mouth shut. The most you can guess is that it’s a discovery, a hunch, of great importance, leading to finding out more about the truth, whatever it may be.

The whole team is going without you this time — cursed be the meetings that got scheduled for you by the boss himself — and they can’t help but worry about whether they’ll be coming back on time.

“I’ll miss you…” You sigh as you allow Enjin’s hug to settle, with your feet solid against the floor once more.

“Just a little kiss, please? Doesn’t have to be on the mouth.”

You tilt your head and rise on tiptoe just slightly, planting a delicate peck on his face, exactly where a dimple forms as he smiles at the tiny reward. His cheekbone brushes against your own, and then there’s no distance between you when you press closer into him, still able to recognise a faint note of the shampoo he used a day before.

“Promise me to stay safe?”

“I will.” Enjin sighs.

“Promise me you’ll come back alive?”

“Why the sudden worry, sweetheart? A second ago, you wanted me out of the door.” He gives you a lopsided grin, looking absolutely charming with the half-baked expression that’s on the verge of slipping off and morphing into something far more serious.

“I’m not messing around, you idiot. I want you to promise me!”

No wonder it gets him every time, that damn cute frown of yours, whilst you glare at him. He immediately ducks down for a kiss, like an apology of sorts.

“What a nuisance you are, forcing me to steal a peck from your lips all by myself.”

With the time running out, it’s only wise to accept the kiss as if it’s medicine that brings you some measure of comfort. Otherwise, you would be left with nothing but a longing in your heart and an empty pillow on the other side of the bed for the next few nights.

Right after moving away from your lips, he adds with an arrogant grin, “You know I always come back, don’t you?”

There is a break for a short cough, be it from the mess that is his emotions, still getting him flustered to admit it out loud, or the tickling of the smoke in his throat, or both.

“You’re the one who promised to always be there when I’m back.”

Fed on stories of the Holy City for your entire journey, you can’t help but feel excited. As the caravan passes the last hill and the wheels rattle onto smoother stone, the quiet night starts to brighten. From behind the curtain of clouds and dark fog, a globe of light resting atop the Worldbearing Titan, on Kephale’s shoulders, welcomes all weary travellers with its warmth and hope to see one more sunny day. It does not pierce the darkness — it invites it to soften.

Looking at the Dawn Device for the very first time marks the first dawn of a new life as well. With mouth agape, you watch as the divine gift grows and grows with each passed road sign, and you wonder if it covers the whole sky over Okhema.

“The golden city,” the man beside you says, his voice already changed by nostalgia. “You will fall in love there, this I can promise. The world outside may be corrupted, but… no, everything in Okhema is how it was. As if Era Chrysea has never ended.”

“I don’t believe you, sir!” you laugh, a rare moment of lightness.

“You don’t have to, hah! You’ll see it with your own eyes tomorrow, maybe in two days at most.”

As the first day fades, the delay begins to stir unease.

You arrive to find the outer city burning.

The attack had happened just a few hours earlier — creatures blackened by corruption, hunched and warped like failed sculptures of man and beast, stormed through the outer districts, clawing into stone and flesh alike.

What greets your group from outside the walls is chaos. Soldiers pick through the wreckage for survivors, charred items, stray talons. Caravans are left overturned, flames licking at the forgotten shipments, and refugees wander in circles as if trying to reassemble their lives from fragments on the ground.

People rush through the open gates in the mountain in both directions. Some try to flee. Some try to return. Scattered citizens collect dropped goods, and others call out for friends and family. Water is thrown on small fires and it shimmers like liquid crystals. (You’ve never seen water so clear in your life, not even when passing over the streams in the mountains.)

You stay close to your companion, following him towards the main road and the large marble bridge — one built to trace a rainbow’s curve into the city’s centre. The colours are faded because of the smoke, but it still glows under the Dawn Device’s radiance.

“How could that happen?!” you ask, trying to match his fast pace.

“It’s not unusual… although rare.”

“You haven’t said anything about it…!” Your voice cracks slightly. You’re trying not to look too shaken, but your steps falter. It’s not that you’ve never seen worse, but you didn’t expect to see it in the Holy City. Not so close, not while still catching breath after stepping from the road.

“Everything beautiful that I said about Okhema is true, and I will stand by those words even now.” The man doesn’t stop, but he glances at you with something like an apology tugging at his brow. “We are blessed that this was but a surge of lost black tide creatures and not a coordinated attack of the Titankin.”

You don’t know whether his reassurance is meant for you or for himself.

“Will these people be alright?”

“Okhema is still the safest place in all Amphoreus. People get hurt more tripping over ditched carts in panic than because of the black tide monsters.” Your companion forces a dry chuckle, flattening the crease on his sleeve. “The city always finds its balance again — you’ll see. We’re just in the noisy part of the fall before everyone remembers how to stand upright.”

You see a giant — a real Mountain Dweller — kneeling beside a group of children, one massive arm curved gently around them like a wall. His calm presence seems to hush their restlessness and weepy hiccups. A golden bell hums from a small roof above them — the dromas caravan stop, its beams askew but still standing. You were meant to disembark there if not for the chaos outside the first gate. Now it’s a landmark you pass by quickly, one that has turned into a place of improvised shelter. The bench is crooked, scorched at one corner, but the kids sit in a row as if waiting for something ordinary to resume.

Behind you, a new surge ripples through the crowd, but this one is not born of fear. A wave of sound rises — cheers, shouts of relief, a collective sigh of release. The air shifts from acrid smoke to something like triumph as a group of soldiers begins sifting back through the gates, weary but resolute. They part like a river around a stone, and at the head of the returning force, you see him — a figure bright as day despite the grime.

Lord Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.

His white hair is messy from the wind, streaked with soot, and there are torn threads across the shoulder of his fine coat. He moves with exhaustion that seems to settle deep in his bones, yet it does nothing to dim the brilliance of his presence; his steps are still proud and brisk. His bright cyan eyes scan the crowd, and when a tired smile touches his lips, the people erupt.

“Lord Phainon is back!” someone cries, the sound thick with gratitude.

“He saved us!” others echo, pointing. “He came back!”

You’ve heard stories of the Chrysos Heirs, of course. Everyone has. But to see one in the flesh, wading through the chaos he has just helped quell, is something else entirely. The sight of him, this young hero returning to his city, feels like a promise of a better tomorrow. It soothes the hysteria, dampens the raw edge of panic.

Your companion, who had been agitated by the chaos around him, finally calms down as the cheers for Phainon fade slightly. Then he swings his bag over his shoulder and glances your way.

“Come on,” he says, gentler now. “My place isn’t far — just past the mural gate and left of one of the shrines. You’ll be safe there tonight.”

You’ll be safe, you repeat in your mind, as if that’s something people mean permanently. You hesitate only a moment before following.

But the moment you turn past the corner, whatever sense of safety his words gave you crumbles.

There is no house.

There is rubble, still licked by a dying fire that glows faintly beneath splintered beams. You can tell the mansion had once stood tall, opulent and with many rooms. A garden had trailed down into what must have been a shopfront, now blackened and half-buried in dirt. The twisted remains of ceramic tiles glitter like scattered jewels. He must have been a successful merchant here, you think.

Now all of it is gone.

Your companion drops his bag without a word and sprints ahead. His voice rises quickly, breaking into raw shouts. You watch him scream at the few pale figures who stumble from the nearby archway — housemates, business partners, staff, maybe even family, who knows. He demands an explanation for the charred walls, the scorched stone. His words are too tangled to catch. All you can do is stand there, heavy with someone else’s grief.

Eventually, he drags his feet back towards you again.

“You must forgive me,” he says, brushing ash from his sleeve. “There’s nothing I can offer you right now.”

You feel disappointment stir in your chest, but you don’t want to burden the man. After all, he’s a stranger, and you shouldn’t ask for more from someone who’s just lost everything.

“I understand,” you say, quietly. “Good luck, sir.”

“Thank you. I’m sure you’ll make it.” He smiles, half-honest, half-trained. “Please look for the instructions on the murals. You’ll find the place where refugees can register and receive basic help.”

“Thank you. Are you going there, too?”

“I will, I will… I just want to see if there’s anything here worth saving. But you should go! There might be a queue.”

“Goodbye, sir.”

And then you leave him, with your reluctance slowing your feet. You think about turning back and offering to help. Staying. But something tells you it would only make things worse.

The streets are quieter now, and the panic that swelled through the gates like fever starts to thin. Besides a mess on the streets, the inner districts of the city barely look like they suffered an unexpected blow. You think of the ruined mansion as you pass the gossiping crowd — how easily things fall apart, whether built on stone or trust.

Following the overly elegant instructions along the stone walls, you make your way towards the Marmoreal Palace. It towers above the valley and layers of smaller houses, a monolith of white marble and golden ornaments, elegant and pristine even beneath the air that still smells faintly of rust. The banners with symbols of each Titan, painted with purpura, the imperial dye, sway from the azurite columns. It’s said the palace has always served a dual purpose — both as the governing residence and as a place of healing. And today, it lives up to the title.

People stream in and out of its open baths and long halls — hurried, uneven, with the little space between the masses filled with voices and the tang of sweat, ash, and ointments. There’s a rhythm to the disarray, like a city breathing too fast. Volunteers — mostly medical scholars from the Grove of Epiphany — move between groups to offer water, bandages, and fresh clothes folded with rushed care. Some kneel beside soldiers, wiping blood from their brows or helping them out of the tightened metal pieces. These are likely the Okheman guards and other defenders who fought the surge, weary from battle.

You join the line that curves around the entrance and spell your name to have it written on a scroll. No one asks where you’ve come from, your past left unquestioned. You’re given a blanket and two cloth bags: one with dried fruit, hard oval bread and simple produce; the other with a change of tunic and a set of self-care tools still wrapped in linen, though the bundle seems smaller than what others received.

It’s difficult not to stare when the grand pool casts iridescent shimmer on the sapphire walls and turquoise silks draped around rings high above your head. For a brief moment there, you’re nearly certain there’s a golden figure standing at the edge of the hanging bath that overlooks the entire gallery, but with another glimmer of passing lights, the presence is gone. The Overflowing Bath seems too beautiful to be accessible to all civilians, but it’s true, if you believe what you overhear from mingled conversations. You do not wish to participate, too overwhelmed by today’s events to even think of starting a dialogue.

You wash your face in the fountain basin just off the main courtyard. The water is colder than expected, but clear and refreshing. The baths are closed for today and will probably be for the next day as well, but you wouldn’t use them anyway, too unsure about stepping into a vast space full of people with but a towel to yourself.

The flowers growing on the other side of the polished balustrade are almost glowing with their intense purple shade, and you cannot see the part of the city that was attacked from the alcove. It seems peaceful, almost perfect, and the Dawn Device casts an orange light announcing changing hours. For the first time in months, it’s silent enough around you to hear the wind and subtle songs of birds and nymphs living high up the lakes from where the water flows into the bathhouse.

Without anything better to do with yourself, you roam around for the next few days, getting to know the layout of the streets and gardens, which paths are easy to walk and which curl towards steep hills.

The best place to draw is the flat shore of one of the shallow ponds nestled between the Marmoreal Palace and the market square. You don’t mean to attract attention — it’s just something to do with your hands, lines and spirals sketched idly with a stick into damp sand while your thoughts drift. But someone notices. You think he must be rich — his robes are deep indigo, stitched with the patterns only worn by those who worship Phagousa, and his speech carries the smooth accent of southern courts. He watches you for a while before casually asking if you know how to paint. You do.

The job he offers is strange, maybe even absurd. Something about restoring murals in a forgotten house or painting symbols onto imported silk. He omits the details, but you accept it, curious and having no better alternative.

(For a time, it will be decent work.)

Later the same day, you sit on the stone wall near the gardens and wag your legs mindlessly. The sky shines like burnt peach above you, unmarred by clouds. The sun is gently warming your skin, local food between your fingers and on your tongue.

You will eventually have to settle down like a proper citizen, but maybe that man — the one throwing figs who lost his mansion — was right, after all.

Any worries weigh less in Okhema.

(You see him a few weeks later, wearing golden earrings and bracelets around his wrists. By either luck or the generous help of the ruling party, the man has reclaimed a portion of his wealth — maybe not everything, but from just a glance certainly enough not to mourn. But he’s forgotten you, and something tells you that even if you approached him, he would not remember.)

You wonder if the attack before your arrival was just a nightmare you had witnessed in a dream. It’s been a while since the smoke cleared and the initial chaos subsided.

Besides that one job offered to you by the man in indigo robes, you needed a stable income, working where you could. Difficult, often unpleasant tasks that paid little and demanded much, exposing you to the city’s less visible cruelties, but you bite your cheek and remind yourself that the beginnings are never easy. You wish not to think about it when the gentle lustre of the Dawn Device kisses your face.

The bright afternoon finds you at the Marmoreal Market, trailing behind your part-time employer. The streets smell of spices, tanned leather, and the sweet perfume drifting from the shop across the cobblestone. The man in indigo robes haggles with a vendor over the price of fruits (something about bruises on the velvety skin of the peaches, even though you cannot spot a single imperfection on them from your place behind his back). You hold a small pouch of crushed pigment, its crimson colour more interesting than the fake conversation. Truthfully, it makes you happy that you can use a fine paint now, even if only for these specific murals you work on; and now you hope that the man will eventually agree to buy these peaches, bruised or not, because you would receive one, maybe even two, if he’s having a good day.

It is in the middle of this mundane transaction, as your employer finally secures his price with a satisfied click of his tongue, that a different sound cuts through the market chatter. A low, rolling murmur from the direction of the main bridge — a wave of discontent that makes vendors pause and shoppers turn their heads in curiosity.

What cuts through the tiring monotony of your early life in Okhema is the arrival of the detachment from Kremnos, bringing more refugees saved on the way. The grim parade of warriors, draped in crimson robes and clad in golden armour, enters the city, and behind them — just as mighty-looking women and elders with sharp eyes. Their rounded shields, burnished though battered and chipped at the edges, gleam faintly beneath the layer of dust, while swords and spears are at last laid down. They look every bit as if the battlefield still clung to them.

Now they come not as conquerors but as guardians — just like Nikador, Titan of Strife, had once protected the land before he descended into madness and turned his blade against Amphoreus. Protection is a word heavy with honour, but where there should have been gratitude, there’s unease. The people gathering at the sides of the main road cheer only faintly; more they gossip and cast judgemental gazes instead. The battle-ready soldiers of Kremnos bring a dread that no chivalry could dispel, regardless of how many lives they saved.

The man at their head walks differently, like he’s carrying something far heavier than his own armour. Something in your body shrinks at the sight of him. He looks even more frightening than any black tide creature: his clothes are half-stiff with dried blood, both red and black, and a glimmer of gold sprinkled over his face. His hair is matted, lumped together with mud and ichor from…

“… Wounds that heal on his body faster than one could inflict another.” You hear people behind your back gossiping to each other. You don’t want to believe them, but looking back at the warrior, if anyone here could challenge death itself, it would be him.

You’ve heard many stories on your way to Okhema. Everyone has talked about Chrysos Heirs like they’re sent by the heavens to save the world. It’s been years since the last hero joined their ranks, but now, another has come.

There’s one tale already passed in gossip between the streets — about the glorious challenge between the two gold-blooded heroes. One called the Deliverer — Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, who bears the colours of Okhema and claims victory wherever he goes. The other one, Mydeimos — the crowned prince of Castrum Kremnos, the ruined citadel from the south, once hailed as a boy of war. No one knows if the Kremnoan Detachment was marching to doom anyone on their path or to bring salvation. However, the evenly matched contest between two Chrysos Heirs stopped it altogether — that is exactly why many are still uncertain if Prince Mydeimos is a welcome guest. Some say that if he was sent to save them, the gods must’ve grown tired of mercy.

The man in Phagousa’s robes, the one who offered you the job, most of the time cares only about counting coins in his purse. He’s a little too chatty for someone of his station. You wouldn’t suspect him to be disrespectful… until you see him join the commotion and throw overripe fruits at the Kremnoan legion returning from the wide bridge.

“Sir, what are you doing?” you half-whisper through gritted teeth, grabbing his sleeve.

“This is what happens when you let Kremnoans into the city,” he snarls, fingers dripping with fig syrup, eyes flashing.

“What did they do?” you ask, panicked and confused. “Didn’t they just save those people?”

“Who knows? In that chaos?! We open the gate, they pretend to save us, and the next thing you know, they steal and rape!”

“Sir, it’s not okay to say those things!” you try to reason, but as it seems, Nikador and Cerces speak different languages.

“This is how they are. They smile while they set your house on fire.”

You want to argue. You really do. But your words catch behind your tongue because the man’s voice isn’t the only one anymore. Chatter and agitation grow together around you, formed from ill wishes and fuelled by hysteria that still remains after the attack. You hear all kinds of curses, confessions, and accusations.

“That witch will get us all killed,” someone mutters — they mean Aglaea, the city’s ruler. “We will see her dead sooner than later!”

“She’s not even mortal anymore…”

“She let a lion loose and now expects him to sit quietly by her throne.” Apparently, some believe that the Kremnoan Detachment plans to take over Aglaea’s position and influence.

“A witch and a lion!”

It startles you how easily comfort breeds contempt. From what you understand, people in Okhema live conveniently, which means that as soon as that nicety is taken away from them, they start arguing. It’s bizarre to someone like you who has joined them not long ago after a long struggle on the road. You’ve come from the darkness high up north. You’ve walked over the bones of emptied cities, trying to escape the black tide. To you, this place still looks like salvation — but to its people, even salvation needs scapegoats.

The legion passes, unamused and unfazed. Their backs are straight, and their silence is somehow louder than the crowd.

One quiet truth about peace is that it makes government meetings feel unnecessary — a chore endlessly postponed, filled with the invention of problems where none exist. That’s what many in the Council of Elders murmur behind the neatly folded edges of their chitons. With the last real threat to the city now a distant memory from months ago, there’s little to do. Bored politicians nod off in their seats or look away from petty crimes below their status, half-irritated, half-relieved that Lady Aglaea has kept order all this time. For generations now — and with each passing year more than the last — she has extended her reach, her web of omnipresent eyes tightening patiently across Okhema. What is hidden from others is never hidden from her.

But the gatherings of those who follow the Flame-Chase Journey do not falter.

The day is bright, and the aquamarine sky above the Holy City seems to shimmer just a little more than usual with the breeze of the gentle west wind. Aglaea stands near the edge of the golden bath, sunlight clinging to the folds of her white dress. She watches the departing backs of the Chrysos Heirs in silence, not much different from the statues holding the columns; already having said enough during the discussion, she’s quieter than the water licking the mosaic, until one of the group in particular steps into the descending lift.

“Mydeimos,” she calls, not loud, but it halts him all the same — she has never needed to raise her voice to command attention.

He turns at once.

“Yes, Lady Aglaea?”

“Has Okhema been kind to you and your people?”

There’s a pause before he responds — calculating what is right to tell her and what is not. “The city has offered us shelter. Work. A future, of sorts. But many remember what Kremnoans once did to their cities.”

Aglaea finally stops gazing at the sky to meet his eyes and asks, “Do you blame them?”

“No,” Mydei says. “We did invade. We took what wasn’t ours. We brought fear, and now we live among those who remember it. I understand. But my people are not the same men who carried weapons. Most of them had not even been born yet. Still… peace takes longer to teach than war.”

A slow nod from her, as if she’s weighing not only his answer but his efforts. “And you? Can you call Okhema your new home?”

Mydei hesitates at her question. It’s hidden in the narrowing of his eyes, in the faint shift of his posture — but it betrays the ripple of discomfort.

“Kremnos is our home,” he replies, clearly puzzled. “And I try not to think about myself before others. My people… still face much. Not violence, not outright, but…” He exhales, glancing aside. “We aren’t easily forgotten, not in a city full of survivors.”

“Perhaps,” she murmurs, “the answer will come in time. If not for them, then for you.”

He says nothing, but she catches the way his gaze lingers — thoughtful, maybe grateful, maybe only more burdened.

“Do you still struggle with debates and diplomacy here?”

A faint, rueful smile touches his lips. “I’m learning. From watching you, mostly.”

She accepts the compliment without a word, simply folding her hands at her waist, golden fingers briefly brushing over the frills.

“I want you to investigate one place,” she tells him at last.

Mydei straightens. “What place?”

Aglaea lowers her chin just slightly, opal eyes reflecting the sun-drenched water at her feet.

“There’s a workshop up the southwestern hill. It handles storage and distribution of goods for refugees. Donations, emergency supplies, trades authorised by the Council of Elders.

“It’s a little more than a lattice of greed,” she continues. “The owner takes what is freely given, sells it for profit… or worse. Some people never see what they were promised. Others are coerced, indebted, or simply disappear.”

“Disappear how?” Mydei’s jaw tenses.

“There are links to brothels. The kind even the Council won’t acknowledge. I suspect some of the missing end up there, traded like coins. I need to prove their wrongdoings. Enough to dissolve the business by law, not merely by force.”

“What should I do once I arrive there?”

“I made an order, listed as intended for the Council of Elders. I have reasons to believe that within the crates should be hidden evidence — unedited documents and payments, unlike the official ones. That’s what I need.”

“Wouldn’t Phainon be a better choice to—”

“He won’t,” she cuts in smoothly. “Not this time. He’s directly under my care and associated with me too closely. If they realise I’m sending my messenger, they’ll react. You’ll go as allied with the Council of Elders — as cruel as it is, I must use the fact that Kremnoans are not fond of me.”

“So this is why you’ve remained indifferent to the offences my people and I face on the streets. It is cruel… but I understand.”

“Do not lose your composure, Mydeimos.” Her tone softens, though her eyes remain sharp. “We’re not confronting a merchant. We’re confronting someone who profits from desperation — and people like that, as you know, are rarely easy targets.”

“So I might meet innocent workers there, ones who know little of the scheme.”

“Many of them may be underpaid, misled, or too frightened. They may believe they are helping others — and in a small way, they are. The goods do flow outward. But not to the right people.”

Mydei nods slowly.

“It’s the right moment for you to change and let your weapons rest in times of peace. You are not there to punish the unwitting,” Aglaea affirms. “I will take care of the rest once you succeed with retrieving the order.”

Under the canopy of blossoming trees, where dappled sunlight spills liquid gold onto the dusty path, one could believe that the world is not ending. You secure another freshly washed canvas on the wooden loom to stretch it, the damp fabric cool against your fingertips. Amidst the heavy scent from the flowerbeds and the gentle rustle of olive leaves, the pale light of Okhema’s Dawn Device feels softer, less demanding.

Yet, peace is a fragile thing…

A shadow falls beside yours, and the man standing there — arms crossed, brow furrowed like he’s been stewing in his own discontent since waking up — judges your movements with undisguised disapproval. He scrunches his nose and huffs, as though your simple act of labour is a personal affront.

“These tasks aren’t meant for someone like you.”

You barely glance up, pinning the canvas corner. Your gut warns against stirring the fire, but Elpenor is always like this, just getting on your nerves while all you do is mind your own business.

“Someone like me?”

“Weren’t you supposed to be working on our production instead?” He ignores your question.

“It’s busy there now. I’m still working, though!”

“You carry yourself as if you belong among the city’s true craftsmen and scribes, handling materials meant for record and art,” he clarifies, spitting the word as if it tastes foul.

“Are you jealous…?”

His gaze sweeps dismissively over your practical tunic and the row of drying canvases. “Of what? Of an unwed woman in rags?”

Unwed. He’s poking needles under your skin. That much, at least, confirms you were right — he sees you as a threat.

“You’re not even getting paid for this. What’s the point?” he snorts.

Dust motes dance in the shafts of light between you.

“I’m only volunteering to help those in need on Lady Aglaea’s official request.”

“The Council will pull those banners down soon enough — they always do. And you… now you’re playing the saint? With your salary? When other Okhemans keep their heads down and do what’s assigned?”

A flicker of annoyance stirs inside, but you tamp it down. The Librarium at the Marmoreal Market is almost certainly about to accept you as the apprentice in the upcoming days, and you’ll leave this poisonous place.

Just give yourself some patience. It will soon be over…

You wipe your damp hands on the cloth tied at your waist and curl a bit into yourself, meeting his resentful gaze. Your voice remains quiet, yet holds a subtle edge, like wind whistling through brittle parchment,

“I’m not from Okhema.”

“You live in Okhema now,” he hisses. “And being an unmarried woman is enough to silence your tongue,” he sneers, lips twisting in contempt. “Yes, I’ve heard you had declined the proposal from our boss.”

So he has heard…

You wish Elpenor could break his leg one day on the way to the workshop and not pester you or the boss just to gleen useless information.

“I don’t think it’s proper to accept a marriage offer when one works for the other,” you say, your voice indifferent as you return to your paused activity. It’s the truth, but you don’t mention the whole truth.

“He won’t take a second refusal, you know. Or are you really that naive?” Elpenor’s voice drops low, almost conspiratorial, as he rests his arm on his hip. “He had to leave to take care of more important matters, but you won’t escape your duty another time.”

“There’s no value in me as a wife.” You shrug.

“You should be grateful he even considered taking a sickly woman as his wife!” He says it as if unaware that it was meant as ownership. But he is stupid. And you know that all too well.

“I would only disappoint him, more than I already disappoint him as an employee.”

“Well, then surely there’s still some use for you in the brothels.” Elpenor eyes your whole body, and you shudder, trying not to gag.

His face twists, ready to continue, but his tirade dies in his throat as another presence joins you beneath the olive trees, silent and sudden as a hawk’s descent.

Towering over both of you stands a man seemingly forged from sunlight and bronze. The crown prince of Kremnos, Mydeimos. Known here as the warrior of Okhema, Mydei. You’ve seen him before from afar — a radiant but terrifying figure often standing near Lady Aglaea during the public debates.

Up close, his presence is overwhelming. Scarlet markings, akin to ritual scars, run through his exposed chest and beneath the crimson robe that hangs loosely on his shoulders. His hair, the colour of bright honey, is messily brushed behind his ear, revealing the proud, sharp lines of his face. And his eyes — molten amber, currently fixed on Elpenor with a look that could curdle milk.

He doesn’t speak or move aggressively, yet the sheer, coiled power emanating from him makes the air crisp, silencing even the lingering buzz of insects, such as your supervisor.

“Lord Mydei! H-here?!” Elpenor stammers, his voice jumping an octave as he straightens abruptly and wipes his hands on his tunic like a child caught stealing figs.

“Here, indeed,” Mydei replies, and his tone doesn’t fit this place, like he’s announcing himself in a court chamber rather than a quiet garden path. “May Kephale bless your day.”

“Ah, your arrival must’ve been brought by the generous west wind! Elpenor, at your service!” He bows, a taut string let loose. “How can I help you today?”

“I’m meant to collect the order commissioned by the Council of Elders.”

“Ah, right, that one! I know which one! Please give me a moment; I will get it ready!”

The rat of a man mutters an excuse, nearly tripping over a tree root in his haste to leave immediately.

Please, break your leg…

Silence returns, punctuated only by the murmur of the production on the other side of the wooden fence and the distant chatter of the city. Mydei’s intense gaze shifts from the retreating figure, lingers for a moment on the drying canvases swaying gently in the breeze, and then settles on you. He takes in your dishevelled state, the faint flush on your cheeks, and the determined look despite the argument. His expression remains impassive, perhaps but a fraction less stern than when confronting the other man.

His voice is rough and resonant. It carries easily even when nearly whispering, “Are you alright? You seem a moment away from crying.”

You startle slightly and smooth down your tunic for no reason other than just to pull your eyes away from him.

“I’m sorry— I, well, didn’t expect any of it.”

“Rest assured.”

“Just in time. I appreciate your intervention, O Chrysos Heir Mydei,” you manage, the formal title awkward yet necessary on your tongue. “But you shouldn’t concern yourself. I’m but a mere part-time worker here and a volunteer for Lady Aglaea’s initiative.”

A flicker of something — perhaps impatience, perhaps mild offence — crosses his features.

“I am not ordering you around,” he states, his tone level but firm. “And I wish you to respect my judgement all the same. Do not tell me what concerns should or shouldn’t capture my attention.”

“My apologies!” You dip your head slightly, feeling thoroughly chastened. “My words were unbecoming. Please, allow me to repay your kindness and reward your visit here. Perhaps… perhaps you would accept a small token? A crafted trinket from the workshop, maybe?” You gesture vaguely towards the nearby building, a part of the business you work for.

Mydei’s gaze follows your gesture, then returns to the drying plaster dolia near the kiln and the canvases, his eyes briefly focusing on the clean cut, the sturdy weave. He adjusts the strap of his pauldron, though it clearly needs no fixing.

“You artists master the fine arts, shape beauty from clay and pigment, weave tales into thread. Your gifts are often pleasing to the eye…” he pauses, his gaze becoming distant, pragmatic. “While I appreciate the sentiment, I cannot help but wonder how many of these delicate skills prove useful when dire times truly descend upon us.”

“Oh,” you say softly, taken aback by his bluntness. “I suppose… I suppose many hope there will be no such dire times.”

“Foolish,” he clicks his tongue, though without malice. “The dire times have already begun. But,” a subtle shift in his mien, a softening almost imperceptible, “I hope you, at least, face no evil greater than the insolence of that man.”

If only…

But Lord Mydei doesn’t know you or anything about your life.

For a while there, you play with the embroidered hem, unable to face him fully, merely stealing glances. His intimidating aura is undeniable, yet beneath the surface there’s…

A strange tenderness hiding in the mane of a lion, the thought flits through your mind.

“Speak up if you have something to add.”

Nothing gets past his sharp eyes. Nothing. Pinned in place by the quiet command, you sigh and reply with a wavering courage,

“You appear formidable, lord. Intimidating, even. But the way you speak…” You gesture uncertainly. “You care deeply about the people around you, even strangers. I… I hope you don’t have to worry about your companions in real battles.”

“Hmph.” A scoff rumbles in his chest, not exactly what one might expect from a prince. His voice returns after a moment, shedding the earlier hint of softness, regaining its confident edge. “Fear not — my companions are no less capable than I. We look forward to victory, never dwell on the possibility of a defeat.”

“That is good to hear. I wish you all the success.”

“Appreciated. What a—”

“Lord Mydei, please come this way! The order is ready to be collected!” Elpenor calls him from under the arch of the entrance to the warehouse.

Mydei glances your way one last time, a farewell both fierce and calming, like he’s trying to believe you’ll be alright once left alone. You lower your head before he can read anything else from your face. And just in the blink of an eye, his entire presence is gone from your orbit, following his original mission of visiting the supplier.

With a slow stride, he joins the manager beneath the arch and vanishes into the shadows of the warehouse, the sunlight glinting once more on his golden hair before he disappears inside.

Elpenor frowns at you behind Lord Mydei’s back, and you purse your lips before returning to your canvases. Anxious, because you know your supervisor will nag you further, just not personally, but probably by sending you a rotten apple for dinner. However, you still prefer skipping one meal if it means he won’t be complaining about you to your current boss, the one who had proposed to you before.

Just give yourself some patience. It will soon be over…

It starts with screaming and complaining, the usual. Then, a tug at your hair, not enough to hurt, but enough to fray your nerves. To make sure you’re not too calm in your steps, what Elpenor often says. To test it, he pushes you, just to see if you can save the thing you were just carrying in your hands. If not — if you dropped it — you’re forced on the ground to clean it up with vulgarisms lisped above your head.

Sometimes you regret leaving the job before this one — better pay, more stimulating work, and fewer intrusive supervisors. But even passion for art can erode under enough pressure, and the man from back then, the one dressed in robes with Phagousa’s patterns, did omit important details. The danger wasn’t loud or obvious, but it lurked in every corner, whispering that your safety was conditional, your freedom fragile. Comfort came at a cost you couldn’t afford.

(You buried those memories for a reason. To deal with none of them ever again.)

You try to argue with yourself that you need money, but earning so little is not worth what you have to endure here day by day. Alas, ending up unemployed scares you more than dealing with Elpenor’s weak attempts at intimidating you — it hurts when he’s using violence against you, but it rarely puts more pressure on your body than the everyday work. What is more worrying is that running away would certainly bring the attention of your boss.

Because what a man fears more than himself is another man. Rarely a woman. Unless she is claimed by another, but even then, her safety is merely borrowed. Your only shield against Elpenor’s worst was the boss’s unwanted interest in you. A hollow sort of protection, but enough to keep the exhaustion from getting worse.

You drop the small dolium, its warmth from drying in the sun slipping through your fingers. With the clink of shattered clay, you wake up, sweaty and startled.

No, it happened in a dream.

You’re no longer there, no longer having a reason for a restless sleep. In the stillness, you reach out in the dark, your fingers brushing the rim of the clay bowl kept beside your bed. The water inside is lukewarm and helps you settle back into reality.

The room is shadowed, curtains drawn thick against the eternal daylight. The sun never sets here, not fully. The Dawn Device only shifts its hue from pale blush through bright gold to amber haze. You had to pin the fabric carefully, double the layers, to mimic the night you were raised in. You lie back, not sure if sleep will come again, but comforted by the hush of the Curtain-Fall Hour.

You don’t miss your previous occupation.

An illegal business it was, sure something you had suspected but could never prove. You didn’t want to lose a job either; failing to report without enough evidence would mean being thrown out or even beaten up. Nothing you wouldn’t survive, perhaps, but had it really been an illegal business, you would also pose no threat to a smuggler or two.

It would be unwise to expect a lavish life. You wish to think not long after arriving to Okhema, but you know a lavish life is not meant for you. Ever. This is fine, though. As long as you can keep yourself happy and healthy, you ask for no luxuries. And, hopefully, such a goal is realistic enough, even in the city that devours itself despite the peace at first glance.

Although crimes officially do not exist here, sometimes it takes a while before they are discovered: small theft, assaults of many causes and consequences, exploitation. And being poor is not a crime. The city goes through difficult seasons when new refugees from places that fell to the black tide join the population. And while you know that the Council of Elders tries its best to provide, it’s not enough for everyone. Brothels, shady trades, questionable prices for goods that were supposed to be delivered free, unfair fights and deals — all are always present in the bleak shadows under the Dawn Device’s perpetual glow.

It’s been a few months since you started your new job at the Librarium. It is not just a repository of knowledge; it is said to have been established from the very instant the concept of books was created. Shelves fill every corner in the cramped space, laden with scrolls, tablets, and books that whisper forgotten histories to those willing to listen. The scent of aged parchment mingles with the faint tang of ink.

Your days now follow a predictable rhythm — and for once, that’s a blessing. You walk down to the first floor early, just as the morning haze begins to lift from the cobbled streets as you first unlock the windows and sweep the floors. The tasks are repetitive: sorting scrolls by era, restocking tablets on the lower shelves, and assisting an occasional scholar or wandering customer with their search. You don’t speak much. Most people don’t expect you to.

There’s no shouting here. No thinly veiled threats, no bribes disguised as pay bonuses, no stomach-gnawing dread every time someone’s shadow loomed over your crouching figure. There’s no boss who has never heard ‘no’ in his life. You are not watched like a potential traitor or worse — a prize. You are allowed to be tired, but you do not feel too exhausted, for once. You’re not thriving, perhaps, but at least you can do more than just survive.

Here is better.

Archilochus, the current owner, is intelligent. Though his old age and a past incident left his speech rather insignificant, slurred, you can sense great knowledge behind each sentence. He is also considerate, allowing you to work though you’re not a part of his family. His son is an archivist, promoted to sort the scrolls at the Bathhouse Library and spending less time behind the counter. A spare pair of hands turned out quite useful, especially now when the shop receives more and more products to sell or to borrow.

“You came here from the production workshop up the southwestern hill?” Archilochus asks one slow morning, squinting at a faded paint on the stone tablet as he dusts the shelf. He doesn’t wait for you to answer. “Did you know it was under investigation for a few weeks and closed on the Month of Balance?”

“Wait— you’re certain?” you ask, peering over the counter.

“Was Lord Mydei himself who shut it down. I thought someone like him wouldn’t bother with little liars.”

“W-why? How did you learn about it?”

“Couple of guards from the gate to the market passed the news. They said it was Lady Aglaea’s own voice that ordered the seals on the door. All official. But quietly.”

You slump against the wood, playing with the pen in your hands. “No one told me anything.”

“You’d already quit,” he shrugs. “You weren’t working there legally, I assume? No surprise there’s hardly anyone to associate you with that place. But maybe that’s a good thing.” His dry voice mellows down at the end.

“I just— I wish I’d known. I’d suspected things weren’t… right.”

“It was not your job to play investigator. You did the smart thing. Got out before the storm.”

You nod slowly, heart thudding with quiet disbelief. “And Elpenor?”

“Oh, and who was that?”

“The manager. Not the boss, but bossy for two.”

“Ah, the one you said that was closer to a rat than a human!” Archilochus lets out a soft laugh. “Dead, from what I heard. Fought the arrest, broke his leg while escaping and fell on the lower street. Foolish.”

You have to take a deep breath before your next question. “And the boss?”

“What a good question. I wonder myself… if it’s better to end up in the caged cell or be trialled by Lady Aglaea herself. Perhaps a lifetime in prison is kinder than the judgement of the Goldweaver.”

Archilochus returns to dusting without much more ceremony, leaving you to sit with the news in the hush of the Librarium, ink-stained fingers pressed to your lips.

Dead. The finality of that word scares you because you haven’t thought about the possibility of getting out of that unfortunate place without anything as impossible as a miracle. And yet it happened. Peace. The finality of that word scares you as well, even if peace is rarely something to last long. But now it is peaceful in your life, and the punishment from the boss will never arrive. You will not be forced into a marriage, then. Something you thought of as slavery without calling it one.

(Despite your love for arts, many Okheman traditions, though artistic at first sight, have never aligned with your beliefs, especially not given the treatment of women.)

A reason for your nightmares gone, because you were dreading each day, worried that your new reality would disappear and he would want you — his property — back.

You smile. You’re free to do whatever you want. Okhema gives you another chance to start life anew. Failure after failure, you don’t know how to experience true joy anymore. But you’re happy, even if for a moment before the usual fatigue overwhelms all positive emotions.

In the weeks that follow, you often catch the old man watching you out of the corner of his eye, like he wants to say something else but thought better of it.

The workshop has been abandoned ever since Elpenor’s death, then. The boss wasn’t directly involved with that place, and although he played his pawns, you’ve remembered Elpenor as the one who wasted the potential of that building and the small land attached to it. People who had worked there scattered all around Okhema, and you rarely see familiar faces anymore. Or you don’t remember them, really…

You feel alone again, with only scrolls and tablets to keep you company. Yet in their silence, they offer more comfort than the false warmth of your old workplace ever had.

It starts with a simple exchange — a man searching for a chronicle of his vanished town north of Dolos. He cannot remember the name of the river that once fed its fields. You help him comb through a stack of migration records and land surveys, and when nothing comes up, you scribble a note to ask the archivist on the next shift.

Then a woman from the southern deltas of Aristia arrives, her robes adorned with crystals and her voice like the waves. She tells you, unprompted, while packing cooking recipes, that she once saw a temple sink into the earth in a single day, the marsh reclaiming the Phagousa’s sanctuary without warning. Her people believed it was a punishment. You find her a scroll about flood myths and write down her version in the margins.

It becomes a habit. You start keeping a journal of everything they tell you — fragmentary songs, forgotten holidays, festival customs that no longer have altars to be danced upon. You scramble through old books even off the clock, trying to match their memories to surviving records. When the trail runs cold, you forward them to someone else, an elder from across the street or the client from two days before, anyone familiar from their city-state perhaps, or a linguist who might remember the dialect, or a baker who still knows how to pound the batter the right way to get the regional speciality.

And though you rarely speak about yourself, people begin to trust you. They return, sometimes just to sit and talk. You nod, listen, and file away each tale like a rare relic. Every day, you learn how little of the world has remained — and how fiercely people hold onto what still lingers.

It’s already difficult to store all the sheets of the handmade paper under the countertop; it’s too bothersome to bring them back to your room. Located on the first floor, a small lodging above the shop that is not pleasant enough to become permanent, but better than any of your previous bedrooms.

Kremnoans rarely visit. Either out of spite and unhealed resentment against Okhema, or because they’re not too interested in reading. Some of them come, speak loudly and proudly, and you jump in your chair but end up fascinated by the energy they’re able to convey through just words. Children are more curious than adults. They point their fingers at tablets and scrolls, ask if you have any legends and stories about their heroes. Some want to learn their language, but the Kremnoan tales in Okhema are told only verbally. Despite being a straightforward language, its alphabet is oddly complex. Moreover, you’ve never encountered a preserved piece that could teach you more than a few phrases.

“Everything from academic classics to popular novellas is included here,” you repeat to a new client what Archilochus always brags about, proud of his business, and then you smile.

But the client is not here for books. The messenger of an utterly forgettable face calls your name instead and says, “I’m glad that I didn’t have to look for you for too long. An invitation to the scroll reading at the Bathhouse Library has been sent to you.”

Though the initial message surprises you, you guess it’s a part of your apprenticeship training. It excites you, but you don’t show it, still too suspicious. Is Archilochus that generous? He’s not known for wasting resources, especially on newcomers. Maybe this is just another task meant to test your memory and manners in public.

“If you wish to participate, be ready on the first day of the Month of Joy.”

You recite the description of the fifth month in your head, having forgotten what it’s like to care for the routines written in the calendar (what a blessing that one copy always stands close to the corner you sit in) and not those pushed onto you through your occupation.

The month when spring cultivation ends. During this month, spring waters flow, and fishermen flourish. The heaviest workload for the year ended last month, and everyone is revelling in the atmosphere of festivity. This is the best month for brewing and holding celebrations, when people wake up, massage their temples in a daze, then shake their heads and go back to sleep.

“Next week, then…”

You bring it up with Archilochus in the late afternoon, while he’s sweeping the front step off the dust and pebbles. He raises an eyebrow at the invitation held before his eyes, but the surprise doesn’t last.

“Not from me,” he says, tapping the side of his nose. “But go. It won’t hurt you. Might even help.” Then he smirks, crooked and sly. “And if you see my son there, remind him to visit his father and the Librarium. He forgets sometimes.”

Not knowing how to prepare, you pack a bag and linger over the choices more than needed. In the end, you slip in parchment and a charcoal set wrapped in a piece of leather, a habit you picked up from collecting tales. Perhaps you’ll take notes, or perhaps you’ll sketch someone’s face if the story grows too dull. You hesitate over a change of clothes (not that you have a difficult choice between one simple dress and another) and then decide against it.

When the day arrives, you walk towards the Marmoreal Palace for the second time in your life. Not to bathe — you’ve never done that there, not once, despite the years spent in Okhema — but to visit the Bathhouse Library. It stands open to all citizens who seek mindful enrichment after taking care of their bodies, but you walk slowly, unsure if you’re not intruding.

The marble of the threshold shines too white. You remember standing here once before, clutching a cloth bag with your name on a scroll. That was the day you first registered in the city. Now, the air is perfumed and clean, smelling of Dawncloud Peach. Attendees move in pairs, dressed in soft fabrics the colour of almonds and sea foam. You keep your gaze low and your stride quiet, trailing your fingers along the outer pillars until the inner hall draws you in.

The library wing diverges to the right of the bath chambers. Inside, light seeps through the compluvium in the flat ceiling, ribs of lacquered wood and plaster holding the vines and hanging flowers above tall shelves. Scrolls rest in shallow alcoves that line the walls, guarded by red columns and muted bronze of balustrades. Soft cushions have been scattered around the reading space, and some already sit, murmuring low greetings to one another. You recognise none of them, though most are not dressed that much finer than you.

A pair of musicians tune their instruments near a small fountain where, usually, everyday prayers are performed, and their hushed notes float like threads of warm air. You take your place on the edge of one cushion, trying to seem at ease, though your heart stirs fast beneath your hand when you check it. A faint zephyr from the outside stirs the hem of your tunic, bringing in a cooler scent of flowers.

Soon after, the reading begins.

It’s not Archilochus’s son who speaks first — rather, a scholarly woman with a voice low and clear as a bird’s song. She reads from a scroll so old the ink flakes slightly at its edges. You try to listen closely, but your thoughts catch outside the paper’s margins: the way the candlelight flickers against polished stone, the shape of someone’s wrist as they take notes, the gentle shifts of people settling deeper into the room.

You manage to focus at last when a familiar name is mentioned — not yours, of course, but a character from one of the oral tales you’d overheard seasons ago on your journey here. It’s different. In the version you know, the character dies alone by the riverbank after getting lost in the darkness of the Evernight, pursued by monsters. A warning for children not to roam far away from their homes when the times are so dangerous. But in this one, dating back to Era Chrysea, the protagonist befriends the beast after tending to its wounds, and it transforms into a beautiful human, offering their love in return. It makes you wonder what tales have changed through the retellings and whether there’s truth in any version or only what’s needed at the time.

At some point, someone brings clay cups filled with water infused with Sagelore Fruit to further stimulate one’s mind. It’s bittersweet on your tongue, but refreshing. When Archilochus’s son finally speaks, his commentary is more precise than inspiring, but still you listen, even sketch his profile with soft lines on a scrap of parchment.

You linger longer than expected, even after speaking to the archivist to visit the Librarium (you had to reintroduce yourself, for he had forgotten that you work for his father). A few participants cluster in discussion, but you hang back, content to observe. No one approaches you. That’s all right and means you can still come off as invisible. The walls hum faintly, as if the stone itself remembers each voice that passed through it.

The Bathhouse Library has emptied without your notice, the rustle of pages and shuffling of feet fading into silence. You remain seated, hunched over an open scroll, blocking the light from the overhead crystals. Then — there’s a movement. A shimmer. The sound like butterfly wings unfurling mid-air.

You glance up, and there she is.

Lady Aglaea.

Leaning across the long table, as if she’d always been part of the scenery. Her features glow as if shaped from sunlight and memory — beautiful, golden but cold, warm but unreachable, like a reflection in the mirror that smiles back with a secret. She watches you with the calm patience of someone used to being revered.

“I saw you looking at the scrolls with admirable passion. It’s quite endearing. Why the fascination?”

“I— uh, it’s an interest of mine. Lady.”

You fumble with your posture, trying to sit straighter, unsure if you should bow or speak more formally. Her presence presses into your bones, not crushing, but impossible to ignore — like stepping into a sacred place with muddy shoes. You’re aware of your worn tunic, your hands ink-stained and dry from work. It’s not shame exactly, but you feel oddly transparent.

“Curious. Just what I’ve been looking for.”

“What…?”

“Please, tell me what is the purpose of those marginalia you so diligently fill in between hearing the anecdotes?”

“Oh, you know about this. I didn’t… didn’t think you would be aware, Lady.”

“I do, and I am. But rest assured — it’s not an interest that you should be hiding.”

Her presence is like the golden Hero’s Bath itself (what you imagine it to be, since no ordinary person can take the lift to see it with their own eyes), bringing solace to your soul. Not without a sting when the healing water gets into the wounds — just like her eyes, the colour of dulled opal, looking at you with deadly precision, getting under your skin. You know she could cut your heart open, but you wish to believe she would do it out of her goodwill. You want to trust her because she’s veiled with warmth. So when her beautiful hand extends to you, almost as if glad to hold yours (hurt, with chipped nails and scrapes from work that you cannot quite get rid of despite trying to take care), you reciprocate and let yourself be guided.

“Lady Aglaea, please excuse me, but… what does it mean?”

“I have been collecting memories of Amphoreus. Perhaps not the land as it was, but how it is remembered — imperfect, fragmented, but real in its sentiment. Unfortunately, many of the current researchers are… tired. Or old. Or worse, following the Council’s rigid rules.”

She begins to pace slowly beside the table, her sleeves brushing the polished floor, her voice smooth as poured oil.

“They erase the ugly parts. They trim the wild branches of history. Leave out what is indecent, inappropriate, or unflattering. But I know too well — what is omitted, dies. And I am not ready to bury cultures simply because they do not align with the Okheman one.”

You watch her fingers twist a ring absentmindedly.

“Besides, I find myself in need of someone who can walk where I cannot. Some streets are not kind to noble footsteps. Some names close doors, but new faces can keep them open. If you go on my behalf, they will not question your purpose. They may fear it. That is the power I offer.”

“I know nothing about courtesy.”

“Yet I do not find your presence displeasing. And anything can be learnt if given enough time, which you do possess in abundance, am I right?” She comes closer and examines you. “You’re young.”

Her touch is barely there, but it lifts your chin, and you forget how to breathe. She observes you like a sculptor studies a stone — curious, assessing, not unkind. Your heartbeat flutters against your ribs, trapped. Not a butterfly, nothing quite as graceful.

Not a question, but you still answer, “Yes.”

Then she lets go and strolls away, already in quiet discussion with her servant — a silent mannequin, dressed in shimmering silks, moving under a spell with mechanical elegance, golden threads floating in the air like it’s water. Aglaea turns her head, the corners of her mouth softened by something wistful.

“And to speak truthfully… It’s been a while since I made a younger soul my guest, too. I hope you forgive me the sentimentality, it’s perhaps a small display of my weakness.”

It’s not meant as a confession. It’s control.

She says it because she doesn’t fear you. She considers you harmless. Enough to lift the veil of mystery off her face, just a tiny corner, and lure you in with honesty. And you, the gullible creature you are, charmed by her beauty and ethereal disposition, follow her honeyed voice.

“I do not wish to bribe you, but it is within my power that if you agree…” She places a golden apple in front of you, its sweet colour like the sun and solidified syrup. “There will not be any more rotten apples for dinner.”

You stare at it.

Just do what you can, help where you can, and stay out of the affairs.

You’re still not sure you should even be part of this conversation — sitting across from the most powerful woman in Okhema, a demigod holding the Coreflame of Romance who has lived for centuries and risen to her station through equal parts cunning and grace.

You’ve never needed to think about her beyond the vague whispers that brush the lips of commoners. You’ve heard her name spoken with awe and scorn alike. She’s but a gossip among merchants, refugees, nobles, street performers, soldiers.

Depending on who you ask, she is either a saviour or a tyrant, a blessing or a curse, who makes veiled decisions behind closed doors and controls everything through her webs. Everyone in Okhema has something to say about Aglaea. And most of it contradicts. But there’s one truth hard to deny — that under her guidance, the city has grown quieter, safer, more stable than it ever was under the corrupted rule of the Council of Elders.

You’ve never met her personally before today.

You never expected to.

And yet here she stands, speaking as though you matter, as though your agreement could tip the balance of something you don’t even understand.

You hesitate, the golden apple still between you. “I’ll… think about it,” you say finally, your throat dry. “But I’d like to know more. What exactly would I be—”

She interrupts, gentle but firm, “The answers will come to you. In time.”

You blink. She’s already turned, hands returning to her scrolls, as though nothing has changed — as though your whole life hasn’t just been quietly tilted sideways.

You murmur a thank you that barely has the strength to leave your lips and turn to go, the tides of anxiety tying your ankles together to make walking difficult.

The heavy door groans under your hand — old wood, well-oiled hinges, resisting at first and then shifting with a sigh. But before it swings fully open, before you can slip out into solitude, something pulls from the other side.

You stagger back a half-step, startled, and then freeze entirely.

“Lady Aglaea!”

“We were looking for you!”

There they are.

Lord Mydei and Lord Phainon.

The other Chrysos Heirs. One a blue sky of kind intensity, the other a scorching flame with a piercing gaze. You’ve seen them in passing, through whispers, behind the crowd. But this is different. They’re here. Now.

Mydei’s eyes are the first to meet yours — steady, a flicker of recognition stirring behind their golden shade. As if he’s seen you somewhere before and is now trying to align the pieces. But the flicker does not flare into speech.

Behind him, Phainon leans slightly, curious as always, like the sun itself trying to peek over a mountain. He’s the more visible of the two, the one who walks among people, always smiling, often joking. You once saw him catch a falling bag of oranges and charm an old vendor into laughter. You hadn’t expected his gaze to be so direct now, or for it to settle on you.

You lower your head before either can speak, your movement a reflex — partly submission, partly protection. There’s no place for you in the kind of look they give you, no answer you’re ready to offer to the heroes.

You slip with a polite nod through the narrow gap between Lord Mydei’s shoulder and the doorframe, careful not to brush against him. Their presence lingers on your skin like heat from a fire passed too closely. You barely breathe until the marble steps cool the bottom of your shoes again.

The door closes behind you, sealing the library’s chamber and the weight of their stares.

Inside, your absence leaves a silence that settles strangely in the air. Phainon is the first to speak, casting a look over his shoulder as though trying to follow your shadow even after it’s vanished, almost disappointed he didn’t get to greet you.

“Who was that?”

“We will see, soon…” Aglaea says, and a gentle smile tugs at her lips — one that reveals nothing but promises everything.

𐂥 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 · · · slow burn romance, strangers to friends to lovers, lots of hurt and lots of comfort, equal parts of fluff and angst, slice of life in a world full of chaos, smut (in later chapters), major characters’ deaths; will update as the story progresses!

𐂥 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 · · · heavy on world-building, one of the timelines (eternal recurrences), canon-adjacent, recurring themes of discrimination, political corruption, workplace abuse, violence, misogyny, healing from past trauma, and more… reader is a fully fleshed-out character with a backstory and her own struggles. appearance is left ambiguous, although i may add notes in certain chapters; will update as the story progresses!

Besides self-indulgent romance and writing a lot about the reader, it’s mostly an exploration of Mydei’s character and his relationships from the past (with his companions) and the present (with reader and other Chrystos Heirs). The inconsistencies with the main timeline are left on purpose because the fic follows one of the previous timelines, and because it’s just impossible to find enough information about Amphoreus’ history. I will try to make a separate post for author's notes later to condense known facts about characters and the story.

𐂥 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 · · · will update as the story progresses!

𐂥 𝐈 · NAMELESS FACES. (11.0k)

𐂥 𝐈𝐈 · HOLY CITY APPRAISALS. (14.1k)

𐂥 𝐈𝐈𝐈 · THIRTY STEPS INTO THE PAST. (5.7k)

𐂥 𝐕𝐈 · POMEGRANATE SEEDS BLEED.

𐂥 𝐕 · GREEN FIELDS AND THE SUN ON YOUR FACE.

The number of times he has come back in your dreams is irrelevant. It’s more than enough to push anyone to the brink of insanity, and the only certainty that remains in the haze of delirium is his love for you.

It starts with nightmares. Rare ones, at first, when you’re certain you just miss what once was in the past. The elusive reflection of joy severed too soon. Your bed, once warmed by his presence, feels colder than the night before; the empty expanse of linen beside you mocks your solitude. The chill seeps not just into your bones, but into the very marrow of your soul.

Then, the men from the village, emboldened by the passage of seasons and the absence of your lover, turn a bit too confident with their crude flirtations, their eyes lingering too long, despite the stern warnings from the women who whisper of your grief, telling them to leave you be, for it is still too early after the death (a word you refuse to let settle in your heart, a lie you will not believe) of your fiancé. Each unwanted gaze violates the sacred space that only Khaslana ever truly occupied.

As time flows, the nightmares become persistent, gnawing at your subconsciousness even in the morning, a relentless hunger that no amount of waking light can satiate.

They cling to you, reaching through the veil of sleep to taint your day, and no sunrises can dissipate the shadows of a mourning that refuses to fade. Just as warmth and vibrant shine once clung to your beloved, now your eyes fill with darkness, reflecting not the world's beauty, but the chasm within.

You consider, often and desperately, reaching out to a sorceress who dwells on the forgotten side of the village, her cottage wreathed in the scent of strange herbs and potent spells. But the fear for your already precarious reputation coils around your throat like smoke. Being estranged from most of the people, whispered about and pitied, is already worrying enough; seeking solace from a witch would only solidify your new image of a widow utterly undone, mind unravelling thread by thread into the abyss of insanity.

And even if you dared, what spell could truly unravel such a curse? Perhaps one only just as twisted…

He seeks comfort in your arms during those haunted nights. Over and over, again and again. But his arms are no longer his. You do not recognise those. Those are the arms of a monster, a creature, a darkness that covers the skies above. A calamity that has descended upon the land.

You drift through the house like a ghost, your feet silent on the floorboards, your mind a fog of exhaustion. You don’t remember entering the kitchen, but it feels right to be here.

The moonlight slants through the cracked window, painting the room in silver and shadow. Your hands tremble as you reach for the table, your fingers brushing against the scarred surface. You want to remember him, the way he used to sit here, laughing as he carved the bread, his hands stained with flour and the warmth of life. But the memory is a blur, half-formed, like a dream you can’t hold onto.

Then, a sound. A scary one that sends a shiver down your spine.

The door creaks open.

It’s not the wind. The wind doesn’t move like that. It doesn’t know your name.

A figure stands in the doorway, silhouetted against the pale light. His form is jagged, his edges smudged as if the world itself refuses to define him. His face is a ruin — too many years of something wrong etched into the skin. But when he turns towards you, you see it: the faint curve of his jaw, the shape of his eyes, the way his hair falls in the same way it did when he was still your Khaslana.

Your breath catches. Your heart stutters.

“Khaslana?” you whisper his name like a prayer, like a wound that opens again and again.

No.

This cannot be him.

He is no longer…

The terror in your heart is undeniable; you don’t know if he is real or a figment of your unravelling mind. You feel the cold seep into your bones, the scent of decay and moss reaching your nose. You are not dreaming anymore. You are being haunted again. And this shadow — this thing — will not let you go.

Because of that, you do not fall into his embrace, hesitant and suspicious, with eyes wide open in fright, taking one step back, then two, deciding to run away.

He knows by now that if he lets you escape through the front door, you will trip and hurt yourself, unable to reach the lord of the land in a futile attempt to seek help before you bleed out to death. During his time in the forests, the fairies bestowed upon him a gift (a curse) — the ability to see fragments of the future, a vision that claws at his sanity with every glimpse. This is why he won’t make that mistake, no matter the declining humanity in him; no matter the twisted and warped features that look no longer human and can no longer be called Khaslana.

Is this why you don’t rejoice at the reunion? Why you kick and scream and cry?

“I am… back…” he growls, a distant roar of thunderstorms and desolation.

His touch, once a soothing balm, now brings forth a shiver that has nothing to do with the evening breeze. The air itself seems to curdle around him, burning with the smell of the scorched earth. His eyes are not water where your reflection would dance, but obsidian-black, like void of destruction. You remember tracing the subtle lines at the corners of his eyes when he laughed; you miss the weight of his knuckles as he held your hand. But this… this is grotesque, a mockery of the man you once loved, a puppet of a malevolent force.

The yearning to flee is an instinct.

Run.

Even as your bare feet cramp from the uneven ground as you jump over the doorframe into the half-wild orchards at the back of your house, a part of you wants to turn back and try to see past the veil if your beloved is still somewhere there within the hollow shell of a nightmare.

“Do… not… run…” he speaks, slowly, like his voice comes from the edge of your dream.

Run.

“Please, leave me be! Do not follow!” you cry into the night, pushing yourself forward with fingers gripping the barks of apple trees.

Let me live. Run.

Let me start anew. Run.

Let me forget about the past. Run.

His form mixes with the shades amidst the gnarled branches; he tries to avoid the silver moonlight, silver as once was his hair. The silence that follows your plea is not an answer, even though tacit confessions dance with the pollen.

Maybe you should stop…

Maybe you should turn away…

Maybe you should welcome your man…

Just run.

The garden looks like a wedding venue, with white flowers that’ll give way to apples in a few months swirling between the currents of the warm breeze. The scent of summer fruits, bruised and sweet on the ground, blends with the cold of whatever corruption clings to him. It’s similar to turning your back on an early-winter morning.

A haunting vision, because you’ve never gotten to marry Khaslana before his departure.

And if yes, if you did marry, you knew it would happen here, in this orchard, in the middle of the summer, with the same flowers gracing your heads and tickling your noses…

I love you.

I love you more!

How much?

As many times as there are flowers in the orchard.

I don’t believe you!

Had I possessed the skill, I would have made you a veil out of petals on the ground.

Khaslana…

Before the shadows lengthened into monstrous forms, there was only this little house separated from the rest of the village by a shallow stream and the old orchard spreading behind the garden.

All you knew, all you needed.

It was a beautiful place where the boughs of apple trees, promising an abundance of fruits during the ripest of months, whispered of a love as magical as the land itself. Years ago, beneath the summer sun, your fate intertwined with Khaslana’s. His laughter, bright as a freshly polished coin, mingled with the hum of bees rummaging through the blossoms, and his touch, even then, felt like forever he had vowed to spend with you.

But the idyll, like all things of fragile beauty, was destined to shatter…

The lord of the land, a man whose ambition stretched further than his fields, called upon his men. A war, they gossiped, against the elusive, shimmering fey of the deep forests, against the spiritual beasts that guarded ancient, fertile grounds not far from the village. It was a conquest for more than just produce; it was a hungry reach for power, for dominion over the unseen realms that didn’t (and should not) belong to humans. Khaslana, with the loyalty and strength that belied his youthful grace, answered the summons.

“I will be back, able to provide for you and keep our little paradise eternally beautiful,” he said, as if such a feeble confession could warm your bed during his absence.

His departure was a wound, fresh and bleeding, yet veiled by the necessity of duty. The last embrace beneath the blossoming trees was a bittersweet prophecy. His lips tasted like return, soft and sweet against yours, but his eyes, even then, held a flicker of something evil, a premonition of the monstrous transformation that awaited him in the enchanted wilds. You watched him go, taking with him not just your heart, but the very light of this little world known only to you two.

If you knew, you would stop him.

(The ancient forest had always been a place of whispers, but that fated night, it became an altar of betrayal. Khaslana had ventured into the heart of the woods, his sword sheathed, his hands raised in a gesture of peace. Why would he listen to the lord on the brink of insanity? For what would he slaughter those who had lived there before humans? The fairies, with their gossamer wings and laughter like wind chimes, had welcomed him at first — offering him nectar that shimmered like starlight and fruits that tasted of dreamlike summers. But their kindness was a mask, their joy a cruel taunt. They had seen the warriors who followed him, the ones who had come not to save but to destroy, and they had marked him as a traitor to their kind.

“He wanted to warn us,” some would later say.

“Only because he was still human — still weak enough to be deceived,” others would argue.

“He brought here iron and steel, and now he must pay.”

The forest had no mercy. As Khaslana wandered deeper, the fairies wove illusions around him, honeyed lies, and the trees whispered his name in a language he had long forgotten. He was lured to the edge of a pool, its surface like molten silver, where the fairies had gathered to drink.

“Come,” they sang, “taste the truth.”

He did.

And the truth was a hunger, a thirst that devoured his will, his reason, his very soul.

The warriors who had followed him were gone, devoured by the forest’s creatures — beings that wore the faces of women, their smiles delicious as berries. Khaslana had tried to resist, but the fireflies had blinded him, the flowers had ensnared him, and the fairies had claimed him as their own.

He lost everything — his humanity, his purpose, his name. The fairies called him their monster now, a thing of shadows and sorrow, a cautionary tale told to children who dared to wander too far. They laughed as he stumbled through the ruins of his own mind, as the forest devoured his memories one by one.

And when he finally emerged, broken and hollow, the world had changed. All that remained was the echo of everyone’s laughter, the weight of their judgment, and the knowledge that he would never again be Khaslana again.)

But you were no witch nor a deity to foresee the future…

Now, each hurried step through the dew-kissed grass is a futile hope that the one pursuing you is merely a figment of your fears, rather than the horrifying reincarnation of a love lost.

But then you see a ghost. A ghost with an alabaster face and a smile made of pearls. He sits on a low branch and hums a song you thought you had forgotten.

“Khaslana…” you whisper, turning towards the fog shaped as a man.

It’s when the monster catches you, wraps his thorny arms around your waist and holds you close, close enough to rest his chin on your shoulder.

“Listen,” he murmurs into your ear instead of killing you.

So you listen, believing it’s a threat…

“Oh, it’s you!”

It’s him.

It cannot be…

But it’s him.

“I thought you’d never find this place!” Khaslana’s voice rings in your ears like bellflowers, a spell you could never ignore.

“Don’t joke! The orchard is full of trees, and you asked me to find one among hundreds!” you pout, but it sounds like from a memory, like it doesn’t quite belong to you anymore; but you succumb to the feeling all the same, forgetting the evil that has you caged within his claws.

This memory is a fragile, shimmering thing, a bubble rising from the depths of a forgotten well. You feel the rough bark beneath your fingers — not the monstrous grip, but the familiar texture of the apple tree where Khaslana once carved your initials, intertwined, inside a clumsy heart.

The scent of fruits and flowers — not the sickly corruption — fills your lungs, and the laughter that spills from your lips is light, untainted by fear. You see his face, vivid and clear, his eyes truly like water, reflecting the playful spark in your own. The warmth of his hand, so different from the thorns now digging into your skin, is a ghost itself, pressing gently into your palm.

“But you found me. You’re here now…” Khaslana smiles.

The beautiful and youthful Khaslana.

Each word he speaks in this vision, each imagined touch, tightens the monstrous embrace, pulling you deeper into a labyrinth where love and terror become one. Caught between the past and the present, between a ghost of happiness and the horrifying reality of the creature holding you, both demanding your full attention. The world spins, a dizzying kaleidoscope of what was and what is, and for a fleeting moment, you cannot tell which is the dream and which is the nightmare.

“Why did you bring me here?” you finally ask.

“Oh, I think you know.”

“Not at all!”

“I love you,” he admits, honey and myrrh clinging to your soul, melting with your heart. “I wanted to say it when we’re alone. To you. Only to you.”

“Only you…” repeats the chilling growl near your ear.

“Come closer,” the shimmering ghost whispers, extending a hand that feels warm, real.

The monster stiffens behind you, its embrace becoming less a cage and more a desperate hold, as if he, too, senses the allure of the past, or fears the memory might truly steal you away.

It’s before you open your eyes again, brushing away a stray tear — you miss him more than you can hide within your heart — and extending your arms towards the mysterious shadow, when you end up with your back on the ground again.

Lying upon the soft grass, you are reminded of that one fated night when you opened your thighs in front of Khaslana, letting him rest between them. He made love to every inch of your body, kissed every part of your skin until it shone like the stars above. He was your everything and filled your entire being; he made you his, and you accepted him as yours.

He knows you would always permit him, but that certainty turned into dust after he had stopped asking. No longer sweet, convincing you with sweet praises and begging songs leaving his lips, now just taking what used to be his.

Your dignity, your spirit, your body.

Unconscious — fed with the promise of reuniting with your lover, your dear Khaslana — you don’t notice your hands bleeding after you caress the sharp edges of his mask.

(You believe it’s his face, smooth and soft, although carved to mimic humanity’s heroes, masculine and handsome.

Thorns and spikes and rusty remains hurt your skin, and the one who was once Khaslana is forced to hold your wrist, pin it to the ground, because he cannot imagine on you any more scars left by the monster he has turned into.)

His clawed fingers tremble as they trace the curve of your jaw, as if trying to memorise the shape of the person he once adored, the person he once was — before the war, before the fey, before the curse that gnawed at his bones and turned his soul to something unnameable.

You do not pull away. Not yet.

The ghost of Khaslana — your Khaslana — whispers in your ear, a voice like wind through hollow reeds, “Forgive me.”

But the monster, the thing that was Khaslana, growls into your shoulder, a sound like roots splitting stone, and you feel his teeth graze the pulse at your throat, a hunger that is not just for blood but for absolution.

“Why…?” you murmur, your voice a thread snapping in the wind. “Why like this?”

He does not answer. Instead, he lifts you and places on a softer grass — cradling you as if you are still the bride he once dreamt of carrying over the threshold of this very garden, still the sunshine who laughed as he carved your initials into the bark, still the love who believed in him when the world had already turned its back.

Now his embrace is a shroud, and you are both the corpse and the mourner.

His hands — his hands, the ones that once held yours as you danced beneath the apple blossoms — sink into your hair, yanking your head back so you can see the face he has become: a mask of thorns and bone, a hollow where his blessed features should be. And yet, in that void, you see him — the boy who once knelt in the mud to pick daisies for you, the man who swore he would never leave you again.

“You left me,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “You left me…!”

“I tried to come back,” he says, brushing your cheek. “The forest… they took me. They—” His voice cracks, and for a moment, the monster stumbles, his form flickering like a candle in the wind. “—and I couldn’t… I couldn’t unmake it.”

You do not cry. You do not scream.

You simply reach up, your fingers curling around the thorns that pierce your skin, and pull him down until your lips meet again — this time, not in apology, but with longing. You taste the corruption, the decay, the otherness of him, and you do not look away. His mouth finds yours, and it is not gentle. It is not sweet. It is starving. Blood and earth and the bitter sweetness, mingling with the salt of tears; your lips parting, your tongue seeking his, your body trembling.

“You are the curse,” you whisper against his mouth. “But I am not afraid of you.”

Not anymore.

For a heartbeat, the world holds its breath. Then, slowly, he tilts his head, his obsidian eyes gleaming as he stares into your face. And for the first time since the war, since the fey, since the moment his humanity was stripped away, he feels not a monster.

What you see in him is human.

And it is broken.

He does not let go.

“Don’t let me go…” you whimper as he nuzzles closer.

He cannot let go.

“I missed that. Love me, Khaslana…”

Please, make love to me.

Make me feel alive again, make me yours!

I beg of you…

His hands — his hands, the ones that once traced your skin with reverence — sink into the fabric of your nightgown, bunching it up until your thighs are bare, exposed to the cold, the hunger, the him that has not changed, even if he now wears a mask. He does not undress you. He does not need to. You are already his. You have always been his. The nightgown is just a mist. He holds you, fingers digging into the flesh until it bruises, until the pain blooms like a flower in the dark.

And you let him.

You let him because you know this is not violence. This is admiration.

This is him remembering how to love.

Let me show you…

Shame has left you — gone, like the first snow of winter, with the apologies whispered in your ear. You are wet — slick with the heat of want, the ache of longing, the surrender that has been building in your bones since the moment he returned, broken and monstrous and yours. You lean into his rough and unrelenting hands, your body arching and pressing upwards to meet his hips, begging for the invasion of his cock, the violation of his love. You are ready. You have been ready for years. For every night you spent dreaming of his touch, for every scar you carried in your heart, for every moment you waited for him.

No more shame, no more guilt, no more fear.

He breaches your cunt with a hunger that has been building since he left. He tears through the velvet of your folds and inner walls, splitting them open like ripe fruit beneath his fingers’ merciless grip. And then— then— he moves. You feel him inside of you, deep, raw, unrelenting. You let him break you because you know that in the end, this is the only way you can be whole again. He takes you, owns you, claims you, and you let him.

Because this is not violence. This is love.

As you weep in delight, he continues to defile your insides, pushing deep into the silk of your pussy until the glistening slick tints with blood, and you sob with each drag of his cock. The pain is barely there, but it wakes each tiny spark of delirium.

“Khaslana,” you murmur, your voice breaking on his name.

“Yes, my love?” His body stills above you, his breath ragged, and you don’t even know anymore if it’s the monster or the ghost speaking.

You smile and say, “I love you.”

His mouth hovers near your ear, and when he speaks, it’s a whisper that trembles with something like regret. “You are still here,” he murmurs, his breath oddly warm against your pulse. “Even after everything.”

You tilt your head, your cheek resting against the cool, jagged edge of his mask. “You are still here, too,” you reply, your voice soft, almost a sigh. “Even after everything.”

“You are not afraid of me…”

“No,” you whisper, your fingers curling around the thorns that still pierce your palms. “I am not.”

The pain is there, still, but it is not sharp anymore. You feel him inside as a man who has finally found his way back to you, making love to you slowly and tenderly. The rhythm of his hips is no longer urgent, not desperate. You wrap your legs around his waist, your fingers digging into his back in need to hold him even closer.

As the moon rises higher, casting its silver light over the orchard, the ghost of Khaslana cradles you to his chest, and for the first time in years, he does not feel the need to take. He simply cuddles you, and the orchard sighs, the apples trembling in their branches as if they, too, remember the love that once bloomed here.

This is not the end.

But it is not the beginning, either.

It is something in between—

a love that refuses to die,

a curse that refuses to be undone,

and two souls, tangled in the limbo of what once was,

learning to breathe again.

They say love is always just one step away from tragedy.

They find joy in stories of love that breaks too easily, too rotten to be true, too perfect to exist at all…

And yours is all of the above.

The once beautiful Khaslana, the one who once looked like the rising sun, dissipates with the first rays of dawn, leaving your unconscious self on the ground like yet another bruised fruit, covered with flowers that in a merrier world would grace the wedding veil on your face.