MissChievous

Alexander bristled, his jaw tightening. “You think I would lie about such a thing?”

Hephaestion held up a placating hand. “Not lie. But even the keenest eyes may be tricked by twilight, and sacred groves are ever the domain of visions.”

A tense silence stretched between them before Hephaestion pressed further, seizing the opportunity to steer the conversation toward firmer ground. “And, if I may ask—what were you doing near that place at such an hour? The laws of Meiza are clear: no pupil departs temple grounds without leave from kin or tutor. And you, my lord, sought no such permission.”

The prince stiffened, caught off guard. His fingers twitched at his sides, betraying his struggle to conjure a convincing excuse. After a moment of hesitation, he exhaled sharply and surrendered to the truth. “I saw Cassander slipping beyond the wall that way. I wished to see where he was going.”

Hephaestion groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as if beseeching the gods for patience. The son of Antipater was a notorious instigator, a boy who treated rules as mere suggestions rather than boundaries. Like Alexander, he had been raised under the shadow of power—his father, the king’s most trusted general, ensured that consequence rarely touched him. The two were cut from the same defiant cloth, each believing themselves the exception to every rule.

“My prince,” Hephaestion said, his voice edged with reproach, “Cassander is no beacon of conduct. Must you trail after his every folly?”

Alexander’s lip curled. “Folly? I call it vigilance.”

“Vigilance that conjures goddesses from the mist?” Hephaestion countered, his brow arched.

Alexander’s retort died on his lips, replaced by a stubborn silence while thinking back to his encounter.

Sleep had eluded him. The hour was late, the halls of the temple of the nymphs hushed, but his thoughts raced like chariots at the Hippodrome. Resigned, he had risen, slipping into the cool embrace of the night. Above him, Selene reigned in silver splendor, her celestial handmaidens—those distant, twinkling stars—scattered across the heavens like diamonds cast upon obsidian. He knew their names, their myths, their paths—Aristotle had made certain of that. Yet tonight, their brilliance offered no solace.

Seeking refuge, he had settled beneath one of the garden’s pillared gazebos, its stark white columns entwined with ivy, their leaves swaying in the faintest breath of wind. It was a portrait of tranquility—or so it seemed.

Then—movement.

A cloaked figure slipped between the shadows near the temple, footsteps careful and deliberate. An intruder? A thief? Instinct flared hot in Alexander’s veins. His fingers twitched toward the dagger at his belt as he melted into the darkness, trailing the stranger with the precision of a hunter.

Yet something gnawed at him. Something about how this man moved felt familiar, whether it was the rhythm in his step or his posture. Recognition hit Alexander like Zeus' lightning.

The hood slipped, revealing the sharp features of Cassander, scion of the noble house of Iolaos. What madness drove him beyond the walls at this hour? The rules of Meiza were the iron girders of discipline, absolute and ultimate and Cassander, for all his posturing, was no fool. Unless his purpose was worth the risk.

Alexander tensed—he had to follow, demand answers—

“My prince?”

He was about to follow him out but he heard a voice call from behind him.

The voice, low but unmistakable, froze him mid-step. He whirled, blade half-drawn, before his eyes settled on Ptolemy—a close friend and companion.

“What business have you here?” The prince countered, his tone sharper than intended.

Ptolemy’s gaze flickered toward the wall, then back. “I might ask the same.”

By the time Alexander turned again, Cassander had vanished—swallowed by the night. Reluctantly, he allowed Ptolemy to steer him back to the dormitories, but the questions festered like a wound left untended. Why? Where? How often?

Days passed. The mystery festered. Alexander watched, patient as a sage, as Cassander moved through his routines—attending lectures, drilling in the palaestra, laughing with friends. But always, always, there was that gleam in his eye—the look of a man who knew a secret. Then, the pattern emerged. Once every fortnight, Cassander would slip away.

Tonight, Alexander would not be thwarted. With Ptolemy’s aid—ever willing, ever unquestioning—Cassander was lured into a late-night game of kottabos, his attention ensnared by wine and wit.

And Alexander moved.

He retraced Cassander’s path, fingers skimming the rough-hewn stones of the perimeter wall, searching, probing—

There.

Behind a curtain of thick ivy, the mortar had crumbled, the bricks pried loose just enough to form a narrow passage. Alexander exhaled a laugh, triumphant. So this was how the fox slipped its leash. With one last cautious glance behind him to ensure he hadn't been followed, the young prince dropped to his hands and knees and squeezed through the gap. The rough stone scraped against his shoulders, but the thrill of rebellion burned hotter than any discomfort. This forbidden act of slipping beyond the walls sent his pulse racing in a way no training yard spar ever could.

Beyond the wall, the trail revealed itself through flattened grasses and broken twigs— a path worn by frequent use. The corners of Alexander's mouth quirked up in satisfaction as he noted the clear signs of Cassander's regular trespasses. The foliage grew denser as he pressed forward, vines and branches snagging at his chiton with increasing persistence. Where a more patient man might have carefully parted the vegetation, Alexander slashed through the greenery with impatient strokes of his dagger, sending leaves and tendrils flying. Answers waited ahead, and he'd be damned if some stubborn plants would delay him.

Just as the thicket seemed impassable, silver light flickered between the leaves ahead. With one final, determined push, Alexander burst through— only to stumble and fall gracelessly onto his hands and knees in the soft earth. The indignity of it burned his cheeks— a prince of Macedon, sprawled in the dirt like a clumsy child. He scrambled up quickly, brushing the soil from his knees with sharp, embarrassed movements while glancing about to confirm his humiliation had no witnesses.

Before him stretched a vision so perfect it seemed ripped from the dreams of poets. A tranquil lake reflected the full moon and star-strewn sky, gentle ripples danced across the water like nymphs at play. The surrounding meadow glowed emerald in the moonlight while fireflies weaved through the air— living sparks from Hestia's eternal flame. Towering over the scene stood a magnolia tree, its pearl-white blossoms luminous against the night, petals drifting down like snowflakes to carpet the ground below. The air hummed with the rhythmic chorus of crickets like delicate lyres strumming in harmony to the wind's gentle melody. And there, beneath the magnolia's boughs, stood the source of the ethereal radiance that illuminated this hidden sanctuary.

Time itself seemed to pause as Alexander's eyes beheld her. Flowing H/C locks cascaded over her shoulders draped in silken fabric of her chiton that appeared woven from morning mist and pearls. Golden bracelets glimmered at her wrists as she cradled a dove with infinite tenderness, her lips murmuring comforts only the divine could impart.

Alexander's pulse thundered in his ears. The air grew thick, time itself pausing in reverence. No mortal woman could possess such unearthly grace, such effortless perfection. The stories, the statues, the temple frescoes - all had failed to capture even a fraction of her beauty. That was when he knew that before him stood none other than Aphrodite herself, goddess of love and beauty.

Driven by a hunger that burned hotter than reason, Alexander stepped forward, his fingers trembling as they reached for her—not in worship, but in desperate, human need. To touch. To prove she was real. But the forest betrayed him. A branch snapped beneath his foot, the sound as sharp as a blade through the sacred silence.

Her head whipped toward him.

And in that instant—reality shattered.

The face that met his was young, terrified. A girl. No older than him, if not younger. Her eyes—wide with panic—locked onto his for a single, breathless moment before she scrambled to her feet, the dove still clutched protectively in her hands. Then she was running, her bare feet kicking up dew as she vanished into the trees.

“Wait!” Alexander's voice tore from his throat, raw with something between command and plea.

Doubt clawed at him. Had he committed sacrilege? Was she a nymph, a spirit, forbidden to mortal eyes? The way she had looked at him—not with divine indifference, but fear—gnawed at his certainty. Yet even as guilt prickled at his conscience, a darker, hungrier thought took root.

She had run from him.

And Alexander of Macedon did not tolerate flight.

His mother’s voice slithered through his mind, seductive as a serpent: “You are blessed by Zeus. The world is yours to claim.”

If this girl was divine, then she belonged among his conquests.

If she was mortal—then she had no right to refuse him.

The days stretched on, each one longer than the last, as Alexander returned again and again to the hidden glade. But the girl—the vision—was nowhere to be found. The magnolia tree stood as silent witness to his frustration, its petals drifting onto the undisturbed surface of the lake. She had vanished like morning mist under the sun.

“As I have told you before, my prince, it is... improbable that she was divine.” Hephaestion's voice was measured, the way one might speak to a restless hound before it snapped. “More likely, she was a girl from the village—perhaps the daughter of some wealthy merchant.”

Alexander scoffed, fingers tightening around the edge of his cup. “You think I do not know the difference between merchant's silk and the raiment of a goddess?” The fabric she had worn had seemed spun from the finest of pearls of Poseidon's waters, the gold at her wrists too pure, too alive, to be the work of mortal hands. “No village girl owns such things. No noble in this city could afford them.”

Hephaestion exhaled, weary. “Then what do you intend to do?”

Alexander's gaze darkened. “Find her.”

Then—a thought struck him like a blade between the ribs.

Cassander.

Had he known her? Had he been sneaking out to meet her all this time?

Cassander was seated in the courtyard, methodically running a whetstone along the edge of his sword when Alexander approached. The son of Antipater glanced up, his usual smirk in place. “My prince,” he greeted, setting his blade aside. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Alexander forced a smile. “I was hoping you might join me in the library tonight. I mean to study the old texts—perhaps you could lend your insight.”

A flicker of hesitation. Then Cassander sighed, rubbing his temple. “I am honored, but I must beg your pardon. I’ve been feeling unwell—I thought to retire early.”

Liar.

Alexander’s blood burned. Today was the night—the same pattern as before. Cassander knew. He had to. And now he dared refuse his prince’s request, hiding behind false weakness? “I see,” Alexander said, his voice dangerously smooth. “Then may Apollo’s grace restore you swiftly.”

He turned away before Cassander could see the fury in his eyes.

Hephaestion was waiting where Alexander had left him, arms crossed, watching the exchange with quiet unease.

“You will come with me tonight,” Alexander commanded, his voice low. “To the meadows.”

Hephaestion frowned. “My prince—”

“You will see her,” Alexander interrupted, his eyes alight with something perilous. “And then you will understand.”

The sun had barely dipped below the horizon when Alexander and Hephaestion slipped through the crumbling gap in the wall. The prince moved with the precision of a seasoned hunter; his every sense attuned to the whispers of the night. Hephaestion followed, his unease growing with each step deeper into the forbidden woods.

“We shouldn't be out here after curfew,” Hephaestion muttered, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Alexander didn't slow. “Then consider this a royal command overriding temple law.” His voice left no room for debate.

The forest grew denser, the path Cassander had taken now illuminated only by the faint glow of fireflies. Alexander's pulse quickened—every rustle of leaves, every snapped twig could mean she was near. Or worse, that Cassander had gotten there first.

Then—her voice.

Sweet and clear as a songbird’s call, it floated through the trees:

“Cassander… is that you?”

Through the tangled foliage, torchlight flickered, painting the trunks in gold and shadow. There. The girl stood just beyond the thicket, her silhouette haloed in firelight.

Hephaestion’s sharp inhale confirmed it—she was real. Not a specter, not a trick of the moonlight. Alexander’s grinned in triumph.

Then, like a predator coiling before the strike, he stepped back—once, twice—before surging forward, bursting into the clearing with the force of a storm.

The girl whirled, her eyes widening in terror. She stumbled back, but Alexander was faster. His hand closed around her wrist, yanking her to a halt.

For a moment, he said nothing. Just stared.

Up close, she was more breathtaking than he remembered. Her skin was impossibly soft beneath his calloused fingers, warm as sunlight. Her hair—loose and tumbling over her shoulders—gleamed like spun gold. And her eyes… wide, luminous, frightened. Tears welled along her lashes, but she didn’t look away. Alexander’s breath caught. Gods. Even in distress, she was radiant.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Let me go.”

She twisted in his grip, but Alexander barely registered the struggle. His free hand rose almost of its own accord, brushing a stray lock from her face. Her hair slipped through his fingers like silk, finer than any royal weave. He ached to cradle her cheek, to claim this moment—

“Alexander.”

Hephaestion’s voice cut through the haze, sharp as a blade. The girl seized the distraction, wrenching free with a sob. Before Alexander could react, she darted behind Hephaestion, fists clutching his chiton like a lifeline.

Alexander blinked, disoriented. “Y/N?” Hephaestion murmured, half-turning to shield her.

Cassander burst from the trees then, his face paling as he took in the scene. “Y/N! Wait— Hephaestion? What in Hades—?”

“Cassander!” The girl lunged past Hephaestion, crashing into Cassander’s chest. His arms closed around her instinctively, his glare snapping to Alexander.

The prince’s blood turned to lava.

“Explain,” Alexander snarled. His hand flexed at his side, fingers itching for his sword. The pieces crashed together with brutal clarity. Hephaestion, who’d doubted her existence, now stood as her protector? Cassander, who'd lied to his prince, held her like she was his? Every muscle in his body coiled, ready to strike. Betrayal. Hot and noxious, it coiled in his gut.

The girl flinched at his tone, pressing closer to Cassander.

Hephaestion stepped forward, his voice low. ”Alexander, this isn’t what you think.”

“Then enlighten me,” Alexander bit out. The words dripped venom.

Cassander’s grip tightened on the girl. “It is not what you think my prince. She’s my—”

Alexander took a menacing step forward, the air around him crackling with barely restrained fury. “Your what?” he interrupted, each word a dagger thrust. His voice dropped to a whisper that carried more threat than any shout. “Finish that sentence, Cassander. I command you.”

The clearing seemed to hold its breath. The rustling leaves stilled. Even the ever-present chorus of crickets fell silent, as if nature itself recoiled from the storm about to break.

Hephaestion, standing rigid between them, finally broke the suffocating silence. “Alexander,” he said carefully, “she's Cassander's sister.”

The words hung suspended in the air, heavy with implication.

For several heartbeats, Alexander simply stared, his mind struggling to reconcile this new reality with the divine vision he'd convinced himself he'd seen. Sister. The word echoed in his skull, unraveling the fantasy thread by thread.

“Then how is it I've never known of her before?” he demanded, though the fire in his voice had dimmed, replaced by something perilously close to relief.

Cassander sighed, his grip on the girl loosening marginally. “My lord, she is the daughter of my father's third wife,” he explained, his tone carefully neutral. Alexander knew Antipater had taken multiple wives—common among nobles—but had paid little attention to any offspring beyond Cassander, the only one deemed worthy of political consideration. Noble daughters, especially young ones, were often kept out of public view until marriageable age, and this girl was clearly not yet of that station.

Hephaestion added quietly, “Our mothers were close in their youth. Cassander and his siblings have always been welcome in our home.” There was an unspoken truth beneath his words: the sons of nobles moved in circles Alexander, as prince, could never fully inhabit. They respected him, yes, even cared for him—but there were lines they would not cross, boundaries he could never breach.

Alexander's fingers uncurled from the hilt of his sword.

But Hephaestion was not finished. He knew Cassander's pride was a brittle thing, especially when it came to his family's honor, and Alexander's actions had skirted dangerously close to insult. “Cassander,” he began, choosing his words with the precision of a diplomat, “you must understand. The prince acted out of concern. He believed Y/N was a common village girl distracting you from your studies at Meiza. His methods were... misguided, but his intent was pure.”

A beat. Then Cassander nodded, though his jaw remained tight. “I understand.”

Behind him, the girl—Y/N—remained half-hidden, her wide eyes darting between them like a hare assessing its predators. Cassander turned to her, murmuring something too low for the others to hear, before stepping forward to clasp Alexander's arm in a gesture of truce.

Hephaestion seized the opportunity to lean down to Y/N. “Are you alright?” he asked softly, his voice the gentle cadence she had come to associate with safety. She nodded, though her fingers still trembled from uncertainty.

When Cassander returned, the tension in his shoulders had eased. “It seems introductions are in order,” he said, with forced lightness. “My prince, may I present my sister, the third daughter of the House of Iolaos— Lady Y/N.”

Y/N dipped into a flawless bow, her eyes demurely lowered.

“And Y/N,” Cassander continued, “this is Alexander, Prince of Macedon.”

Alexander offered her a smile that might have been charming under different circumstances. Then, to the shock of all present, he extended his hand—not in command, but in request.

Y/N hesitated, her gaze flicking to Cassander, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. Swallowing her fear, she placed her hand in Alexander's.

Instead of shaking it, he raised her fingers to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles with a reverence that bordered on theatrical. “Forgive my earlier discourtesy, my lady,” he murmured, his voice smooth as honeyed wine. ”I meant you no harm.”

The gesture was one reserved for cherished friends—or equals. A blatant lie, given the fury of moments before, but a necessary performance.

The tension in the clearing eased, but the air still thrummed with unspoken words. Alexander released Y/N's hand, though his fingers lingered for a heartbeat too long—a silent promise that this encounter was not the end, but the beginning.

“We should return before the night deepens,” Hephaestion urged, his voice low but firm. “Before the temple masters notice our absence.” His eyes flickered between Alexander and Cassander, well aware that this peace was as fragile as spun glass.

Cassander gave a curt nod, turning to Y/N. His expression, so often sharp with arrogance, softened as he cupped her face. “Go,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Your nurse will be waiting.” A gentle nudge toward the path where he knew her attendants stood guard—his silent assurance that she would be safe from prying eyes, from him.

But the prince of Macedon wasn't one to be shaken off so easily. 

“Y/N.”

Her name rolled off his tongue like honeyed wine, smooth and deliberate. She froze mid-step, the fine linen of her chiton whispering against her skin as she turned just enough to meet his gaze over her shoulder.

Alexander smiled—not the charming grin of a prince, but the slow, deliberate curve of a predator savoring the scent of its prey. “Now that we are properly acquainted,” he said, “I would be honored if you would grace us with your company again. Soon.”

A command disguised as a request.

Y/N’s throat tightened, but she dipped into a flawless curtsey, her lashes brushing her cheeks. “As you wish, my prince.”

As Y/N's retreating footsteps faded into the night, Alexander inhaled slowly, savoring the lingering scent of magnolias that clung stubbornly to the air. The taste of victory was sweet upon his tongue - but incomplete.

The group moved in heavy silence, the crunch of leaves beneath their sandals the only sound. Cassander lingered a few paces behind, his brow furrowed in quiet contemplation, while Hephaestion walked slightly ahead while, his shoulders tense. Alexander, meanwhile, seemed almost at ease, his hands clasped behind his back as if they had merely enjoyed a moonlit stroll.

Hephaestion’s stomach twisted with unease. He cared deeply for Alexander—had followed him without question through battles and trials—but he knew better than anyone the dangerous fire that burned within the prince. It was the same fire that had burned Troy to the ground, the kind that consumed everything in its path. And now, it had fixated on Y/N. Gods help her, he thought, if she becomes the kindling for that flame.

“Your sister,” Alexander mused suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade through silk. “She is timid, yet there is a sweetness to her. So marked, in fact, that I find myself questioning if the two of you share any blood at all.” He chuckled, as if it were nothing more than a jest—a jest that expected laughter in return.

“My sister is merely unaccustomed to strangers, my prince,” he replied, his tone carefully measured. “Particularly those who... handle her so callously.” The unspoken accusation hung between them.

Alexander turned, his smile sharp and humorless, never quite reaching his eyes. “Ah, then I shall have to make amends,” he said smoothly. “A proper apology is in order, wouldn’t you agree?” Hephaestion suppressed a grimace. They all knew it was nothing more than an excuse—a thinly veiled ploy to see her again. Yet neither he nor Cassander dared voice the objection aloud.

In the days that followed, a calm settled over them. Alexander played his part flawlessly. He drew closer to Cassander, engaging him in debates, training alongside him, even jesting with him as though the incident in the woods had never occurred. There was no mention of Y/N, no lingering questions—at least, not spoken aloud.

To an outsider, it might have seemed as though Alexander had moved on, his fleeting fascination with Cassander’s sister forgotten as quickly as it had ignited.

But Hephaestion knew better.

It was during one of their evening walks through the olive groves that Alexander finally struck.

“What I still don’t understand,” he began, his tone deceptively light, as though discussing nothing more consequential than the weather, “is why your sister is not with the rest of your family.”

Cassander stilled, his fingers twitching imperceptibly at his sides. For a moment, it seemed he might not answer. Then, with deliberate calm, he replied, “Her mother has little interest in child-rearing. She prefers her own pursuits to the duties of motherhood.” A flicker of disdain crossed his features. “I despise her for it, amongst other things. But Y/N... she is nothing like her.”

Alexander arched a brow, feigning polite curiosity. “And so she remains here?”

“The great Aristotle resides in Meiza,” Cassander said, his voice softening slightly. “Scholars and thinkers frequent these halls. I convinced my father to let her accompany me so that I might oversee her education.”

“How... noble of you,” he murmured, the words dripping with false admiration. Then, with a calculated shift, he added, “Speaking of nobility—regarding that apology I owe her. I was thinking of compensating your sister for the distress I caused. Silk from Corinth, perhaps? Or gold from Lydia’s mines? Pearls plucked fresh from the Aegean?” His tone was smooth, but the glint in his eyes was anything but benign.

Cassander shook his head. “That won’t be necessary, my prince. Your words that evening were apology enough.”

Alexander waved a dismissive hand, though his gaze never wavered. “Nonsense. I insist.” The air between them grew heavy, the unspoken challenge unmistakable—refuse me again, and see what happens.

Hephaestion, sensing the tension coiling like a viper ready to strike, stepped forward. “With all due respect, my prince,” he interjected smoothly, “Y/N is the daughter of Antipater, the most celebrated general in Macedonia. Silk and gold are hardly rare treasures in their household. Rather words of sincerity are gifts unparalleled.” His voice was light, but his stance was firm—a shield thrown between Alexander’s will and Cassander’s rising temper.

“You are correct. I suppose I shall have to look for another gift then.” Alexander conceded, the corner of his mouth quirking upward.

True to his word, Alexander spent the following days in quiet deliberation. He dismissed the obvious offerings—jewels, silks, perfumes from the East—all trinkets that might impress a courtier’s daughter but would mean nothing to a girl who valued thought and effort over finery.

Then, one evening as he walked past the magnolia tree where he had first seen her, inspiration struck.

With meticulous care, he selected a sturdy branch and set to work, his dagger carving delicate strokes into the wood late into the night. The servants whispered about the prince’s strange new obsession, but Alexander paid them no mind. Perfection could not be rushed.

When the next fortnight arrived, Alexander appeared at Cassander’s door unannounced, his smile as polished as his ceremonial armor.

“Walk with me,” he said, and it was not a request.

Cassander knew better than to refuse.

The meadow lay bathed in silver moonlight, just as it had been that fateful evening. And there, beneath the great magnolia, stood Y/N—her silhouette haloed in pale blossoms. At the sound of approaching footsteps, she turned, her face alight with expectation... until she saw Alexander.

The prince's heart stuttered in his chest like a startled bird.

Discomfort flickered across her features, swift as a shadow over water. It's alright, Alexander told himself, the words a mantra. She'll come to see me. She must.

“Why is His Highness here?” Y/N's voice was small but clear, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her chiton.

Cassander opened his mouth to reply, but Alexander was already stepping forward, his every movement calculated to disarm. “To offer my apologies properly, my lady.” He turned to Cassander, one brow arched in silent request.

With a barely perceptible sigh, Cassander squeezed his sister's hand—be brave—and withdrew to a discreet distance. Close enough to intervene, far enough to grant the illusion of privacy.

Alexander was every inch the royal heir in that moment: his bearing regal, his chiton draped to perfection, the very air around him seeming to hum with latent power. He had inherited his mother's effortless charm and his father's commanding presence—qualities that, when wielded together, could bend wills without raising a sword.

“Greetings, my lady. Are you well?” he began, his voice warm as summer honey.

Y/N's gaze darted to the ground. “I am, my prince. And you needn't—”

“Please,” he interrupted gently, lifting a hand. “Allow me this.” He inclined his head, the very picture of contrition. “I was discourteous to you, and I regret my actions deeply. More than that...” Here, he paused, as if searching for the right words. “I wish to know you, Y/N. Not as a prince to a subject, but as one soul to another.”

From his belt, he produced a small wooden dove, its wings delicately carved, its surface polished to a soft sheen. The scent of magnolia clung to it like a memory.

“I carved this myself,” he admitted, running a thumb over its back. “From a branch of this very tree. The imperfections are many, I fear, but...” He held it out to her, his expression uncharacteristically vulnerable. “Perhaps that makes it more honest.”

Y/N's breath caught. The dove was exquisite—the wings tapered to near-translucent thinness, the feathers etched with painstaking care. This was no hastily purchased trinket, but something made with time, with attention. Her fingers trembled as she took it, tracing the grooves left by his knife.

“You... made this?” she whispered, her eyes wide.

Alexander nodded, uncharacteristically silent.

For the first time, Y/N looked at him—truly looked at him. Not as the terrifying prince who had chased her through the woods, but as the young man before her now: his usually impeccable hair tousled by the night breeze, a smudge of wood dust still clinging to his wrist.

Her smile, when it came, was like dawn breaking over the Aegean—slow, radiant, utterly disarming.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” she said, cradling the dove to her chest. “I will treasure it always.”

And Alexander, a child born to be the conqueror of men, the scion of gods, found himself struck dumb.

In the weeks that followed, Y/N had grown bold enough to insist that Cassander bring both Hephaestion and Alexander along during their fortnightly visits. The prince, of course, was all too eager to oblige. For Y/N, who had spent most of her life sheltered within the confines of noble propriety, these gatherings were a rare taste of companionship beyond her brother’s watchful presence. They would talk, play games, and laugh—just as young people ought to.

But not all was as harmonious as it seemed.

Though Hephaestion occasionally excused himself—whether out of discretion or discomfort, none could say—Alexander never missed a single meeting. His presence, once a novelty, soon became a constant, and Cassander found himself increasingly sidelined. Here, in this meadow that had once been his sanctuary with Y/N, he now felt like an intruder in his own sister’s affections.

Worse still, he could not deny the irony: Alexander, his closest friend, now stole the very moments Cassander cherished most.

And Alexander, for his part, had begun to see Cassander not as a brother-in-arms, but as an obstacle—a necessary nuisance, yes, but a nuisance all the same.

One evening, as silver light filtered through the leaves, Y/N sat weaving a crown of flowers, her fingers deft as they threaded blossoms together. Nearby, Hephaestion and Cassander sparred with wooden swords, their mock battle filled with laughter and good-natured taunts.

Alexander, leaning beside Y/N with his head in her lap, watched her work with quiet fascination.

“My lady,” he began, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant. “May I be so bold as to make a request?”

Y/N didn’t look up, her fingers still busy with the flowers. “Go right ahead.”

Alexander took a breath. “I’ve noticed how much Cassander values his time with you. As do I.” He paused, choosing his next words carefully. “But when we’re all together, it feels... crowded. I was thinking—what if we met at different times? Just you and I?”

Y/N’s hands stilled. The flower crown slipped from her fingers.

“What are you implying, my prince?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Alexander sat up, turning to face her fully. “Nothing untoward, I assure you. It’s merely practical. Fewer people mean less risk of being caught by the temple masters. And it would give Cassander more time with you as well.”

Y/N bit her lip. “My mother says a young lady shouldn’t be alone with a man unchaperoned.”

“But you wouldn’t be alone,” Alexander countered smoothly. “Your guard and nurse are always stationed nearby, are they not?”

Y/N hesitated. Technically, he was right. Seeing her waver, Alexander leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Unless... you’re afraid my company will ruin all others for you.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. Then, with a huff, she did something no one had ever dared—she smacked his arm.

It was a light tap, the kind she often gave Cassander when he teased her too much. But coming from her, directed at him—Alexander gasped in exaggerated offense.

“You dare strike a prince?” he declared, his tone dripping with mock outrage. “ This is treason! Punishable by—”

Y/N didn’t wait to hear the rest. She was already running, her laughter ringing through the trees.

“Forgive me, O merciful prince!” she called over her shoulder, her voice bright with amusement.

Alexander gave chase, his long legs closing the distance between them with ease. When he caught her, his arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her off the ground in a spinning embrace. They were both breathless with laughter as he gently placed her onto the soft grass.

“Traitor,” he accused, looming over her with a grin. “By the decree the heir of Macedonia, you shall be punished.”

And then—he tickled her.

Y/N shrieked, her laughter bordering on hysterical as she writhed beneath his relentless fingers. “Stop! Please! I yield!”

Alexander relented, but only slightly. “Only if you say yes to my proposal,” he bargained, his eyes alight with mischief.

Y/N’s laughter faded. She searched his face, her expression turning serious. “And Cassander?”

Alexander’s smile softened. “He’s too overprotective. But you deserve freedom. It can be our secret, yes?”

For a long moment, Y/N was silent. Then, with a slow nod—

“Alright.”

The oil lamps in Alexander’s chambers flickered, casting long shadows across the walls. The scent of spiced wine and burning wicks hung heavy in the air, but the tension between the two youths was thicker still.

Hephaestion stood rigid by the doorway, his usually composed features strained with uncharacteristic intensity. “My prince,” he began again, his voice carefully measured, “I must ask—why are you doing this?”

Alexander didn’t look up from his wine cup, his fingers idly tracing its golden rim. The ruby liquid within caught the light, shimmering like spilled blood. “I’ve no idea what you mean,” he murmured, his tone deliberately light.

A muscle twitched in Hephaestion’s jaw. “Lady Y/N,” he pressed, refusing to let the prince feign ignorance. “She is Cassander’s sister. Antipater’s daughter. Your... interest in her is more than concerning. If word got out—if rumors spread—it could ruin her reputation. Is that what you want?”

For the first time, Alexander lifted his gaze. His eyes, usually so vibrant with mischief or command, were unnervingly still—like the calm before a storm. “And what if it is?”

The words landed like a blow.

Hephaestion actually took a step back, his breath catching. Had he heard correctly? The prince couldn’t possibly mean—

Alexander smirked, tilting his head like a predator studying wounded prey. “Does my friendship with Lady Y/N truly threaten you so much, philos?” The endearment—friend—was laced with mocking sweetness.

Hephaestion’s hands clenched at his sides. There was nothing he could say—nothing that would sway Alexander once his mind was set. And if he breathed a word of this to Cassander? The consequences would be catastrophic. Cassander’s temper was legendary, and no amount of loyalty would stop him from confronting Alexander directly—a death sentence, whether by the prince’s hand or his father’s.

So Hephaestion did the only thing he could.

He stayed silent.

For the first time in their long friendship, Hephaestion felt genuine fear - not for himself, but for Y/N, for Cassander, for the fragile peace that Alexander seemed determined to shatter.

“You wouldn't.” The words escaped Hephaestion's lips before he could stop them, raw with disbelief. “Not to her. Not to Cassander.”

Alexander finally set down his wine cup with deliberate slowness, the metallic clink echoing in the tense silence. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its mocking edge, replaced by something far more dangerous - absolute certainty. “I am Alexander of Macedon. I take what I want.”

The casual brutality of the declaration struck Hephaestion like Zeus’ lightning. This wasn't the passionate declaration of a lovestruck youth - it was the cold calculation of a conqueror assessing new territory. The realization made his blood run cold.

“She's not a city to be besieged,” Hephaestion countered, his voice tight with barely restrained anger. “She's a living, breathing woman who—”

“Who will be honored beyond measure,” Alexander interrupted, rising from his couch with panther-like grace. “Imagine it - the daughter of Antipater, raised to the future king of Macedon's beloved. Why, I'd be doing their house a favor.” He began pacing, his excitement growing with each step. “Cassander should be thanking me. But he doesn't has to know. Yet. Though a part of me wishes to tell him.”

Hephaestion's stomach twisted violently, as though he'd swallowed poison. “You cannot be serious,” he repeated, his voice low and urgent. “Cassander will not simply see reason—you know him better than that. He would rather throw himself from the cliffs of Mount Olympus than allow you to—”

Alexander cut him off with a flick of his wrist, his rings glinting in the lamplight. “He will rage, he will bluster, and then he will kneel,” he corrected, his voice smooth as polished marble. “They always do.”

Then, with terrifying suddenness, the prince stilled. His gaze—sharp as a dagger's point—locked onto Hephaestion. “Unless,” he mused, tilting his head with feigned curiosity, “you intend to warn him first? Is that your plan? In some pitiful attempt to keep from me what the Fates have already decreed mine?”

The threat coiled between them, serpentine and suffocating. Hephaestion felt the weight of it press against his ribs, stealing his breath. This was no mere test of loyalty—it was a blade held to his throat, waiting to see if he would flinch.

To oppose Alexander now would be exile.

Or death.

“Of course not,” Hephaestion forced out, the lie bitter on his tongue. “I am, as always, your loyal friend.”

Alexander's grin was a flash of white in the dim light, triumphant and terrible. “I knew I could count on you.” His hand came down on Hephaestion's shoulder—a gesture that might have been comradely, had his fingers not dug in like talons. “You should rest,” he advised, his tone deceptively light. 

Then, with the casual cruelty of a cat releasing a half-dead mouse: “And I, it seems, have a tryst with a lovely lady under the moonlight.”

Outside, the moon hung full and bright over Meiza, its pale light doing nothing to dispel the darkness gathering in Hephaestion's heart. Somewhere in the night, oblivious to the storm brewing around her Y/N waited for the prince— blissfully unaware.

The tall grasses swayed gently in the cool breeze, their silvered tips whispering secrets to the stars. Fireflies drifted lazily through the air, their golden lights flickering like distant stars brought down to earth. And there, in the heart of this enchanted clearing, stood Y/N.

In her hands, she cradled the small wooden dove, Alexander’s gift, her fingers tracing its delicate wings absentmindedly. The night was still, save for the distant chirping of crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves.

Then—footsteps.

The crunch of dry grass underfoot made her turn, her heart leaping in her chest.

“My prince?” she called out, her voice light but tinged with uncertainty.

From the shadows of the ivy-clad trees, Alexander emerged, his figure cutting a striking silhouette against the moonlit backdrop. He was dressed more casually than usual, his chiton simpler, his hair slightly tousled—as if he had hurried here. Yet even in this state, he carried himself with the effortless grace of royalty.

“Greetings, my lady,” he said, his voice warm, his smile as charming as ever. But then his expression shifted, a playful glint entering his eyes. “Though I must say, the titles ‘my prince’ and ‘your highness’ feel far too formal for such a setting, don’t you think?” He stepped closer, the distance between them shrinking. “After all, we are friends, are we not?”

Y/N’s lips parted slightly. “I’d say we are...” She nearly added my prince out of habit but caught herself, her brow furrowing in confusion. What was he asking of her?

Alexander didn’t miss her hesitation. “I wish for you to call me by my name,” he said, his tone leaving no room for misinterpretation.

Y/N’s breath hitched. “I-I couldn’t,” she stammered. It was common knowledge—addressing royalty by name without honorifics was not just improper, it was forbidden unless given explicit permission. Even Cassander and Hephaestion only did so in private, and even then, it was a privilege earned through years of friendship. For her to do so? It felt like stepping onto sacred ground.

“Consider it an order,” Alexander said, his voice firm but not unkind. “From this moment on, you shall call me by my name.”

Y/N swallowed hard. Then, softly, testing the weight of the word on her tongue—

“Yes... Alexander.”

The moment his name passed her lips, something shifted in the air between them. Alexander’s entire body thrumming with an electric thrill. The way she said it—hesitant yet sweet, like a secret whispered for the first time—sent a rush of heat to his head, dizzying in its intensity. It was unadorned and intimate yet sharp and intoxicating.

“Say it again,” he commanded, his voice low.

“Alexander,” she repeated, this time with less hesitation, though her tone still carried a note of uncertainty, as if she were speaking a word from a foreign tongue for the first time.

“Again.”

“Alexander.” Louder now. Steadier. As if she were shedding her fear, layer by layer, revealing something new beneath with each utterance.

A slow, satisfied smile curved his lips. “Again.”

A sigh escaped her lips, followed by a small, bemused smile. “Is this a new game you’ve devised, Alexander?” The way she said his name—teasing, almost musical—sent another jolt of pleasure through him. It was nectar to a man starved, and he found himself craving more.

Alexander shook his head, his smile widening. “No game, my lady. Merely... an indulgence.” He stepped even closer, close enough that the scent of her—honey and wildflowers—filled his senses. “Though if you’d like to play one, I’d be happy to oblige.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, the silver light catching in her dark eyes like stars reflected in still water. “Then what are we doing tonight?” she asked, her voice carrying a new note of confidence now that the barrier of formality had been broken between them.

Alexander's smile was slow, deliberate—the expression of a man who knew exactly what he wanted but was content to savor the anticipation. “Whatever you desire,” he murmured, watching her closely.

A small, knowing smile graced Y/N's lips as she reached into the leather satchel slung over her shoulder. “In that case,” she said, producing several tightly rolled scrolls, “I brought some light reading. Do you like to read, my—” She caught herself just in time, her cheeks flushing. “—Alexander?”

The prince's eyebrows shot up, his grin turning wolfish. “‘My Alexander’?” he repeated, his voice rich with amusement. “That sounded far better than I expected. I think I shall allow it.”

Y/N's mouth fell open in protest, her hands fluttering in embarrassed denial. “That—that wasn't—I didn't mean—”

Alexander threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing through the quiet meadow. “Oh, but you did,” he teased, delighted by her flustered reaction. “And I rather like it.”

Composing himself, he gestured to the scrolls. “To answer your question properly—yes, my lady, I do read. In fact, I'm quite fond of the literary arts. Aristotle would say they are the very foundation of human existence.” His tone was light, but his surprise was genuine. It was uncommon for women to be educated beyond basic household management—a deliberate limitation, his mother had often explained, meant to keep them from grasping true power.

Olympias had taught him that oppression was simply another tool for those strong enough to wield it. “Fill the people's minds only with thoughts of bread and spectacle,” she'd said, “and they will never think to question their chains.” But Alexander didn’t always agree. Knowledge was power, and power should not be hoarded—it should be taken, by those bold enough to seize it.

Y/N, however, was no commoner to be kept ignorant. As the daughter of Antipater, her education would have been carefully curated—though clearly, Cassander had taken matters into his own hands.

“Let's take a look,” Alexander said, reaching for the scrolls.

The moonlight, while beautiful, was too faint for reading. Y/N produced a small oil lamp from her bag, and as she struck flint to steel, the warm glow illuminated the delicate planes of her face. Alexander watched, mesmerized, as she unfurled the first scroll and began to read aloud.

Her voice was melodic, each word shaped with care, and for a long moment, Alexander was too lost in the sound to register the content. Then, abruptly, he stiffened.

“This—” he interrupted, leaning forward. “This is taught in the temple!”

Y/N paused, meeting his gaze evenly. “Yes,” she admitted. “Cassander gives me his old scrolls and teaches me what he learns within those walls. It's the only way he trusts the quality of my education—especially after my last tutor.”

There was a story there, Alexander could tell—one laced with bitterness. But for now, he was too intrigued by the revelation before him.

“So,” he said slowly, his voice carrying a note of genuine admiration, “you've been studying in secret.”

Y/N's smile was small but unmistakably proud, her fingers tracing the edge of the scroll with quiet reverence. “Not so secret anymore,” she replied, meeting his gaze with a steadiness that surprised him.

Alexander chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s an admirable trait, this hunger for knowledge. Your brother clearly intends to raise you as more than just another noblewoman draped in silk and jewels. He wants you to be a woman of intellect—of substance.” He tilted his head, curiosity sharpening his features. “But tell me, my dove—what crimes did this former tutor commit to earn such exile from your education?”

Y/N blinked. ”Dove?” The endearment had caught her off guard, derailing her thoughts entirely.

Alexander’s lips quirked. “Yes. You remind me of one.” His gaze lingered on the delicate curve of her neck, the way her hands fluttered nervously when surprised—graceful, fragile, yet somehow enduring. “Gentle. Quick to startle. Beautiful in flight.”

Y/N’s cheeks warmed, but she didn’t press further. Instead, she exhaled, her expression darkening as she returned to the question at hand.

“My previous tutor was hired by my mother,” she began, her voice carefully neutral, though Alexander didn’t miss the way her fingers tightened around the scroll. “A woman who did everything except impart actual knowledge—though, in truth, I’m not certain she possessed any to begin with.” A bitter laugh escaped her. “She insisted a woman’s place wasn’t in literature or philosophy, but in perfecting the art of being a nobleman’s wife. She policed my appearance—how much I ate, how long I stayed in the sun lest it ‘mar my complexion’ and ruin my prospects. ”

Alexander’s brows drew together. “And your mother allowed this?”

“Encouraged it, actually,” Y/N said flatly. “Mother reminded me often that I was but three, perhaps four winters from marriageable age, and that I should focus on ‘womanly skills’ rather than—” She gestured to the scrolls with a dismissive flick of her wrist, “—all of this.”

“Nonsense!” The word burst from Alexander with unexpected vehemence, his hand slamming against the tree trunk beside him. “You’re a child. Marriage? That’s outrageous.”

Even as he said it, he knew the hypocrisy of his words. Girls were routinely married at fourteen, sixteen at the latest, often to men twice their age. He had attended enough political unions to know how the game was played. But the thought of Y/N—her quick mind, her bright laughter, her spirit still unbroken by the world—being handed over to some aging lordling like a prize mare made his blood boil.

Never, he thought, the possessiveness startling even him. Never will something of this sort happen to her. Ever.

Y/N, oblivious to his internal fury, continued. “That’s why Cassander brought me here. He was livid when he discovered what passed for my ‘education.’” A fond smile tugged at her lips as she recalled her brother’s outrage. “He fought with Father for months—said he wouldn’t let me be sold off like some broodmare or a pleasure sleeve, though I'm not sure what either of those words actually mean— I’ve heard Cassander say it in one of his arguments. Regardless, he won. Meiza was the compromise.”

She laughed then, the sound bright and clear in the night air. “He ranted for days about how he wouldn’t let some ‘old pervert’ lay a finger on me. Swore he’d only approve a match if the man proved himself worthy.”

Alexander’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. “Worthy, hm?” He leaned forward, the lamplight casting sharp shadows across his face. “And what, pray tell, does your brother consider ‘worthy’?”

Y/N shrugged, unaware of the trap in the question. “Someone of status, power and valor. Someone who sees me as more than a pretty accessory, I suppose. Someone who has the intelligence to respect my mind as much as my face.”

Alexander hummed, his gaze never leaving hers. “A high standard indeed.”

And one, he thought, that I fully intend to meet.

╰┈➤ Masterlist

© cheriecelestial - arabelle | 2025

⮞ His soul was not one you merely assigned; you crafted it.

⮞ You spent ages in your celestial workshop, weaving strands of sunlight into his hair, the fury of a summer storm into his eyes, the pride of a lion into his heart, and the fragile beauty of a morning glory into a single, radiant soul.

⮞ It was your masterpiece.

⮞ He was your masterpiece.

⮞ While weaving the essence of other mortals was a calm and steady process. With Achilles, it was like trying to capture lightning in a bottle.

⮞ You knew he would be extraordinary from the moment of his conception.

⮞ You were a constant, unseen presence in his nursery. When Thetis, his mortal mother, held him besides his father, you were watching in the form of an invisible presence.

⮞ He knew. Somehow, someway, the favoured souls always know when their god is watching over them.

⮞ Even at such a young age, barely months old, Achilles would stare into empty corners, cooing at something only he could see.

⮞ As a toddler, he was even more perceptive. He would stare into empty corners of the room and giggle, reaching out for a presence only he could feel.

⮞ His mother and father thought he had an imaginary friend; but he was sensing the gentle, loving orbit of your spirit.

⮞ When he fell and scraped his knee at age five, howling not from pain but from indignity, you were right there.

⮞ You couldn't, wouldn't, interfere with fate, but you sent a gentle breeze that carried the scent of chamomile and lavender to soothe his shame. He knew he hadn't been the only spectator to his fall.

⮞ You let him feel a the pain of it, however—a lesson that even your favorites are not exempt from the experiences of life.

⮞ During his training with the centaur Chiron, your influence was subtler.

⮞ You would guide prey towards him during hunting lessons, ensuring his success built his confidence. You softened the ground beneath his feet during strenuous runs and ensured the herbs Chiron used for his poultices were always potent and fresh.

⮞ You would often manifest as a white wolf to observe his training from afar, filling the clearing with an aura of peace that allowed the young Achilles to focus and learn with preternatural speed.

⮞ Chiron himself knew you were there and would often bow his head slightly in respect.

⮞ It wasn't until he reached age 7 that he was claimed by you. Achilles was playing around in the grass when he came across a shiny, circular, plate that barely fit in the palm of his young hand: fine silver, with your symbol engraved in it. A mother wolf.

⮞ From that day on, he became more aware that you were a constant, subtle presence. A wolf would be seen watching him from the tree line during his lessons, its fur white as snow. His favorite flowers would bloom out of season outside his window. He never felt alone.

⮞ His first real battle was a minor skirmish against a Thessalian tribe, not Troy, when he was barely 17. He was fearless, but there was a tremor of anticipation in his hands. You could feel his mortal excitement and fear like a hummingbird's heartbeat against your own divine consciousness.

⮞ He was separated from the group, facing three seasoned warriors. Decades older than him. For a split second, he was overwhelmed, outnumbered, outsmarted.

⮞ A spear was thrust at his side, destined to find a gap in his armor, but the blow was unexplicably deflected inches to the right and away from his young, mortal, flesh. The hit proved harmless, and that's when Achilles confidence slowly started to build (starting the path to the complex of invincibility he showed at his mid-twenties).

⮞ For years after the first revelation, your interactions were mostly silent. He would feel a warm presence at his back in battle, a sudden clarity of thought when making a strategic decision, or an unnatural stamina during long marches.

⮞ He knew you were a godess, watching over him. And he knew exactly which one you were thanks to the claiming he wore proudly on his chest —as if to show off who was watching over him to any enemy that came close enough within strike distance.

⮞ With every battle won, and every little hint of your presence in it each time, his pride grew and grew. He came to the realization that he wasn't only one of your favoured souls, but that he was your favourite son.

⮞ He never prayed to you, nor built you an altar, because he knew that was not what you expected from him.

⮞ Achilles then settled, for making an altar out of all of his battles. Each killed enemy in your honor, each won battle in your name.

⮞ The rumors sparked from there, his mother was an immortal. But they were not necessarily speaking about the biological woman, but the woman that protected his body from any fatal hit. That kept the gods from ever daring to touch him because, after all, any god that had come after you had been created by you. You had the power.

⮞ Eventually, as he was granted his 18th mortal years, you began to appear to him more frequently outside of battle.

⮞ At first, just as a silent presence watching him train. Then, you would sit under a tree while he practiced, offering a slight frown of critique or a smile of approval.

⮞ You started giving advice, not on war, but on leadership, on how to care for his men's morale, on the beauty of a sunset he was too busy to notice.

⮞ He began to tell you everything. His frustrations with Agamemnon, his deep love for Patroclus, his fears of obscurity, his philosophical musings on mortality. 

⮞ And you listened, and praised, and adviced, and loved.

⮞ The shift was gradual but inevitable. He began to look at you not just with reverence, but with longing. He would notice the way your light gown draped over your form, the gentle curve of your smile, the impossible blue of your eyes.

⮞ He started becoming fiercely, possessively jealous of any moment you spent comforting another soldier, even Patroclus.

⮞ His possessiveness stems from a primal place. You are not just his lover, or mother, or patron; you are the source of his being, his first and most fundamental connection to existence itself.

⮞ The thought of sharing that is existentially terrifying.

⮞ That's when he started developing the "Mine" Complex: He began referring to things connected to you as mine, which was thought by every realigious devotee to be an extremely arrogant and rude act that would be punished.

⮞ Being Achilles, it was not a surprise when he still kept referencing you as "My godess".

⮞ Even before he accepted his feelings, he was fiercely possesive and jealous of your attention.

⮞ His jealousy was as legendary as his mightyness and greatness in combat.

⮞ If he saw you comforting another soldier or laughing at another man's joke, he would become sullen and withdrawn, pettyly so, refusing to come to you and leaving you to be the one seek him out.

⮞ He is nothing but a big sharp-fanged puppy whining for attention, and you find it both endearing and occasionally exasperating.

⮞ While he understands you are the Godess of life, he craves to be the only object of your romantic affection.

⮞ He needs constant reassurance that he is not just a favorite, but the favorite in every conceivable way.

⮞ When he is feeling particularly jealous or neglected (often irrationally so), his way of "punishing" you is to become excessively attentive to others, especially women in the camp. He'll laugh a little too loudly at their jokes or compliment their weaving.

⮞ It's a transparent, childish ploy to make you jealous, to force you to reaffirm your desire for him.

⮞ You always see right through it, but often play along to indulge him.

⮞ Still, he boasts openly of being your most favoured soul. He mocks his enemies when he is threathened with the wrath of the god protecting their nation, because he knows you stand high above any of the other deities and being under your protection means no god or godess would ever lay a finger on him.

⮞ Every morning before donning his armor, he takes a moment to press a kiss to the silver wolf badge he wears. That same very one from years ago.

⮞ For him it is not just a symbol; it is a direct line to you.

⮞ He closes his eyes and feels a wave of your warmth in return, your silent blessing for the day.

⮞ You are the only one allowed to touch him without consequence. You can smooth the tension from his shoulders, stroke his hair, and trace the scars on his skin without him flinching. For a Spartan warrior who is always on alert, this level of relaxation is a gift only you can give.

⮞ He loves to lay his head in your lap and listen to you tell stories of the dawn of time, of the creation of the stars and the first animals. He is particularly fascinated by stories of his own soul's creation, demanding you tell him over and over again what his 'threads' looked like.

⮞ You smell of everything he associates with life: rich soil after rain, blooming jasmine, the crisp air of a spring morning, and the sweet scent of a lover's skin.

⮞ It is his favorite scent in all the world, and he often buries his face in your hair or the spot where your neck meets your shoulder just to breathe it in.

⮞ Being with a goddess is an overwhelming experience for a mortal. The first time you kissed him, truly kissed him, he saw supernovas behind his eyes and forgot his own name for a full hour.

⮞ The sensation of your divine energy merging with his mortal soul is ecstatic and terrifyingly intense.

⮞ In private, his love language is physical possession. He is constantly touching you—an arm around your waist, a hand on your knee, his fingers tangled in your hair. When you sit together, he must have some part of his body touching yours. It’s a silent, constant reassurance that you are there and you are his.

⮞ He has zero tolerance for being interrupted during his time with you. If a soldier or even Patroclus approaches with news while he is speaking with you, his response is famously and frostily short.

⮞ His time with you is sacred and non-negotiable.

⮞ He is the mightiest warrior alive, protected by the most powerful being in existence. Yet, he has a fierce, irrational need to protect you.

⮞ He will always position himself between you and any perceived threat despite your immortality, even just a sudden loud noise. It's an instinct he can't control, the creation feeling a primordial drive to shield his creator.

⮞ His greatest, most secret terror is not death, but what comes after.

⮞ The thought of his soul passing into the Underworld, into the care of Hades, away from you, is a torment worse than any mortal wound.

⮞ He often makes you promise, in your most solemn voice, that you will find a way to keep him with you, always.

In the courts of Pella, noblewomen wore their hair meticulously braided and pinned, every coiled lock a testament to their modesty and restraint. Loose hair was the mark of maidens at their baths, of bacchantes in their frenzied rites—something intimate, something unrestrained. Y/N was neither wanton nor wild, yet she carried this small fragment of freedom with her, as natural as breathing. Around others, she complied with expectation, but here, with him, she seemed to forget—or perhaps ignore—the rules that bound women like silken cords.

Others dressed in their finest silks and jewels when in the presence of royalty, as if anything less would be an insult to his station. But Y/N? She treated him not as Alexander, Prince of Macedon, heir to a throne that would one day command empires, but simply as Alexander—a companion, a confidant, perhaps even more.

And in these stolen moments, she was wholly herself. That was the most intoxicating thing about her.

That was why she ensnared him so completely.

She was like the nymphs of the old tales—not the simpering maidens of poets’ idylls, but the untouchable spirits of deep forests and hidden springs. The kind who did not beckon with coy smiles, but simply were, so radiant in their natural state that men forgot themselves in their presence. If such a creature had Y/N’s laughing eyes, her thoughtful silences, her quiet stubbornness—Alexander would have followed her into the darkest depths of the earth without hesitation.

“He’s right,” Alexander said quietly, his gaze intense. “You deserve more than to be some man’s decoration.”

The words tasted bitter on his tongue. Cassander’s protectiveness, once an annoyance, now struck him as the only reasonable stance in a world that sought to cage women like birds in gilded aviaries.

Y/N blinked up at him, her lips parting in surprise at the intensity in his voice. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the whisper of leaves and the distant call of a nightingale.

“Then what do I deserve, Alexander?” she asked, so softly the wind nearly stole the words away.

The question hung between them, delicate as the first frost.

The prince hesitated. The answer burned in his chest—Everything. The world. Me.—But he clamped his jaw against the words, letting them scorch his throat unsaid. Instead, his hand moved to the scroll between them, his fingers deliberately grazing hers—a touch light enough to deny, heavy enough to feel.

“For now?” he said, forcing a smirk as he unfurled the parchment with practiced ease. “A proper debate about this passage. Aristotle would be ashamed if we wasted the night on gossip when there’s philosophy to dissect.”

Y/N laughed—a bright, clear sound that scattered the tension like morning mist beneath the sun. Yet as they bent their heads together over the text; Alexander’s thoughts raced far beyond the ink-stained parchment, already plotting how to ensure no one—not her mother, not tradition, not some faceless noble—would ever clip her wings. 

And if I am the one who keeps her aloft, he thought, then let her sing for no one but me.

“So,” Alexander mused, tracing a line of text with his fingertip, “does your education extend beyond these scrolls? Or has Cassander kept you sheltered from the temple’s more... vigorous teachings?”

The temple’s curriculum was renowned for moulding not just scholars, but warriors—young nobles trained as much in swordplay and strategy as in poetry and rhetoric.

Y/N’s chin lifted with quiet pride. “Cassander teaches me poetry, literature and philosophy, of course,” she said, counting the subjects on her fingers. “But also, the fundamentals of finance, politics and even the movements of the stars.” Her voice warmed with each word, her passion for learning glowing brighter than the lamplight between them.

It was a rare boast—one she would never dare make in company. Most noblewomen of her standing could barely read beyond household accounts, let alone debate astronomy or statecraft. But Y/N prided on being different. Isolated from her half-sisters by a mother who saw even family as rivals in the marriage market, she had intended to turn solitude into scholarship, transforming what was meant to be a cage into a library without walls.

The firelight danced across Alexander’s features as he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “You know, my lady, physical training forms a cornerstone of education within these temple walls.” 

Y/N waved a dismissive hand, her lips curving in incredulity. “I’ve no need for such things, Alexander. Cassander insists that a woman should never have to lift a blade.” She let out a soft laugh, the sound like chimes in the breeze. “I suppose it would wound my dear brother’s pride as a man if his sister thought him so incapable of protection that she felt compelled to learn the ways of war.”

Alexander’s eyes gleamed with the challenge. He had always been silver-tongued, his words weaving spells since he first learned to speak—each syllable carefully chosen, each argument crafted to bend others to his will. And now, he wielded that skill like a finely honed weapon.

“I understand Cassander’s perspective, my dove,” he conceded smoothly, though his tone suggested he found it quaint at best. “But consider this—we worship Athena, do we not? A goddess of war and wisdom, revered as fiercely as any Olympian. Archers and hunters kneel before Artemis, and is she not a woman? Even Aphrodite, whom you hold so dear, is no stranger to battle when passion demands it.” He spread his hands, the picture of reason. “If the gods themselves see no contradiction in a woman’s strength, why should we?”

Y/N fell silent, her brow furrowing as she turned his words over in her mind. The logic was sound, yet it clashed against everything she’d been taught. Cassander would sooner swallow his own sword than let her near one, no matter how eloquently she argued. But Alexander—Alexander was different.

“Then what do you suggest?” she asked, curiosity threading through her voice.

The prince allowed himself a small, triumphant smile. “I respect Cassander’s reservations,” he said, his tone dripping with feigned deference. “But I am bound by no such limitations, my dove. Should you wish to learn, I would be honoured to teach you.”

His voice was measured, restrained—the very picture of noble intent. But beneath the surface, the gears of his machinations turned. This was more than an offer of instruction; it was a snare, exquisitely crafted to draw her deeper into his orbit. Every lesson would be another thread in the web he spun, another reason for her to seek him out, to trust him, to depend on him.

And Alexander knew the value of patience. The first move had been made. The game, as always, was his to win.

Y/N’s eyes sparkled with intrigue as she considered Alexander’s proposition. Learning had always been her greatest joy, and the idea of mastering something as bold as combat sent a thrill through her. “Alright,” she conceded, her lips curving into a smile. “I see no reason to refuse—though I’ve no means to acquire a weapon of my own.”

Alexander’s expression shifted, his smile deepening into something that didn’t quite touch his eyes—a practiced charm, smooth as the finest liquor, designed to mask the cunning beneath. “In that case, my dove,” he murmured, “you may use mine.”

The thought of her hands wrapped around his blade sent a rush of heat through him. He recalled a traveller’s tale from the distant East, where gifting a sword to a woman was tantamount to a vow—a promise of possession, of devotion. The symbolism was not lost on him.

With deliberate grace, he unsheathed his dagger. The blade was a work of art, its hilt adorned with the subtle, coiled insignia of the royal house—a mark known only to those intimate with the court’s inner circles. It was not a weapon given lightly.

He reached for her hand, his fingers closing over hers as he guided her grip around the hilt. The contrast was striking—her skin, soft and unmarred by battle, against the cold, unforgiving steel of a warrior’s tool.

“Alexander, this is beautiful!” Y/N gasped, her voice bright with delight. In her excitement, she barely registered that his hand still lingered over hers, his thumb brushing the delicate bones of her wrist. By now, she had grown accustomed to his casual touches—the way his fingers would graze hers when passing a scroll, the weight of his head resting against her shoulder as they debated philosophy. She dismissed it as mere eccentricity, the quirks of a prince raised in privilege and unchecked affection.

But then, reality settled in. Her smile faltered. “But—I can’t take this. It’s yours.” The weight of the gesture struck her. A royal dagger was no trinket to be given away lightly.

Alexander tilted his head, his voice dropping into that persuasive cadence that had swayed generals and kings alike. “Tell me, my dove,” he began, almost rhetorically, “once I am emperor, will you not stand among my most loyal subjects?”

“Of course,” Y/N replied without hesitation. “There is no question of that.”

“Then surely,” he continued, his thumb tracing idle circles over her knuckles, “loyalty must be rewarded. And besides—what belongs to a king belongs to his people. What is mine is yours.”

The words wrapped around her like a spell. She bit her lip, torn between propriety and the intoxicating pull of his offer. For a long moment, she wavered, her lashes fluttering shut as she drew a steadying breath. When she opened her eyes, her resolve had crystallized into something daring, something new.

“When do we begin?” 

Two full seasons had slipped through their fingers like grains of sand before either Y/N or Alexander paused to mark the time. The turning of leaves from emerald to gold, the first frosts that dusted the olive groves at dawn, the return of songbirds to the meadows—all these natural rhythms passed unnoticed as their secret world took shape in stolen moments between daylight and dusk.

Cassander remained dutiful in his visits, arriving like clockwork every fortnight to check on his sister’s wellbeing. Sometimes Hephaestion accompanied him, sometimes Alexander—though never did Cassander suspect that these appearances were but a fraction of the prince’s interactions with Y/N. The truth—that Alexander had coaxed her into private meetings, that he had pressed his own dagger into her hands and taught her to wield it—would have ignited a firestorm.

Hephaestion alone knew.

And Hephaestion alone said nothing.

He watched, silent as a shadow, as the threads of Alexander’s design tightened around Y/N. The prince’s favor was a double-edged sword, its gleaming surface hiding a razor’s edge. For now, Alexander was kind—indulgent, even—because Y/N remained blissfully unaware of the gilded cage being constructed around her. She laughed freely in his presence, debated philosophy with him under the stars and practiced her dagger drills with the earnest determination of a child learning her letters.

But the moment she turned away—the moment she dared to question, to resist, to flee—she would find herself staring into an abyss she hadn’t even realized yawned beneath her feet.

On parchment, their union was nothing short of perfection. Y/N, the legitimate daughter of Antipater, Macedonia’s most revered general. Alexander, the crown prince destined to wear the imperial diadem. Cassander, whose loyalty would one day cement his place among Alexander’s most trusted commanders. It was a tapestry of alliances that would make any courtier weep with envy.

And Y/N? Y/N knew none of this.

To her, Alexander was simply Alexander—the boy who carved her a wooden dove, who made her laugh until her sides ached, who patiently guided her hands into the correct stance for a parry. She did not see the calculating glint in his eyes when he watched her, nor did she recognize the significance of the royal dagger now tucked beneath her pillow. She did not understand that, in the eyes of the one she trusted so, their “friendship” was already being measured for a bridal veil.

Hephaestion understood.

He knew the ruthless ambition that thrummed through Alexander’s blood—the same ambition that had driven his mother to carve her path to power through intrigue and iron. The world of thrones and conspiracies would chew Y/N alive, her bright-eyed optimism no match for the vipers that slithered through palace corridors.

But what could he do?

To warn Y/N would be to invite Alexander’s wrath. To confront Alexander would be to sever a friendship forged in childhood battlefields. And so Hephaestion did the only thing left to him—he watched, helpless, as the pieces moved inexorably toward ruin.

Not just Y/N’s ruin.

But perhaps the ruin of House Iolaos itself.

“Keep your stance straight, Y/N.”

Alexander’s voice cut through her concentration—firm, commanding, the tone he reserved for the training yard. She froze instinctively, her body responding to the authority in his words before her mind could process them.

Then he was behind her.

His presence was a sudden warmth against her back, his hands hovering just above her waist as he guided her posture into alignment. One palm curled around her wrist, adjusting her grip on the dagger with practiced precision. For a heartbeat, they stood like that—her spine pressed to his chest, his breath stirring the loose hairs at the side of her temple where his chin rested on her shoulder.

The contact was fleeting. A moment. Two. Then he stepped away, leaving the ghost of his touch lingering on her skin like the memory of a dream.

Y/N exhaled sharply, shaking off the strange tightness in her chest. She focused instead on the lesson, on the weight of the blade in her hand, on anything but the way her pulse stuttered when he stood so close.

They had been sparring for what felt like hours when Alexander finally called for a break. Y/N collapsed under the magnolia tree, gulping water from a clay cup as she wiped her brow with the back of her hand.

“My mother wrote me a letter,” she said abruptly, her voice oddly detached.

Alexander stilled. Y/N’s mother was a distant figure—absent in person, sparing in correspondence. For her to reach out now...

“What did she say?” he asked, keeping his tone carefully neutral.

Y/N stared into her cup, her fingers tightening around it. “She’s asking me to return to the capital.” A pause. Then softer, “It’s only two winters until I’m to be married. She says it’s time I learned what a wife should know.”

The words landed like a stone dropped into still water, rippling outward in silent devastation.

Y/N had always known this day would come. No matter how many scrolls she read, no matter how many philosophies she debated, her fate had been sealed the moment she was born a nobleman’s daughter. She was a bargaining chip, a bridge between houses, a vessel for heirs. Knowledge was a pastime— marriage was her purpose.

But knowing didn’t make the reality any easier to swallow.

Across from her, Alexander’s expression darkened, his jaw clenching so tightly a muscle flickered in his cheek. The thought of Y/N being handed off to some faceless lord, of her brilliance being suffocated under the weight of wifely duties, of another man touching what he had come to think of as his—

It was unacceptable.

But he said none of this.

Instead, he reached for her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in a gesture that could have been mistaken for comfort.

“Cassander said he will try to talk to Father,” Y/N continued, oblivious to the storm brewing beside her. “To arrange my marriage to someone close to us.” She hesitated, then added, almost shyly, “I hope it’s Lord Hephaestion.”

Alexander’s world narrowed to a single, searing point.

Hephaestion.

His oldest friend. His most trusted companion. The one person he had never doubted—until this very second.

The betrayal cut deeper than any blade.

“Why do you say that?” Alexander asked, his tone carefully measured, though the undercurrent of something darker, sharper, slithered beneath the surface.

Y/N, still lost in her own thoughts, didn’t notice the shift. “Well,” she began, counting off on her fingers, “he’s from a prestigious house. He’s dutiful, intelligent—he’s cared for me since we were young, so I know he would treat me well.” A soft blush coloured her cheeks as she added, almost as an afterthought, “And he’s quite pleasing to look at, too.”

The admission was like kindling to the fire already raging inside him.

Alexander had seen the way Hephaestion looked at her—those quiet, lingering glances he had dismissed as mere protectiveness. Now, they took on a new, damning meaning.

Had they spoken of this? Had Hephaestion entertained the thought?

The image of it—of Hephaestion standing where he should be, of Hephaestion touching his bride—unleashed something feral in Alexander. A fury so vast it threatened to consume him. If Hephaestion stood before him now, Alexander would tear him apart with his bare hands.

But he did none of this.

Instead, he smiled—a slow, dangerous thing that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Hephaestion is fortunate to have your favour,” he said, his voice smooth as honey laced with hemlock. “But marriage is a matter of politics, my dove. Not preference. And you never know who might have already set their sights upon you.”

The unspoken threat hung between them, heavy as a blade unsheathed.

Y/N exhaled, her shoulders slumping slightly in resignation. “I suppose you’re right,” she conceded, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. She pushed herself up from the stone, dusting off her chiton with brisk, distracted motions. “Alright—one last parry, and then I should go.”

“As you wish, my dove,” Alexander agreed, rising smoothly to his feet, his expression unreadable.

They faced each other beneath the moonlight, blades raised—Y/N gripping her dagger with newfound confidence, Alexander poised with the effortless grace of a seasoned warrior.

This might be their last meeting before she was called back to the capital, before the walls of duty and marriage closed around her. And so, she fought with everything she had.

Her movements were sharper than ever before, her strikes precise, her defences unwavering. She deflected his blows with surprising agility, countering with attacks that forced Alexander to retreat—just slightly, just enough to make her believe she had the upper hand. The frequency of her assaults increased, her breath coming in quick, determined bursts as she pressed forward.

Then, in a flash of inspiration, she executed a maneuver she had once seen Cassander use against Hephaestion—a swift, deceptive twist of her wrist that sent Alexander’s dagger skittering from his grasp. Before he could react, she lunged, the point of her blade finding its mark at his throat.

A thin line of crimson bloomed where the edge grazed his skin. But the prince only smiled, slow and satisfied, as if this had been his design all along.

“You win, my little dove,” he said, his voice a velvet purr. “However...” His hand closed around her wrist, not roughly, but with a possessiveness that sent a shiver down her spine. “You have just committed a crime punishable by death.”

His tone was grave, but his eyes burned with something far more dangerous than anger—triumph.

For this was no accident.

This was his victory.

A prince’s blood, shed by her hand, bound her to him in ways she did not yet understand.

Y/N’s smile shattered like glass as the reality of what she had done crashed over her. Her fingers went slack, and the dagger—his dagger, the royal steel he had pressed into her hands with such deliberate intent—clattered to the earth between them. The sound was deafening in the silence that followed.

Her gaze dropped to the ground, fixing on the trampled grass beneath their feet, as if staring hard enough could undo the last few seconds. A hot sting pricked at the corners of her eyes, her vision blurring as tears threatened to spill. The metallic tang of blood hung in the air—his blood, drawn by her hand.

Alexander circled her slowly, his footsteps deliberate, each one measured like the ticking of a death knell. “You know, my dove,” he mused, his voice deceptively light, “this was a capital offense. Some might even call it an assassination attempt.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, her chest tightening as his words coiled around her like a noose.

“I could have your entire family incarcerated. Executed, even.” He said it casually, as if discussing the evening breeze rather than the annihilation of her house.

“No—Alexander, please,” she gasped, her head snapping up. A single tear broke free, tracing a glistening path down her cheek. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t,” he interrupted, his voice softening as he reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from her face. She recoiled instinctively, her body reacting before her mind could catch up—a visceral flinch that only made his smile deepen. “But what's done is done.” His thumb lingered near her temple, a mockery of comfort. “Unless, of course, we settle this between ourselves?”

Hope flickered in Y/N’s eyes, fragile as a candle in a storm. “Yes, of course.”

His eyes were dark, fathomless—the eyes of a king already weighing her worth. “I’ll assign you a remedial measure,” he said, his thumb brushing the apple of her cheek. “Perform it without question.” A pause, loaded with unspoken threat. “Fail me, and I’ll have no choice but to proceed through official channels.”

He leaned in, close enough that his breath ghosted over her lips as he whispered, “And it would almost be blasphemy, wouldn’t it? To execute a face so blessed by Aphrodite.”

The words were a caress and a knife all at once.

Y/N stood frozen, her pulse a frantic bird trapped in her throat. She had won the spar.

But Alexander had already won the war.

“What...” Her voice fractured, the word crumbling like dried clay. She swallowed hard, forcing the question past the vise of fear tightening around her windpipe. “What would you have me do?”

Alexander’s smile unfurled slowly, a predator savouring the moment before the kill. He stepped back, retrieving the fallen dagger with deliberate care, his fingers tracing the royal crest before offering it back to her, hilt-first.

“First,” he said, watching her trembling hands grasp the weapon, “you will tell no one of this. Not Cassander. Not Hephaestion.” His voice dropped, hardening like cooled steel. “Especially not your dear, ambitious mother. This blade, this moment—it belongs to us alone.”

The evening breeze chose that moment to slither through the grove, carrying the scent of magnolia blossoms and damp earth. It chilled the tears on Y/N’s cheeks, turning them to icy tracks. She nodded, the motion jerky, like a marionette with its strings cut.

Then Alexander stepped into her space as Ares might approach Aphrodite—equal parts reverence and conquest. His calloused thumb, hardened by spear and rein, grazed her lower lip with startling gentleness. “And you may treat me to your divinity instead,” he murmured, his breath warm against her skin.

Y/N flinched, her gaze darting away. “I—my mother said I shouldn’t let a man touch me unless I am married.” The words tumbled out in a rush, brittle with desperation. “It would ruin my prospects.”

In the cutthroat world of noble alliances, a woman’s value hinged on her purity—a currency her mother had drilled into her since her first blood. The warning had been explicit: Guard your virtue like gold, for once spent, you are worthless.

Alexander’s smirk was a blade all its own. The prince’s thumb pressed more firmly against her lip, his other hand coming up to cradle her jaw with the care one might show a newly acquired treasure. “Does my little nymph fear the touch of a son of Zeus?” he teased, though his eyes burned with the intensity of a man who had never been denied.

It was almost endearing, this bashfulness. He had seen newlywed brides tremble so— shy and skittish as fawns. But Y/N? She was already his in every way that mattered. Yet thought sent a dark twisted thrill through him.

“And if I refuse?” she whispered, the barest spark of defiance flashing through her terror.

Alexander’s smile didn’t waver as he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Then your noble father shall learn how quickly favour turns to famine when the crown withdraws its smile. Your dear brother will discover how heavy a royal disfavour weighs upon a soldier’s career.”

When he drew back, his expression softened into something resembling Apollo’s benevolence after a storm. “But you won’t refuse, will you, my dove?”

Y/N nodded slowly, the movements reluctant and stiff. “Forgive me, my prince,” she whispered, her voice barely stirring the air between them, “but I fear you would find little pleasure in... untutored lips.” The admission burned her tongue—both confession and feeble defence.

Alexander’s laughter rang through the sacred grove, light and melodious as wind chimes. “Ah, my sweet blossom,” he murmured, his hand rising to cradle her cheek with terrifying tenderness, “you mistake my intentions. But if ignorance truly frightens you then consider me your devoted pedagogue—I shall guide you through it, as Daedalus once taught Icarus the ways of flight.”

The simile should have warned her—for had Icarus not flown too close to the sun? Did that mean she would too be burnt?

His voice had shed its earlier venom, transforming back into the warm, familiar tones of the Alexander she thought she knew—the boy who had laughed with her under the magnolia tree, who had patiently taught her the art of the blade. Yet as she searched those beloved features—the curve of his lips, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes—she found only a stranger wearing her friend’s face.

Suddenly, Hephaestion’s long-ago warning echoed through her mind, “You should stay cautious of the prince.” How carelessly she had dismissed it then— for who could fear such a radiant boy, his words sweeter than hyblaean honey, his eyes holding all the warmth of the summer sun?

Now, she saw the hollow darkness behind his gaze—an abyss as fathomless as Tartarus itself, their golden depths hiding bottomless hunger. His sweet words coiled around her, not like garlands, but like the serpents of Laocoön, tightening with every breath.

Y/N closed her eyes, the scent of magnolias and iron filling her senses like some sacred, profane incense. To resist would be to invite the wrath of Macedon upon her house. Yet to yield felt like watching her own soul slip through her fingers like grains of sand in an upturned hourglass. That primal fear—the one she had felt when first meeting him, then foolishly buried beneath his false kindness surged anew in her veins.

Then his lips found hers. 

They were softer than she had thought—warm as sun-kissed nectar, smooth as polished ivory. Of course, some distant part of her mind whispered. He is favoured by the gods in all things. His breath carried the faintest hint of spiced wine and honey, intoxicating as the fumes from Delphi’s sacred vapours.

“Part your lips,” he murmured against her mouth, his voice thick with command.

She obeyed without thought, her body responding before her mind could protest.

The gasp that escaped her when his tongue slid against hers was swallowed whole by his hunger. His hand—strong and unyielding as the columns of the Parthenon—snaked around her waist, crushing her against him until not even a whisper of air could pass between their bodies. She could feel the hard planes of his chest, the rapid thunder of his heartbeat—or was that her own?

Alexander kissed her like a man starved—like Tantalus finally reaching for the fruit that had eternally eluded him. His tongue mapped the contours of her mouth with precision, as if committing every ridge, every sensitive spot to memory. One hand cradled the base of her skull, tilting her head back to better plunder her depths, while the other pressed insistently against the small of her back, ensuring no retreat.

A strange warmth pooled low in Y/N’s belly, spreading through her limbs like liquid fire. Her thoughts scattered like startled doves, her head growing light as if she’d danced too long beneath Helios’ scorching gaze. Whether from lack of air or the overwhelming sensations, she couldn’t tell—only that the world had narrowed to this moment, to his mouth moving against hers with relentless fervor.

When her lungs began to burn, she squirmed in his grasp, her hands pressing weakly against his chest. But Alexander only tightened his hold, his fingers tangling in her hair to hold her steady as he continued his conquest. She tried to breathe through her nose, but the dizzying scent of him filled her senses until she feared she might faint.

Just as spots began to dance behind her closed eyelids, he released her.

Y/N sagged against him, her legs as unsteady as a newborn foal’s. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her lips swollen and tingling, her cheeks flushed the deep crimson of pomegranate seeds. The taste of him lingered on her tongue—spice and salt and something indefinably Alexander.

“You did well, my little dove.”

Y/N fled like a startled doe disappearing into the forest shadows, her sandals whispering against the stone path as she vanished into the twilight. Alexander watched her go, his lips still tingling with the memory of her sweetness. A slow, satisfied smile curved his mouth—this was but the first taste of what would be a lifetime of her. 

As he made his way back toward the temple, his mind already spun with plans. He would write to his mother at once—Olympias would need to know about the girl who would one day stand beside him as empress. Y/N was softer, more innocent than the cunning women his mother typically favored, but that was of little consequence. Olympias could teach her the necessary ruthlessness, could shape her into the queen Macedon required. And if Y/N proved reluctant to learn... well, Alexander had his own methods of persuasion.

Aristotle stood like a sentinel in the half-light, his himation draped with the precision of a man who ordered both his garments and his thoughts with equal discipline. The flickering torchlight carved deep hollows beneath his brow, rendering his expression inscrutable.

“Good evening, Your Highness.” The philosopher’s voice was as measured as ever, each word weighed and polished before being released into the air between them.

Alexander felt the familiar prickle of irritation—like an ill-fitting chiton rubbing against his skin. He had hoped to slip through the courtyard unnoticed tonight, to avoid the weight of his teacher’s probing gaze. But he was the son of Philip, heir to the Macedonian throne. No one, not even the great Aristotle who had tutored princes and kings, could truly chastise him.

“Good evening, teacher,” he replied, affecting a casualness he did not feel. The words tasted bland on his tongue, a deliberate mask for the restless energy thrumming through his veins.

Aristotle studied him with those all-seeing eyes—eyes that had dissected the nature of the cosmos and the souls of men with equal precision. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken judgment, before the philosopher finally spoke again.

“By the laws of this sacred institution, I should impose penalties for your transgressions.” His gaze flickered briefly toward the distant grove where Alexander had spent the evening—where the scent of magnolias still clung to his skin. “However...” A pause, heavy with implication. “There is no time.”

Alexander’s spine straightened instinctively at the shift in tone. “What do you mean?”

“His Majesty has sent word.” Aristotle withdrew a sealed scroll from the folds of his himation, the royal insignia gleaming dully in the torchlight. “You are summoned to Pella at first light.”

Alexander had known the political situation at court was tense—his mother’s increasingly urgent letters had made that much clear—but this abrupt recall was unexpected. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he calculated the implications.

“And my studies?” he demanded, though he already knew the answer.

Aristotle’s stern expression softened, just slightly—the barest crack in the facade of the dispassionate scholar. “I have taught you all I can, my prince.” There was a finality to the words that resonated deeper than the temple walls around them. “What remains... you must learn for yourself.”

The great bronze doors of the palace swung open, revealing the familiar opulence of the Macedonian court. The scent of burning myrrh and polished marble filled the air as Alexander crossed the threshold, his travel-stained chiton a stark contrast to the gleaming splendour around him.

At the far end of the hall, Olympias stood like a living statue of Hera herself, her purple-bordered peplos pooling around her in regal folds. The golden diadem at her brow caught the torchlight, casting an almost divine glow about her sharp features.

“My champion,” she murmured, stepping forward to press her lips to his forehead in a gesture both tender and possessive. The familiar scent of her perfume—jasmine and something darker, more mysterious—wrapped around him like a second skin. “The palace has been empty without its brightest sun.”

Alexander’s smile was genuine as he gazed upon his mother. Though Aristotle had schooled him in philosophy and rhetoric, it was at Olympias’ knee that he had learned the true arts of power. Her lessons had been carved into his bones: the way to temper rage into calculated action, how to wield charm like a finely honed blade, the intoxicating thrill of ambition properly nurtured. Every ounce of his formidable will owed its existence to her careful cultivation.

Turning toward the throne, Alexander dropped to one knee in a practiced motion, his head bowed in perfect deference. “Greetings to the sun of Macedonia,” he intoned, the words smooth as poured honey.

The performance was flawless—and entirely necessary.

King Philip II lounged upon the lion-footed throne, his muscular frame still imposing despite the wine-softened edges of middle age. The conqueror of Greece, the architect of Macedonia’s military might, the man who had dragged their kingdom from obscurity to empire—yet to Alexander, he would always be the brute who made his mother’s eyes flash with barely concealed venom.

“You may rise, my son,” Philip boomed, his voice still carrying the authority that had once rallied armies. He pushed himself up from the throne with a grunt, crossing to clap Alexander on the back with a force that would have staggered a lesser man. “By the gods, you’ve grown taller since last harvest!”

The king’s gaze flickered toward Olympias, and for a heartbeat, something unspoken crackled between them—the tension of two predators forced to share a cage. Their marriage had been a political gambit from the start, a union of Macedon and Epirus that had produced an heir but no affection.

“Take him to his chambers,” Philip ordered, already turning back toward his wine cup. “The road from Pella is long, and even young lions need their rest.”

As Alexander followed his mother through the labyrinthine corridors of the palace, his mind raced. He knew—had always known—that Philip’s days were numbered. Between his father’s increasing volatility and his mother’s relentless ambition, the threads of fate were already woven. The only question was when the blade would fall.

And judging by the gleam in Olympias’ eyes as she led him past the frescoed walls—walls depicting the glorious deeds of heroes and gods—that moment was closer than even he suspected.

The flickering lamplight cast shifting shadows across the sumptuous chambers as Olympias reached up to cradle her son’s face between her jewelled hands. The golden serpents coiled around her wrists seemed to tighten their grip in silent anticipation.

“Let me look at you, my son,” she murmured, her eyes scanning his features with a rare tenderness reserved only for him. “For the Fates weave quickly these days. Your father insists you join his next expedition—if the drunken ramblings in his council hold truth.” Her thumbs brushed his cheekbones. “The battlefield calls for its golden champion.”

Alexander stood straighter beneath her touch, the firelight catching the gold in his hair like a lion’s mane. “Mother, I swear by Zeus Ammon’s horns, I shall bring victory to both you and Macedon,” he vowed, his voice resonant with the conviction of youth and destiny intertwined.

Olympias’ lips curved in proud satisfaction, but then her son continued, “Yet before I ride to war, there is something you must know.”

The queen’s perfectly arched brows drew together like drawn bows as Alexander declared, “I have chosen my bride.”

A sudden stillness settled over the chamber, broken only by the distant clatter of armour from the palace guards below. Olympias’ face hardened into the mask Alexander knew well—the calculating expression that preceded political storms. Her mind raced through possibilities: Meiza was a provincial town, its noble daughters few and far between. Had some merchant’s girl ensnared him? Or worse—some doe-eyed peasant who’d caught the prince’s fleeting fancy?

Yet before her fears could take root, Alexander continued smoothly, “The third daughter of House Iolaos, cherished by Cassander himself.”

Olympias’ sharp inhale was audible. “Antipater’s get by that simpering third wife of his?” Her lip curled slightly at the memory of the woman—all painted smiles and empty flattery. “An ambitious sow with less wit than a Thessalian hen.” The unspoken question hung between them, what worth could such a mother’s daughter possibly have?

Alexander’s answering smile was all cunning charm as he painted his mother a picture with words— of a girl who debated Aristotle’s teachings with him, who wielded a dagger with surprising skill, whose laughter carried the rare music of genuine wit rather than courtly affectation. Against her will, Olympias found herself intrigued.

“Consider the strategy, Mother,” Alexander pressed, stepping closer as if sharing a sacred secret. “Antipater’s loyalty has always been to my father first. But if his blood ties bind him to my future?” His eyes gleamed like polished amber in the firelight. “Cassander becomes my brother by marriage, sworn to my cause. And when our child—your grandchild—sits the throne one day...”

Olympias’ sudden laugh was the sound of ice cracking over dark waters. She seized his face again, her nails pressing just shy of pain. “My clever lion,” she purred, her eyes alight with wicked pride. “You would make her both crown and collar in one gilded cage. A queen to elevate Antipater’s line, yet a hostage to ensure their eternal loyalty.”

Alexander’s grip tightened on his mother’s wrists, his urgency bleeding through. “Her mother schemes to sell her to the highest bidder like common merchandise. Though I would wed her tomorrow if I could, I must first secure my throne.” His jaw set with the determination that had broken armies. “She returns to the capital soon. I need your word—swear to me you’ll keep her from grasping hands until I return victorious.”

Olympias’ smile was a thing of terrible beauty as she pressed her forehead to his—a sacred gesture from his childhood, now twisted into a pact between conspirators. “By the Styx itself, I swear it,” she whispered, her breath hot with promise. “No mortal nor god shall lay claim to what my son has marked as his. Let her mother plot and scheme—I shall ensure this dove remains caged until her true master comes to claim her.”

The return of Y/N to the capital was followed all too soon by grim tidings—the Crown Prince had been called to war, marching toward the front lines with the weight of Macedon’s hopes upon his shoulders. In a desperate bid to secure the gods’ favor for his safe return, Queen Olympias, his formidable mother, proclaimed a solemn decree— from twelve of the kingdom’s most esteemed noble houses, twelve daughters would be chosen to serve as priestesses in the sacred temples of the Olympian gods. These maidens were not to be selected by lot or petition, but by the queen’s own hand, ensuring that only those deemed worthy would intercede with the divine on behalf of her son.

Antipater, Y/N’s father, had prayed that their house might be spared this heavy burden. A priestess’s life was one of austerity and sacrifice—far removed from the comforts and privileges of nobility. The temple’s harsh disciplines would demand unwavering devotion, and few of noble birth were prepared to surrender their freedom for such a fate. “Surely the man who leads the king's armies will not balk at leading by example?” she had purred, her voice dripping with honeyed venom. The challenge hung in the air like a blade suspended over his neck. To refuse would brand him disloyal; to comply meant surrendering one of his own.

Y/N’s mother, initially distraught at the thought of surrendering her daughter, soon found her resistance wavering when she learned of the queen’s promised compensation. A staggering sum of gold, enough to elevate their house’s standing without the need for a costly dowry, was to be granted to any family whose daughter was chosen. Greed, or perhaps pragmatism, softened her resolve. By the time the selection day arrived, her apprehension had transformed into fervent ambition.

Y/N’s own wishes held no sway in the matter—not that she had expected them to. Noble daughters were bargaining pieces, their lives bartered for power and prestige. On the morning of the selection, her mother descended upon her with ruthless determination, adorning her in the finest chiton their house could afford, draping her in delicate silks, and painting her face with layers of rouge and powder until the girl who stared back from the bronze mirror was a stranger—a ridiculously pompous doll, crafted for display.

When Y/N dared to suggest that such opulence might be ill-suited for a priestess’s solemn calling, her mother’s hand struck her cheek with a sharp crack, the sting of betrayal lingering far longer than the pain. More powder was hastily applied to conceal the reddening mark, as though the blemish could be erased as easily as Y/N’s voice.

As the carriage rumbled toward the palace, Y/N closed her eyes, letting the sway of the wheels lull her into memory.

She thought of Meiza—of scrolls unfurled across sunlit courtyards, of the weight of a practice blade in her hand, of stolen moments beneath the magnolia trees where she had been not a noble daughter, but for the girl she had been allowed to become.

Now, she was being bartered like a sacrificial lamb, draped in finery she neither wanted nor deserved, buried beneath silk and pretense—another sacrifice to the ambitions of others.

The grand hall of the royal palace loomed like a sacred cavern, its towering columns draped in shadows that writhed beneath the dance of flickering torchlight. The air hung heavy with the cloying sweetness of burning myrrh and the sharper tang of crushed laurel leaves—offerings to the gods that did little to mask the undercurrent of sweat and fear. Along the hall’s length, twelve noble daughters stood in a fragile line, their postures rigid, their breaths shallow. The rustle of their finely woven chitons whispered through the silence like the trembling of autumn leaves before a storm.

Among them, Y/N stood with her gaze fixed upon the polished marble beneath her feet, her fingers twisting the delicate fabric of her gown into desperate knots. The rouge painted across her cheeks itched like a second skin, the kohl lining her eyes smudged from nervous tears she dared not shed. 

And then, at the far end of the hall, she appeared.

Olympias, Queen of Macedon, Mother of Alexander, the Serpent of Epirus—her titles coiled around her like the sacred python she was said to keep in her private chambers. She was neither the monstrous figure of whispered court gossip nor the grieving mother the people pitied. No, she was something far more dangerous.

She moved with the lethal grace of a priestess who had spent a lifetime deciphering the will of gods. There was a sharpness to her—an unyielding edge that reminded Y/N, with a jolt, of the Crown Prince himself. Alexander. The resemblance was uncanny. The same piercing gaze, the same coiled intensity, the same air of a predator who had never known what it was to be prey.

One by one, the noble daughters were called forward. Some were dismissed with nothing more than a flick of the queen’s wrist, their relief palpable as they scurried back into the shadows. Others were subjected to a scrutiny so intense it bordered on violation—Olympias tilting their chins with a single, unyielding finger, tracing the lines of their palms as though divining their very fates in the creases of their skin. 

The queen did not speak. Instead, she circled her like a wolf sizing up a wounded fawn, her gaze lingering on the garish paint that marred Y/N’s lips, the heavy kohl that darkened her eyes—the desperate handiwork of a mother who had sought to gild her daughter like a temple offering. 

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until Y/N could hear the frantic drum of her own heartbeat in her ears.

Olympias’s piercing gaze swept over Y/N, her lips curling in a way that was neither smile nor sneer. “You look like a bride,” she remarked, her voice a low murmur that carried through the silent hall like the warning hiss of a serpent. “Tell me, child—do you wish to be one?”

The question was a blade, poised to cut through pretence. To admit desire could be seen as vanity; to deny it might be taken as defiance. Y/N swallowed the lump in her throat, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. “I wish only to serve,” she answered carefully, the words tasting of practiced obedience.

Something flickered in the queen’s dark eyes—something between amusement and approval, though which it was, Y/N could not say. Without warning, Olympias reached out, her thumb dragging roughly across Y/N’s cheekbone, smearing the rouge like blood. The queen’s nose wrinkled slightly, as if the heavy perfumes and powders offended her. She turned her head sharply, her voice cracking through the hall like a whip. “Bring me a washcloth.”

A handmaiden scrambled forward, nearly tripping over her own feet in her haste to obey. Within moments, a damp linen cloth and a small basin of water were presented. Olympias took the cloth and extended it toward Y/N, her expression unreadable. “Wipe your face.”

Y/N did not dare glance at her mother. The weight of the court’s stares pressed against her like hands shoving her forward, but she refused to falter. Taking the cloth, she pressed it to her skin, scrubbing away the layers of rouge, powder, and kohl until her true face emerged—bare, vulnerable, but undeniably her own. The cool water was a relief, as though she had been drowning beneath the mask and had finally broken the surface to breathe.

Olympias watched, her gaze unflinching, before reaching out again. This time, her fingers were gentle as they tilted Y/N’s chin upward, exposing the faint but unmistakable mark of a slap upon her cheek. The queen’s eyes darkened, her voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. “Who hurt you, child?”

The tenderness in her touch was foreign—like the brush of a mother’s hand, though Y/N had never known such comfort from her own. For a fleeting moment, she wanted to confess, to let the truth spill from her lips like wine from an overturned cup. But the consequences loomed too large. To accuse her mother before the entire court would be to invite ruin upon her house.

“It was a mere accident, Your Majesty,” she lied smoothly, lowering her lashes in deference. “Pay it no mind.”

Olympias studied her for a long, silent moment before releasing her chin with a quiet hum. “You are my daughter now,” she said, her tone brooking no argument. “And so you must take care of yourself, child.” She stepped back, her posture regal once more. “Tell me—what god do you worship? For your devotion must come from the heart.”

Y/N hesitated. The safe answer would be Athena—wise, strategic, favoured by kings. But something in the queen’s gaze compelled honesty. “I seek knowledge, and so I ought to say Athena,” she admitted softly. “But my heart has always been true to Mother Aphrodite.”

“It seems quite fitting,” she mused, as if Y/N had passed some unspoken test. “The necessary arrangements will be made.”

Relief, sweet and dizzying, flooded Y/N’s chest. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she murmured, bowing her head.

But as she stepped back into line, she could feel the weight of her mother’s glare burning into her. And for the first time, Y/N wondered if she had just traded one prison for another.

╰┈➤ Masterlist

Tags: @joekitsu (thanks for dialogue help bestie)

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© cheriecelestial - arabelle | 2025

Alexander bristled, his jaw tightening. “You think I would lie about such a thing?”

Hephaestion held up a placating hand. “Not lie. But even the keenest eyes may be tricked by twilight, and sacred groves are ever the domain of visions.”

A tense silence stretched between them before Hephaestion pressed further, seizing the opportunity to steer the conversation toward firmer ground. “And, if I may ask—what were you doing near that place at such an hour? The laws of Meiza are clear: no pupil departs temple grounds without leave from kin or tutor. And you, my lord, sought no such permission.”

The prince stiffened, caught off guard. His fingers twitched at his sides, betraying his struggle to conjure a convincing excuse. After a moment of hesitation, he exhaled sharply and surrendered to the truth. “I saw Cassander slipping beyond the wall that way. I wished to see where he was going.”

Hephaestion groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as if beseeching the gods for patience. The son of Antipater was a notorious instigator, a boy who treated rules as mere suggestions rather than boundaries. Like Alexander, he had been raised under the shadow of power—his father, the king’s most trusted general, ensured that consequence rarely touched him. The two were cut from the same defiant cloth, each believing themselves the exception to every rule.

“My prince,” Hephaestion said, his voice edged with reproach, “Cassander is no beacon of conduct. Must you trail after his every folly?”

Alexander’s lip curled. “Folly? I call it vigilance.”

“Vigilance that conjures goddesses from the mist?” Hephaestion countered, his brow arched.

Alexander’s retort died on his lips, replaced by a stubborn silence while thinking back to his encounter.

Sleep had eluded him. The hour was late, the halls of the temple of the nymphs hushed, but his thoughts raced like chariots at the Hippodrome. Resigned, he had risen, slipping into the cool embrace of the night. Above him, Selene reigned in silver splendor, her celestial handmaidens—those distant, twinkling stars—scattered across the heavens like diamonds cast upon obsidian. He knew their names, their myths, their paths—Aristotle had made certain of that. Yet tonight, their brilliance offered no solace.

Seeking refuge, he had settled beneath one of the garden’s pillared gazebos, its stark white columns entwined with ivy, their leaves swaying in the faintest breath of wind. It was a portrait of tranquility—or so it seemed.

Then—movement.

A cloaked figure slipped between the shadows near the temple, footsteps careful and deliberate. An intruder? A thief? Instinct flared hot in Alexander’s veins. His fingers twitched toward the dagger at his belt as he melted into the darkness, trailing the stranger with the precision of a hunter.

Yet something gnawed at him. Something about how this man moved felt familiar, whether it was the rhythm in his step or his posture. Recognition hit Alexander like Zeus' lightning.

The hood slipped, revealing the sharp features of Cassander, scion of the noble house of Iolaos. What madness drove him beyond the walls at this hour? The rules of Meiza were the iron girders of discipline, absolute and ultimate and Cassander, for all his posturing, was no fool. Unless his purpose was worth the risk.

Alexander tensed—he had to follow, demand answers—

“My prince?”

He was about to follow him out but he heard a voice call from behind him.

The voice, low but unmistakable, froze him mid-step. He whirled, blade half-drawn, before his eyes settled on Ptolemy—a close friend and companion.

“What business have you here?” The prince countered, his tone sharper than intended.

Ptolemy’s gaze flickered toward the wall, then back. “I might ask the same.”

By the time Alexander turned again, Cassander had vanished—swallowed by the night. Reluctantly, he allowed Ptolemy to steer him back to the dormitories, but the questions festered like a wound left untended. Why? Where? How often?

Days passed. The mystery festered. Alexander watched, patient as a sage, as Cassander moved through his routines—attending lectures, drilling in the palaestra, laughing with friends. But always, always, there was that gleam in his eye—the look of a man who knew a secret. Then, the pattern emerged. Once every fortnight, Cassander would slip away.

Tonight, Alexander would not be thwarted. With Ptolemy’s aid—ever willing, ever unquestioning—Cassander was lured into a late-night game of kottabos, his attention ensnared by wine and wit.

And Alexander moved.

He retraced Cassander’s path, fingers skimming the rough-hewn stones of the perimeter wall, searching, probing—

There.

Behind a curtain of thick ivy, the mortar had crumbled, the bricks pried loose just enough to form a narrow passage. Alexander exhaled a laugh, triumphant. So this was how the fox slipped its leash. With one last cautious glance behind him to ensure he hadn't been followed, the young prince dropped to his hands and knees and squeezed through the gap. The rough stone scraped against his shoulders, but the thrill of rebellion burned hotter than any discomfort. This forbidden act of slipping beyond the walls sent his pulse racing in a way no training yard spar ever could.

Beyond the wall, the trail revealed itself through flattened grasses and broken twigs— a path worn by frequent use. The corners of Alexander's mouth quirked up in satisfaction as he noted the clear signs of Cassander's regular trespasses. The foliage grew denser as he pressed forward, vines and branches snagging at his chiton with increasing persistence. Where a more patient man might have carefully parted the vegetation, Alexander slashed through the greenery with impatient strokes of his dagger, sending leaves and tendrils flying. Answers waited ahead, and he'd be damned if some stubborn plants would delay him.

Just as the thicket seemed impassable, silver light flickered between the leaves ahead. With one final, determined push, Alexander burst through— only to stumble and fall gracelessly onto his hands and knees in the soft earth. The indignity of it burned his cheeks— a prince of Macedon, sprawled in the dirt like a clumsy child. He scrambled up quickly, brushing the soil from his knees with sharp, embarrassed movements while glancing about to confirm his humiliation had no witnesses.

Before him stretched a vision so perfect it seemed ripped from the dreams of poets. A tranquil lake reflected the full moon and star-strewn sky, gentle ripples danced across the water like nymphs at play. The surrounding meadow glowed emerald in the moonlight while fireflies weaved through the air— living sparks from Hestia's eternal flame. Towering over the scene stood a magnolia tree, its pearl-white blossoms luminous against the night, petals drifting down like snowflakes to carpet the ground below. The air hummed with the rhythmic chorus of crickets like delicate lyres strumming in harmony to the wind's gentle melody. And there, beneath the magnolia's boughs, stood the source of the ethereal radiance that illuminated this hidden sanctuary.

Time itself seemed to pause as Alexander's eyes beheld her. Flowing H/C locks cascaded over her shoulders draped in silken fabric of her chiton that appeared woven from morning mist and pearls. Golden bracelets glimmered at her wrists as she cradled a dove with infinite tenderness, her lips murmuring comforts only the divine could impart.

Alexander's pulse thundered in his ears. The air grew thick, time itself pausing in reverence. No mortal woman could possess such unearthly grace, such effortless perfection. The stories, the statues, the temple frescoes - all had failed to capture even a fraction of her beauty. That was when he knew that before him stood none other than Aphrodite herself, goddess of love and beauty.

Driven by a hunger that burned hotter than reason, Alexander stepped forward, his fingers trembling as they reached for her—not in worship, but in desperate, human need. To touch. To prove she was real. But the forest betrayed him. A branch snapped beneath his foot, the sound as sharp as a blade through the sacred silence.

Her head whipped toward him.

And in that instant—reality shattered.

The face that met his was young, terrified. A girl. No older than him, if not younger. Her eyes—wide with panic—locked onto his for a single, breathless moment before she scrambled to her feet, the dove still clutched protectively in her hands. Then she was running, her bare feet kicking up dew as she vanished into the trees.

“Wait!” Alexander's voice tore from his throat, raw with something between command and plea.

Doubt clawed at him. Had he committed sacrilege? Was she a nymph, a spirit, forbidden to mortal eyes? The way she had looked at him—not with divine indifference, but fear—gnawed at his certainty. Yet even as guilt prickled at his conscience, a darker, hungrier thought took root.

She had run from him.

And Alexander of Macedon did not tolerate flight.

His mother’s voice slithered through his mind, seductive as a serpent: “You are blessed by Zeus. The world is yours to claim.”

If this girl was divine, then she belonged among his conquests.

If she was mortal—then she had no right to refuse him.

The days stretched on, each one longer than the last, as Alexander returned again and again to the hidden glade. But the girl—the vision—was nowhere to be found. The magnolia tree stood as silent witness to his frustration, its petals drifting onto the undisturbed surface of the lake. She had vanished like morning mist under the sun.

“As I have told you before, my prince, it is... improbable that she was divine.” Hephaestion's voice was measured, the way one might speak to a restless hound before it snapped. “More likely, she was a girl from the village—perhaps the daughter of some wealthy merchant.”

Alexander scoffed, fingers tightening around the edge of his cup. “You think I do not know the difference between merchant's silk and the raiment of a goddess?” The fabric she had worn had seemed spun from the finest of pearls of Poseidon's waters, the gold at her wrists too pure, too alive, to be the work of mortal hands. “No village girl owns such things. No noble in this city could afford them.”

Hephaestion exhaled, weary. “Then what do you intend to do?”

Alexander's gaze darkened. “Find her.”

Then—a thought struck him like a blade between the ribs.

Cassander.

Had he known her? Had he been sneaking out to meet her all this time?

Cassander was seated in the courtyard, methodically running a whetstone along the edge of his sword when Alexander approached. The son of Antipater glanced up, his usual smirk in place. “My prince,” he greeted, setting his blade aside. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Alexander forced a smile. “I was hoping you might join me in the library tonight. I mean to study the old texts—perhaps you could lend your insight.”

A flicker of hesitation. Then Cassander sighed, rubbing his temple. “I am honored, but I must beg your pardon. I’ve been feeling unwell—I thought to retire early.”

Liar.

Alexander’s blood burned. Today was the night—the same pattern as before. Cassander knew. He had to. And now he dared refuse his prince’s request, hiding behind false weakness? “I see,” Alexander said, his voice dangerously smooth. “Then may Apollo’s grace restore you swiftly.”

He turned away before Cassander could see the fury in his eyes.

Hephaestion was waiting where Alexander had left him, arms crossed, watching the exchange with quiet unease.

“You will come with me tonight,” Alexander commanded, his voice low. “To the meadows.”

Hephaestion frowned. “My prince—”

“You will see her,” Alexander interrupted, his eyes alight with something perilous. “And then you will understand.”

The sun had barely dipped below the horizon when Alexander and Hephaestion slipped through the crumbling gap in the wall. The prince moved with the precision of a seasoned hunter; his every sense attuned to the whispers of the night. Hephaestion followed, his unease growing with each step deeper into the forbidden woods.

“We shouldn't be out here after curfew,” Hephaestion muttered, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Alexander didn't slow. “Then consider this a royal command overriding temple law.” His voice left no room for debate.

The forest grew denser, the path Cassander had taken now illuminated only by the faint glow of fireflies. Alexander's pulse quickened—every rustle of leaves, every snapped twig could mean she was near. Or worse, that Cassander had gotten there first.

Then—her voice.

Sweet and clear as a songbird’s call, it floated through the trees:

“Cassander… is that you?”

Through the tangled foliage, torchlight flickered, painting the trunks in gold and shadow. There. The girl stood just beyond the thicket, her silhouette haloed in firelight.

Hephaestion’s sharp inhale confirmed it—she was real. Not a specter, not a trick of the moonlight. Alexander’s grinned in triumph.

Then, like a predator coiling before the strike, he stepped back—once, twice—before surging forward, bursting into the clearing with the force of a storm.

The girl whirled, her eyes widening in terror. She stumbled back, but Alexander was faster. His hand closed around her wrist, yanking her to a halt.

For a moment, he said nothing. Just stared.

Up close, she was more breathtaking than he remembered. Her skin was impossibly soft beneath his calloused fingers, warm as sunlight. Her hair—loose and tumbling over her shoulders—gleamed like spun gold. And her eyes… wide, luminous, frightened. Tears welled along her lashes, but she didn’t look away. Alexander’s breath caught. Gods. Even in distress, she was radiant.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Let me go.”

She twisted in his grip, but Alexander barely registered the struggle. His free hand rose almost of its own accord, brushing a stray lock from her face. Her hair slipped through his fingers like silk, finer than any royal weave. He ached to cradle her cheek, to claim this moment—

“Alexander.”

Hephaestion’s voice cut through the haze, sharp as a blade. The girl seized the distraction, wrenching free with a sob. Before Alexander could react, she darted behind Hephaestion, fists clutching his chiton like a lifeline.

Alexander blinked, disoriented. “Y/N?” Hephaestion murmured, half-turning to shield her.

Cassander burst from the trees then, his face paling as he took in the scene. “Y/N! Wait— Hephaestion? What in Hades—?”

“Cassander!” The girl lunged past Hephaestion, crashing into Cassander’s chest. His arms closed around her instinctively, his glare snapping to Alexander.

The prince’s blood turned to lava.

“Explain,” Alexander snarled. His hand flexed at his side, fingers itching for his sword. The pieces crashed together with brutal clarity. Hephaestion, who’d doubted her existence, now stood as her protector? Cassander, who'd lied to his prince, held her like she was his? Every muscle in his body coiled, ready to strike. Betrayal. Hot and noxious, it coiled in his gut.

The girl flinched at his tone, pressing closer to Cassander.

Hephaestion stepped forward, his voice low. ”Alexander, this isn’t what you think.”

“Then enlighten me,” Alexander bit out. The words dripped venom.

Cassander’s grip tightened on the girl. “It is not what you think my prince. She’s my—”

Alexander took a menacing step forward, the air around him crackling with barely restrained fury. “Your what?” he interrupted, each word a dagger thrust. His voice dropped to a whisper that carried more threat than any shout. “Finish that sentence, Cassander. I command you.”

The clearing seemed to hold its breath. The rustling leaves stilled. Even the ever-present chorus of crickets fell silent, as if nature itself recoiled from the storm about to break.

Hephaestion, standing rigid between them, finally broke the suffocating silence. “Alexander,” he said carefully, “she's Cassander's sister.”

The words hung suspended in the air, heavy with implication.

For several heartbeats, Alexander simply stared, his mind struggling to reconcile this new reality with the divine vision he'd convinced himself he'd seen. Sister. The word echoed in his skull, unraveling the fantasy thread by thread.

“Then how is it I've never known of her before?” he demanded, though the fire in his voice had dimmed, replaced by something perilously close to relief.

Cassander sighed, his grip on the girl loosening marginally. “My lord, she is the daughter of my father's third wife,” he explained, his tone carefully neutral. Alexander knew Antipater had taken multiple wives—common among nobles—but had paid little attention to any offspring beyond Cassander, the only one deemed worthy of political consideration. Noble daughters, especially young ones, were often kept out of public view until marriageable age, and this girl was clearly not yet of that station.

Hephaestion added quietly, “Our mothers were close in their youth. Cassander and his siblings have always been welcome in our home.” There was an unspoken truth beneath his words: the sons of nobles moved in circles Alexander, as prince, could never fully inhabit. They respected him, yes, even cared for him—but there were lines they would not cross, boundaries he could never breach.

Alexander's fingers uncurled from the hilt of his sword.

But Hephaestion was not finished. He knew Cassander's pride was a brittle thing, especially when it came to his family's honor, and Alexander's actions had skirted dangerously close to insult. “Cassander,” he began, choosing his words with the precision of a diplomat, “you must understand. The prince acted out of concern. He believed Y/N was a common village girl distracting you from your studies at Meiza. His methods were... misguided, but his intent was pure.”

A beat. Then Cassander nodded, though his jaw remained tight. “I understand.”

Behind him, the girl—Y/N—remained half-hidden, her wide eyes darting between them like a hare assessing its predators. Cassander turned to her, murmuring something too low for the others to hear, before stepping forward to clasp Alexander's arm in a gesture of truce.

Hephaestion seized the opportunity to lean down to Y/N. “Are you alright?” he asked softly, his voice the gentle cadence she had come to associate with safety. She nodded, though her fingers still trembled from uncertainty.

When Cassander returned, the tension in his shoulders had eased. “It seems introductions are in order,” he said, with forced lightness. “My prince, may I present my sister, the third daughter of the House of Iolaos— Lady Y/N.”

Y/N dipped into a flawless bow, her eyes demurely lowered.

“And Y/N,” Cassander continued, “this is Alexander, Prince of Macedon.”

Alexander offered her a smile that might have been charming under different circumstances. Then, to the shock of all present, he extended his hand—not in command, but in request.

Y/N hesitated, her gaze flicking to Cassander, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. Swallowing her fear, she placed her hand in Alexander's.

Instead of shaking it, he raised her fingers to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles with a reverence that bordered on theatrical. “Forgive my earlier discourtesy, my lady,” he murmured, his voice smooth as honeyed wine. ”I meant you no harm.”

The gesture was one reserved for cherished friends—or equals. A blatant lie, given the fury of moments before, but a necessary performance.

The tension in the clearing eased, but the air still thrummed with unspoken words. Alexander released Y/N's hand, though his fingers lingered for a heartbeat too long—a silent promise that this encounter was not the end, but the beginning.

“We should return before the night deepens,” Hephaestion urged, his voice low but firm. “Before the temple masters notice our absence.” His eyes flickered between Alexander and Cassander, well aware that this peace was as fragile as spun glass.

Cassander gave a curt nod, turning to Y/N. His expression, so often sharp with arrogance, softened as he cupped her face. “Go,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Your nurse will be waiting.” A gentle nudge toward the path where he knew her attendants stood guard—his silent assurance that she would be safe from prying eyes, from him.

But the prince of Macedon wasn't one to be shaken off so easily. 

“Y/N.”

Her name rolled off his tongue like honeyed wine, smooth and deliberate. She froze mid-step, the fine linen of her chiton whispering against her skin as she turned just enough to meet his gaze over her shoulder.

Alexander smiled—not the charming grin of a prince, but the slow, deliberate curve of a predator savoring the scent of its prey. “Now that we are properly acquainted,” he said, “I would be honored if you would grace us with your company again. Soon.”

A command disguised as a request.

Y/N’s throat tightened, but she dipped into a flawless curtsey, her lashes brushing her cheeks. “As you wish, my prince.”

As Y/N's retreating footsteps faded into the night, Alexander inhaled slowly, savoring the lingering scent of magnolias that clung stubbornly to the air. The taste of victory was sweet upon his tongue - but incomplete.

The group moved in heavy silence, the crunch of leaves beneath their sandals the only sound. Cassander lingered a few paces behind, his brow furrowed in quiet contemplation, while Hephaestion walked slightly ahead while, his shoulders tense. Alexander, meanwhile, seemed almost at ease, his hands clasped behind his back as if they had merely enjoyed a moonlit stroll.

Hephaestion’s stomach twisted with unease. He cared deeply for Alexander—had followed him without question through battles and trials—but he knew better than anyone the dangerous fire that burned within the prince. It was the same fire that had burned Troy to the ground, the kind that consumed everything in its path. And now, it had fixated on Y/N. Gods help her, he thought, if she becomes the kindling for that flame.

“Your sister,” Alexander mused suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade through silk. “She is timid, yet there is a sweetness to her. So marked, in fact, that I find myself questioning if the two of you share any blood at all.” He chuckled, as if it were nothing more than a jest—a jest that expected laughter in return.

“My sister is merely unaccustomed to strangers, my prince,” he replied, his tone carefully measured. “Particularly those who... handle her so callously.” The unspoken accusation hung between them.

Alexander turned, his smile sharp and humorless, never quite reaching his eyes. “Ah, then I shall have to make amends,” he said smoothly. “A proper apology is in order, wouldn’t you agree?” Hephaestion suppressed a grimace. They all knew it was nothing more than an excuse—a thinly veiled ploy to see her again. Yet neither he nor Cassander dared voice the objection aloud.

In the days that followed, a calm settled over them. Alexander played his part flawlessly. He drew closer to Cassander, engaging him in debates, training alongside him, even jesting with him as though the incident in the woods had never occurred. There was no mention of Y/N, no lingering questions—at least, not spoken aloud.

To an outsider, it might have seemed as though Alexander had moved on, his fleeting fascination with Cassander’s sister forgotten as quickly as it had ignited.

But Hephaestion knew better.

It was during one of their evening walks through the olive groves that Alexander finally struck.

“What I still don’t understand,” he began, his tone deceptively light, as though discussing nothing more consequential than the weather, “is why your sister is not with the rest of your family.”

Cassander stilled, his fingers twitching imperceptibly at his sides. For a moment, it seemed he might not answer. Then, with deliberate calm, he replied, “Her mother has little interest in child-rearing. She prefers her own pursuits to the duties of motherhood.” A flicker of disdain crossed his features. “I despise her for it, amongst other things. But Y/N... she is nothing like her.”

Alexander arched a brow, feigning polite curiosity. “And so she remains here?”

“The great Aristotle resides in Meiza,” Cassander said, his voice softening slightly. “Scholars and thinkers frequent these halls. I convinced my father to let her accompany me so that I might oversee her education.”

“How... noble of you,” he murmured, the words dripping with false admiration. Then, with a calculated shift, he added, “Speaking of nobility—regarding that apology I owe her. I was thinking of compensating your sister for the distress I caused. Silk from Corinth, perhaps? Or gold from Lydia’s mines? Pearls plucked fresh from the Aegean?” His tone was smooth, but the glint in his eyes was anything but benign.

Cassander shook his head. “That won’t be necessary, my prince. Your words that evening were apology enough.”

Alexander waved a dismissive hand, though his gaze never wavered. “Nonsense. I insist.” The air between them grew heavy, the unspoken challenge unmistakable—refuse me again, and see what happens.

Hephaestion, sensing the tension coiling like a viper ready to strike, stepped forward. “With all due respect, my prince,” he interjected smoothly, “Y/N is the daughter of Antipater, the most celebrated general in Macedonia. Silk and gold are hardly rare treasures in their household. Rather words of sincerity are gifts unparalleled.” His voice was light, but his stance was firm—a shield thrown between Alexander’s will and Cassander’s rising temper.

“You are correct. I suppose I shall have to look for another gift then.” Alexander conceded, the corner of his mouth quirking upward.

True to his word, Alexander spent the following days in quiet deliberation. He dismissed the obvious offerings—jewels, silks, perfumes from the East—all trinkets that might impress a courtier’s daughter but would mean nothing to a girl who valued thought and effort over finery.

Then, one evening as he walked past the magnolia tree where he had first seen her, inspiration struck.

With meticulous care, he selected a sturdy branch and set to work, his dagger carving delicate strokes into the wood late into the night. The servants whispered about the prince’s strange new obsession, but Alexander paid them no mind. Perfection could not be rushed.

When the next fortnight arrived, Alexander appeared at Cassander’s door unannounced, his smile as polished as his ceremonial armor.

“Walk with me,” he said, and it was not a request.

Cassander knew better than to refuse.

The meadow lay bathed in silver moonlight, just as it had been that fateful evening. And there, beneath the great magnolia, stood Y/N—her silhouette haloed in pale blossoms. At the sound of approaching footsteps, she turned, her face alight with expectation... until she saw Alexander.

The prince's heart stuttered in his chest like a startled bird.

Discomfort flickered across her features, swift as a shadow over water. It's alright, Alexander told himself, the words a mantra. She'll come to see me. She must.

“Why is His Highness here?” Y/N's voice was small but clear, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her chiton.

Cassander opened his mouth to reply, but Alexander was already stepping forward, his every movement calculated to disarm. “To offer my apologies properly, my lady.” He turned to Cassander, one brow arched in silent request.

With a barely perceptible sigh, Cassander squeezed his sister's hand—be brave—and withdrew to a discreet distance. Close enough to intervene, far enough to grant the illusion of privacy.

Alexander was every inch the royal heir in that moment: his bearing regal, his chiton draped to perfection, the very air around him seeming to hum with latent power. He had inherited his mother's effortless charm and his father's commanding presence—qualities that, when wielded together, could bend wills without raising a sword.

“Greetings, my lady. Are you well?” he began, his voice warm as summer honey.

Y/N's gaze darted to the ground. “I am, my prince. And you needn't—”

“Please,” he interrupted gently, lifting a hand. “Allow me this.” He inclined his head, the very picture of contrition. “I was discourteous to you, and I regret my actions deeply. More than that...” Here, he paused, as if searching for the right words. “I wish to know you, Y/N. Not as a prince to a subject, but as one soul to another.”

From his belt, he produced a small wooden dove, its wings delicately carved, its surface polished to a soft sheen. The scent of magnolia clung to it like a memory.

“I carved this myself,” he admitted, running a thumb over its back. “From a branch of this very tree. The imperfections are many, I fear, but...” He held it out to her, his expression uncharacteristically vulnerable. “Perhaps that makes it more honest.”

Y/N's breath caught. The dove was exquisite—the wings tapered to near-translucent thinness, the feathers etched with painstaking care. This was no hastily purchased trinket, but something made with time, with attention. Her fingers trembled as she took it, tracing the grooves left by his knife.

“You... made this?” she whispered, her eyes wide.

Alexander nodded, uncharacteristically silent.

For the first time, Y/N looked at him—truly looked at him. Not as the terrifying prince who had chased her through the woods, but as the young man before her now: his usually impeccable hair tousled by the night breeze, a smudge of wood dust still clinging to his wrist.

Her smile, when it came, was like dawn breaking over the Aegean—slow, radiant, utterly disarming.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” she said, cradling the dove to her chest. “I will treasure it always.”

And Alexander, a child born to be the conqueror of men, the scion of gods, found himself struck dumb.

In the weeks that followed, Y/N had grown bold enough to insist that Cassander bring both Hephaestion and Alexander along during their fortnightly visits. The prince, of course, was all too eager to oblige. For Y/N, who had spent most of her life sheltered within the confines of noble propriety, these gatherings were a rare taste of companionship beyond her brother’s watchful presence. They would talk, play games, and laugh—just as young people ought to.

But not all was as harmonious as it seemed.

Though Hephaestion occasionally excused himself—whether out of discretion or discomfort, none could say—Alexander never missed a single meeting. His presence, once a novelty, soon became a constant, and Cassander found himself increasingly sidelined. Here, in this meadow that had once been his sanctuary with Y/N, he now felt like an intruder in his own sister’s affections.

Worse still, he could not deny the irony: Alexander, his closest friend, now stole the very moments Cassander cherished most.

And Alexander, for his part, had begun to see Cassander not as a brother-in-arms, but as an obstacle—a necessary nuisance, yes, but a nuisance all the same.

One evening, as silver light filtered through the leaves, Y/N sat weaving a crown of flowers, her fingers deft as they threaded blossoms together. Nearby, Hephaestion and Cassander sparred with wooden swords, their mock battle filled with laughter and good-natured taunts.

Alexander, leaning beside Y/N with his head in her lap, watched her work with quiet fascination.

“My lady,” he began, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant. “May I be so bold as to make a request?”

Y/N didn’t look up, her fingers still busy with the flowers. “Go right ahead.”

Alexander took a breath. “I’ve noticed how much Cassander values his time with you. As do I.” He paused, choosing his next words carefully. “But when we’re all together, it feels... crowded. I was thinking—what if we met at different times? Just you and I?”

Y/N’s hands stilled. The flower crown slipped from her fingers.

“What are you implying, my prince?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Alexander sat up, turning to face her fully. “Nothing untoward, I assure you. It’s merely practical. Fewer people mean less risk of being caught by the temple masters. And it would give Cassander more time with you as well.”

Y/N bit her lip. “My mother says a young lady shouldn’t be alone with a man unchaperoned.”

“But you wouldn’t be alone,” Alexander countered smoothly. “Your guard and nurse are always stationed nearby, are they not?”

Y/N hesitated. Technically, he was right. Seeing her waver, Alexander leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Unless... you’re afraid my company will ruin all others for you.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. Then, with a huff, she did something no one had ever dared—she smacked his arm.

It was a light tap, the kind she often gave Cassander when he teased her too much. But coming from her, directed at him—Alexander gasped in exaggerated offense.

“You dare strike a prince?” he declared, his tone dripping with mock outrage. “ This is treason! Punishable by—”

Y/N didn’t wait to hear the rest. She was already running, her laughter ringing through the trees.

“Forgive me, O merciful prince!” she called over her shoulder, her voice bright with amusement.

Alexander gave chase, his long legs closing the distance between them with ease. When he caught her, his arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her off the ground in a spinning embrace. They were both breathless with laughter as he gently placed her onto the soft grass.

“Traitor,” he accused, looming over her with a grin. “By the decree the heir of Macedonia, you shall be punished.”

And then—he tickled her.

Y/N shrieked, her laughter bordering on hysterical as she writhed beneath his relentless fingers. “Stop! Please! I yield!”

Alexander relented, but only slightly. “Only if you say yes to my proposal,” he bargained, his eyes alight with mischief.

Y/N’s laughter faded. She searched his face, her expression turning serious. “And Cassander?”

Alexander’s smile softened. “He’s too overprotective. But you deserve freedom. It can be our secret, yes?”

For a long moment, Y/N was silent. Then, with a slow nod—

“Alright.”

The oil lamps in Alexander’s chambers flickered, casting long shadows across the walls. The scent of spiced wine and burning wicks hung heavy in the air, but the tension between the two youths was thicker still.

Hephaestion stood rigid by the doorway, his usually composed features strained with uncharacteristic intensity. “My prince,” he began again, his voice carefully measured, “I must ask—why are you doing this?”

Alexander didn’t look up from his wine cup, his fingers idly tracing its golden rim. The ruby liquid within caught the light, shimmering like spilled blood. “I’ve no idea what you mean,” he murmured, his tone deliberately light.

A muscle twitched in Hephaestion’s jaw. “Lady Y/N,” he pressed, refusing to let the prince feign ignorance. “She is Cassander’s sister. Antipater’s daughter. Your... interest in her is more than concerning. If word got out—if rumors spread—it could ruin her reputation. Is that what you want?”

For the first time, Alexander lifted his gaze. His eyes, usually so vibrant with mischief or command, were unnervingly still—like the calm before a storm. “And what if it is?”

The words landed like a blow.

Hephaestion actually took a step back, his breath catching. Had he heard correctly? The prince couldn’t possibly mean—

Alexander smirked, tilting his head like a predator studying wounded prey. “Does my friendship with Lady Y/N truly threaten you so much, philos?” The endearment—friend—was laced with mocking sweetness.

Hephaestion’s hands clenched at his sides. There was nothing he could say—nothing that would sway Alexander once his mind was set. And if he breathed a word of this to Cassander? The consequences would be catastrophic. Cassander’s temper was legendary, and no amount of loyalty would stop him from confronting Alexander directly—a death sentence, whether by the prince’s hand or his father’s.

So Hephaestion did the only thing he could.

He stayed silent.

For the first time in their long friendship, Hephaestion felt genuine fear - not for himself, but for Y/N, for Cassander, for the fragile peace that Alexander seemed determined to shatter.

“You wouldn't.” The words escaped Hephaestion's lips before he could stop them, raw with disbelief. “Not to her. Not to Cassander.”

Alexander finally set down his wine cup with deliberate slowness, the metallic clink echoing in the tense silence. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its mocking edge, replaced by something far more dangerous - absolute certainty. “I am Alexander of Macedon. I take what I want.”

The casual brutality of the declaration struck Hephaestion like Zeus’ lightning. This wasn't the passionate declaration of a lovestruck youth - it was the cold calculation of a conqueror assessing new territory. The realization made his blood run cold.

“She's not a city to be besieged,” Hephaestion countered, his voice tight with barely restrained anger. “She's a living, breathing woman who—”

“Who will be honored beyond measure,” Alexander interrupted, rising from his couch with panther-like grace. “Imagine it - the daughter of Antipater, raised to the future king of Macedon's beloved. Why, I'd be doing their house a favor.” He began pacing, his excitement growing with each step. “Cassander should be thanking me. But he doesn't has to know. Yet. Though a part of me wishes to tell him.”

Hephaestion's stomach twisted violently, as though he'd swallowed poison. “You cannot be serious,” he repeated, his voice low and urgent. “Cassander will not simply see reason—you know him better than that. He would rather throw himself from the cliffs of Mount Olympus than allow you to—”

Alexander cut him off with a flick of his wrist, his rings glinting in the lamplight. “He will rage, he will bluster, and then he will kneel,” he corrected, his voice smooth as polished marble. “They always do.”

Then, with terrifying suddenness, the prince stilled. His gaze—sharp as a dagger's point—locked onto Hephaestion. “Unless,” he mused, tilting his head with feigned curiosity, “you intend to warn him first? Is that your plan? In some pitiful attempt to keep from me what the Fates have already decreed mine?”

The threat coiled between them, serpentine and suffocating. Hephaestion felt the weight of it press against his ribs, stealing his breath. This was no mere test of loyalty—it was a blade held to his throat, waiting to see if he would flinch.

To oppose Alexander now would be exile.

Or death.

“Of course not,” Hephaestion forced out, the lie bitter on his tongue. “I am, as always, your loyal friend.”

Alexander's grin was a flash of white in the dim light, triumphant and terrible. “I knew I could count on you.” His hand came down on Hephaestion's shoulder—a gesture that might have been comradely, had his fingers not dug in like talons. “You should rest,” he advised, his tone deceptively light. 

Then, with the casual cruelty of a cat releasing a half-dead mouse: “And I, it seems, have a tryst with a lovely lady under the moonlight.”

Outside, the moon hung full and bright over Meiza, its pale light doing nothing to dispel the darkness gathering in Hephaestion's heart. Somewhere in the night, oblivious to the storm brewing around her Y/N waited for the prince— blissfully unaware.

The tall grasses swayed gently in the cool breeze, their silvered tips whispering secrets to the stars. Fireflies drifted lazily through the air, their golden lights flickering like distant stars brought down to earth. And there, in the heart of this enchanted clearing, stood Y/N.

In her hands, she cradled the small wooden dove, Alexander’s gift, her fingers tracing its delicate wings absentmindedly. The night was still, save for the distant chirping of crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves.

Then—footsteps.

The crunch of dry grass underfoot made her turn, her heart leaping in her chest.

“My prince?” she called out, her voice light but tinged with uncertainty.

From the shadows of the ivy-clad trees, Alexander emerged, his figure cutting a striking silhouette against the moonlit backdrop. He was dressed more casually than usual, his chiton simpler, his hair slightly tousled—as if he had hurried here. Yet even in this state, he carried himself with the effortless grace of royalty.

“Greetings, my lady,” he said, his voice warm, his smile as charming as ever. But then his expression shifted, a playful glint entering his eyes. “Though I must say, the titles ‘my prince’ and ‘your highness’ feel far too formal for such a setting, don’t you think?” He stepped closer, the distance between them shrinking. “After all, we are friends, are we not?”

Y/N’s lips parted slightly. “I’d say we are...” She nearly added my prince out of habit but caught herself, her brow furrowing in confusion. What was he asking of her?

Alexander didn’t miss her hesitation. “I wish for you to call me by my name,” he said, his tone leaving no room for misinterpretation.

Y/N’s breath hitched. “I-I couldn’t,” she stammered. It was common knowledge—addressing royalty by name without honorifics was not just improper, it was forbidden unless given explicit permission. Even Cassander and Hephaestion only did so in private, and even then, it was a privilege earned through years of friendship. For her to do so? It felt like stepping onto sacred ground.

“Consider it an order,” Alexander said, his voice firm but not unkind. “From this moment on, you shall call me by my name.”

Y/N swallowed hard. Then, softly, testing the weight of the word on her tongue—

“Yes... Alexander.”

The moment his name passed her lips, something shifted in the air between them. Alexander’s entire body thrumming with an electric thrill. The way she said it—hesitant yet sweet, like a secret whispered for the first time—sent a rush of heat to his head, dizzying in its intensity. It was unadorned and intimate yet sharp and intoxicating.

“Say it again,” he commanded, his voice low.

“Alexander,” she repeated, this time with less hesitation, though her tone still carried a note of uncertainty, as if she were speaking a word from a foreign tongue for the first time.

“Again.”

“Alexander.” Louder now. Steadier. As if she were shedding her fear, layer by layer, revealing something new beneath with each utterance.

A slow, satisfied smile curved his lips. “Again.”

A sigh escaped her lips, followed by a small, bemused smile. “Is this a new game you’ve devised, Alexander?” The way she said his name—teasing, almost musical—sent another jolt of pleasure through him. It was nectar to a man starved, and he found himself craving more.

Alexander shook his head, his smile widening. “No game, my lady. Merely... an indulgence.” He stepped even closer, close enough that the scent of her—honey and wildflowers—filled his senses. “Though if you’d like to play one, I’d be happy to oblige.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, the silver light catching in her dark eyes like stars reflected in still water. “Then what are we doing tonight?” she asked, her voice carrying a new note of confidence now that the barrier of formality had been broken between them.

Alexander's smile was slow, deliberate—the expression of a man who knew exactly what he wanted but was content to savor the anticipation. “Whatever you desire,” he murmured, watching her closely.

A small, knowing smile graced Y/N's lips as she reached into the leather satchel slung over her shoulder. “In that case,” she said, producing several tightly rolled scrolls, “I brought some light reading. Do you like to read, my—” She caught herself just in time, her cheeks flushing. “—Alexander?”

The prince's eyebrows shot up, his grin turning wolfish. “‘My Alexander’?” he repeated, his voice rich with amusement. “That sounded far better than I expected. I think I shall allow it.”

Y/N's mouth fell open in protest, her hands fluttering in embarrassed denial. “That—that wasn't—I didn't mean—”

Alexander threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing through the quiet meadow. “Oh, but you did,” he teased, delighted by her flustered reaction. “And I rather like it.”

Composing himself, he gestured to the scrolls. “To answer your question properly—yes, my lady, I do read. In fact, I'm quite fond of the literary arts. Aristotle would say they are the very foundation of human existence.” His tone was light, but his surprise was genuine. It was uncommon for women to be educated beyond basic household management—a deliberate limitation, his mother had often explained, meant to keep them from grasping true power.

Olympias had taught him that oppression was simply another tool for those strong enough to wield it. “Fill the people's minds only with thoughts of bread and spectacle,” she'd said, “and they will never think to question their chains.” But Alexander didn’t always agree. Knowledge was power, and power should not be hoarded—it should be taken, by those bold enough to seize it.

Y/N, however, was no commoner to be kept ignorant. As the daughter of Antipater, her education would have been carefully curated—though clearly, Cassander had taken matters into his own hands.

“Let's take a look,” Alexander said, reaching for the scrolls.

The moonlight, while beautiful, was too faint for reading. Y/N produced a small oil lamp from her bag, and as she struck flint to steel, the warm glow illuminated the delicate planes of her face. Alexander watched, mesmerized, as she unfurled the first scroll and began to read aloud.

Her voice was melodic, each word shaped with care, and for a long moment, Alexander was too lost in the sound to register the content. Then, abruptly, he stiffened.

“This—” he interrupted, leaning forward. “This is taught in the temple!”

Y/N paused, meeting his gaze evenly. “Yes,” she admitted. “Cassander gives me his old scrolls and teaches me what he learns within those walls. It's the only way he trusts the quality of my education—especially after my last tutor.”

There was a story there, Alexander could tell—one laced with bitterness. But for now, he was too intrigued by the revelation before him.

“So,” he said slowly, his voice carrying a note of genuine admiration, “you've been studying in secret.”

Y/N's smile was small but unmistakably proud, her fingers tracing the edge of the scroll with quiet reverence. “Not so secret anymore,” she replied, meeting his gaze with a steadiness that surprised him.

Alexander chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s an admirable trait, this hunger for knowledge. Your brother clearly intends to raise you as more than just another noblewoman draped in silk and jewels. He wants you to be a woman of intellect—of substance.” He tilted his head, curiosity sharpening his features. “But tell me, my dove—what crimes did this former tutor commit to earn such exile from your education?”

Y/N blinked. ”Dove?” The endearment had caught her off guard, derailing her thoughts entirely.

Alexander’s lips quirked. “Yes. You remind me of one.” His gaze lingered on the delicate curve of her neck, the way her hands fluttered nervously when surprised—graceful, fragile, yet somehow enduring. “Gentle. Quick to startle. Beautiful in flight.”

Y/N’s cheeks warmed, but she didn’t press further. Instead, she exhaled, her expression darkening as she returned to the question at hand.

“My previous tutor was hired by my mother,” she began, her voice carefully neutral, though Alexander didn’t miss the way her fingers tightened around the scroll. “A woman who did everything except impart actual knowledge—though, in truth, I’m not certain she possessed any to begin with.” A bitter laugh escaped her. LShe insisted a woman’s place wasn’t in literature or philosophy, but in perfecting the art of being a nobleman’s wife. She policed my appearance—how much I ate, how long I stayed in the sun lest it ‘mar’ my complexion’ and ruin my prospects. ”

Alexander’s brows drew together. “And your mother allowed this?”

“Encouraged it, actually,” Y/N said flatly. “Mother reminded me often that I was but three, perhaps four winters from marriageable age, and that I should focus on ‘womanly skills’ rather than—” She gestured to the scrolls with a dismissive flick of her wrist, “—all of this.”

“Nonsense!” The word burst from Alexander with unexpected vehemence, his hand slamming against the tree trunk beside him. “You’re a child. Marriage? That’s outrageous.”

Even as he said it, he knew the hypocrisy of his words. Girls were routinely married at fourteen, sixteen at the latest, often to men twice their age. He had attended enough political unions to know how the game was played. But the thought of Y/N—her quick mind, her bright laughter, her spirit still unbroken by the world—being handed over to some aging lordling like a prize mare made his blood boil.

Never, he thought, the possessiveness startling even him. Never will something of this sort happen to her. Ever.

Y/N, oblivious to his internal fury, continued. “That’s why Cassander brought me here. He was livid when he discovered what passed for my ‘education.’” A fond smile tugged at her lips as she recalled her brother’s outrage. “He fought with Father for months—said he wouldn’t let me be sold off like some broodmare or a pleasure sleeve, though I'm not sure what either of those words actually mean— I’ve heard Cassander say it in one of his arguments. Regardless, he won. Meiza was the compromise.”

She laughed then, the sound bright and clear in the night air. “He ranted for days about how he wouldn’t let some ‘old pervert’ lay a finger on me. Swore he’d only approve a match if the man proved himself worthy.”

Alexander’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. “Worthy, hm?” He leaned forward, the lamplight casting sharp shadows across his face. “And what, pray tell, does your brother consider ‘worthy’?”

Y/N shrugged, unaware of the trap in the question. “Someone of status, power and valor. Someone who sees me as more than a pretty accessory, I suppose. Someone who has the intelligence to respect my mind as much as my face.”

Alexander hummed, his gaze never leaving hers. “A high standard indeed.”

And one, he thought, that I fully intend to meet.

╰┈➤ Masterlist

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