Hi, this is my first request. I'd like to request Heirs of Chrysos x Teen Reader where the reader frequently runs away from Okhema to fight the dark tide because he wanted to prove himself to the heirs and always ends up coming back a little hurt.
ʚɞ And now I know how Joan of Arc felt ʚɞ
Pairings: The Chrysos Heirs + Reader (Platonic)
Summary: You return to the city after a difficult battle— soaked in blood and limping. The reason for it to prove your worth to them, to let them know you're capable of saving more lives, though it'll cost yours in the process. You think you're slick, until you see them waiting for you.
Tags: Angst/fluff, hurt/comfort, platonic, teen!Reader, can be Chrysos Heir!Reader, mentions of blood, death, injuries, war, Cyrene is in Aedes Elysiae
A/N: TYSM FOR THE REQ! THIS TOOK SO LONG 😭 I LOVE WRITING THEM BUT DAMN SO MANY 💔 anyways, hope you enjoy!
The wind from the River of Souls carried a chill that day—the kind that gnawed through bone instead of skin. You had made it back to Okhema just before Entry-Hour, as always, battered and limping, your clothes stained with seawater and something darker. You thought you’d made it back unnoticed, like every other time. You were wrong.
Phainon was waiting for you.
He stood just outside the Twilight Courtyard, ocean eyes catching the pale light of sunrise. His posture was calm—too calm. His sword arm rested loosely near his side, but his gaze was unreadable. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, softly, dangerously gentle—
You tried your usual excuses—“It’s nothing,” “I’m fine,” “I can handle it”—but Phainon had seen this before. He had lived this before. And nothing in this universe could make him watch someone he cared about walk down the same lonely path he once did.
You didn’t even realize you were swaying on your feet until Phainon stepped forward and caught you by the shoulders—not harshly, not scolding, but steady, grounding. He guided you to a stone bench, kneeling so he could patch your wounds. His touch was careful, practiced from years tending to his own injuries in the barren lands where no one helped him.
“Why are you doing this to yourself?” he asked quietly.
You didn’t want to answer. But you did. Maybe because you were tired. Maybe because Phainon was the kind of person people instinctively told the truth to.
“…Because I have to prove I’m worth something. To the Heirs. To Okhema. To—” you swallowed hard. “—to myself.”
Silence stretched between you. Phainon’s hands paused—just for a heartbeat. His expression faltered, softened with something raw and unguarded—understanding.
“I thought that once too,” he said. “That if I fought hard enough, if I bled enough… maybe I would matter. Maybe someone would finally see me.” His voice dipped lower. “But listen to me—fighting alone doesn’t make you stronger. It just makes you alone.”
He sat beside you now, bandaging your arm with firm precision. His greatsword lay against his back, but he looked… gentler than you’d ever seen him.
“You’re not a burden,” he said suddenly.
Your head jerked up. “I never said I was.”
“You didn’t have to,” he replied.
The world went terribly, painfully quiet.
“There are battles only you can fight,” he continued, “but there is no battle you must fight alone. If you go, I go. If you bleed, I will stand beside you. And if you carry a burden too heavy to speak of—then I will carry it with you, even if you never tell me what it is.”
He reached over—not to touch, but to offer his hand, palm up. A vow.
“I won’t ask you to stop. I know why you won’t. So let me stay with you instead. You want to prove yourself?” His gaze held yours. Warm. Steady. Unshakable. “Then let me witness it. Every step. Every victory. Every scar.”
For the first time, you realized something terrifying—Phainon didn’t just understand you. He believed in you. Not as a warrior. Not as a symbol. But as a person. “You don’t have to carry it alone,” he repeated softly. “Not anymore.”
You took his hand. And that was the day Phainon decided—not as a Chrysos Heir, not as a Flame-Chaser of Amphoreus—but as your ally…
He would fight beside you. To the very end.
The training fields of Okhema were quiet at night. No cheering soldiers, no clashing metal—just the whistle of wind over marble and the distant roar of the Black Tide beyond the gate. You thought you could sneak back to your room unnoticed after another reckless solo battle outside the city.
You didn’t expect Mydei to be waiting for you in the shadows of the courtyard—arms crossed, expression unreadable. When his eyes landed on your bloodied sleeve and limping step, the air changed. His jaw clenched. He didn’t yell. He didn’t scold. Instead—
“…You’re hurt,” he said, voice dangerously calm.
You tried to step past him. “I can handle—”
He blocked your path instantly, a solid wall of towering muscle and pure, immovable iron will.
Mydei wasn’t gentle as he cleaned your wounds—but he wasn’t cruel either. Efficient. Steady. Silent. He had seen too many injuries like these. Too many young warriors trying to prove themselves. His hands worked with practiced movements, but underneath his calloused exterior, something simmered.
“You’re a child,” he muttered.
“You are.” His voice rose—not anger, but something heavier, older. “Do you think I don’t know what this is? Running off alone. Throwing yourself into death because you think it’ll make you stronger.” His gaze hardened. “Because you think nobody believes in you unless you bleed for it.”
You stared at him. He didn’t look at you—just wrapped another bandage around your ribs.
“The River of Souls took my childhood,” he said quietly. “I fought when I had no choice. I watched people die because they had no one to protect them. So tell me—” he finally met your eyes, voice rough with memory—“why are you choosing the path that I prayed no one else would have to walk?”
You swallowed. “…Because someone has to fight. And if I’m not strong enough, if I’m not useful—then what am I even doing here?”
There was a long silence. Mydei let out a slow breath.
“So that’s how it is,” he muttered.
Then he stood up—and suddenly a crystal throne formed around you, akin to his own.
“Fine, claim this throne as yours.”
Your head snapped toward him in surprise.
“If you insist on fighting,” he said, eyes blazing—not angry, but determined—“then I will make sure you survive it.”
Before you could react, he pointed his gauntleted finger at you. “From now on, you will train with me.”
“You lack technique. Discipline. Control. Skill.” He stepped forward. “Courage alone will get you killed. If you want to walk into battle, then I’ll forge you into someone who can walk out of it.”
His gaze softened—barely, like winter giving way to dawn.
“A child shouldn’t have to fight,” he said, voice low. “But if you must—then I will stand beside you. Not as a Chrysos Heir. Not as a warrior of Okhema.” He paused. “But as someone who refuses to watch you fall.”
He held out his hand—not gently like Phainon did—but firmly, like a commander making a pact. “Train with me. Survive with me. Fight beside me.”
His expression didn’t change, but his voice held something fierce—protective. I swear I will make you strong enough to live.”
If Phainon offered his hand to share the burden, then Mydei offered something else entirely.
And maybe—for the first time—you finally believed you could survive it.
You thought you were clever this time—no visible injuries, no torn clothing, no dramatic limping. You slipped back through the marble streets of the Grove of Epiphany with the Black Tide remnants still drying on your clothes, confident no one would notice your late return. No one except maybe Hyacine or Castorice.
He sat alone beneath an amber lantern near the quiet gardens of the Grove of Epiphany, reading a scroll, his posture straight and composed even at this hour. The moment you passed by, he spoke without looking up: “You’re late.”
Your spine stiffened. “I wasn’t aware I had a curfew.”
“You don’t,” he said calmly, rolling the scroll shut. “But the Black Tide marches past the southern ridge tonight. And someone has been slipping through the Grove’s gates to fight it.”
His aqua-red eyes lifted to meet yours— sharp, observant, utterly unreadable. “And now they’re back.”
You could lie. You considered it. But lying to Anaxa was like trying to hide fire in the palm of your hand—pointless and painful.
“…I can handle myself,” you said. “I’m not weak.”
“I never said you were.” He gestured to the stone bench across from him, and for reasons beyond explanation, you sat.
“If you’re here to lecture me, save your breath,” you muttered. “I’m not going to stop.”
A faint sigh escaped him—less exasperation, more resignation.
“I assumed as much,” Anaxa said. “Which means logic is required.”
He rested his chin on one hand. “If you are going to do something reckless, you should at least do it efficiently.”
You blinked at him. “You’re… not going to stop me?”
He looked mildly offended. “Did you expect me to waste my time telling you to give up something you clearly won’t?”
“Then you agree with me?”
“I didn’t say that either,” he replied. “I understand your desperation, your need to prove yourself, your fear of insignificance in a world built by legends. But understanding is not agreement—it is acknowledgment.”
He leaned forward slightly, and there was a quiet intensity to his voice now.
“However, I do find your strategy lacking. Fighting alone is idiotic. Training without guidance is wasteful. And attempting to fight an ocean without a plan is—”He paused. “—unspeakably stupid.”
You stared at him. “…Did you just insult me?”
“No,” he said. “I insulted your methods.”
“If you insist on fighting, then you will do so with structure,” he said. “I will design your formations. Your battle plans. Your contingencies. You will report your movements to me and me alone. You will not die because you forgot to think.”
He met your gaze steadily. “I won’t stop you. But I will keep you from destroying yourself in the process.”
Your throat tightened. “…Why?”
“Because,” he said simply, “I understand what it means to feel powerless in the face of fate. And I refuse to watch that cycle repeat.”
His expression softened—just barely, a crack in flawless marble.
“You’re not alone in this,” he said. “Even if you think you are.”
He held out a small device, though it could be interpreted as an emblem as well— a fine work of alchemy.
“This is my sigil. Use it once in an emergency, and I will be at your side no matter where you stand.”
You reached for it slowly, fingers brushing his as you accepted it.
“Try not to do anything unbearably reckless,” Anaxa said, returning to his scroll. “I dislike being inconvenienced by my own concern.”
But as you turned away, you heard it—soft, almost too low to catch.
And just like that, Anaxa became another quiet constant in your life. He would never chain you, never scold you, never beg you to stop fighting— But he would make damn sure you lived through it.
When Aglaea discovers you’ve been fighting alone, she doesn’t storm into the battlefield like Mydei, and she doesn’t brandish a weapon like Phainon.
Instead, she finds you after—when your strength is fading, your wounds are still fresh, and the chill of exhaustion begins to settle in your bones.
She appears beside you like a dream—veiled in gold, threads of starlight cascading from her fingertips. Her voice is gentle, yet carries a depth of authority that only those touched by destiny can possess.
“You’ve been hurt,” she murmurs—not a question, but an observation woven with quiet concern.
You try to downplay it. It’s just a scratch. I can handle it. There were people who needed help—
But before you can finish, a delicate ribbon of radiant gold lifts your hand, wrapping it with healing light.
“Do not lie to me,” she says softly, eyes luminous as the eternal loom behind her. “Your hands were not made for needless suffering.”
She kneels before you—not out of submission, but devotion—and her golden threads unravel the pain coiled beneath your skin, knitting your wounds closed with divine care.
Her gaze lingers on you with the kind of tenderness that could bring even the strongest warrior to their knees. There is no anger in her—only quiet conviction.
“You do not need to prove your strength by bleeding for the world,” she tells you. “You shine simply by existing. So allow me—just this once—allow me to protect you.”
Behind her, countless threads stretch into infinity—threads of fate she commands like a celestial symphony. And you know, without needing to ask, that from this moment on your destiny is now interwoven with hers.
Before you can protest, she rises and brushes a thumb against your cheek, sweeping away the dirt and blood as though she refuses to see you marred by violence.
“I will watch over you always,” she promises. “Even when you cannot see me. Even when you walk into the heart of danger, I will follow—unseen, but never absent.”
Then she leans closer, voice like a prayer of gold silk: “You are precious to me. And anything that dares to harm you… will learn what it means to defy fate itself.”
The battlefield is no place for you—or so Imperator Cerydra believes.
The moment word reaches her that you’ve once again thrown yourself into conflict—a lone figure challenging chaos at Okhema’s borders—her fury rises like the crackling flames of the Law Titan.
She descends from her throne with a voice that could command storms.
“Explain to me,” she says, each word sharp, burning, “why you insist on endangering yourself when this land stands under my protection? Do you take me for a negligent monarch? Or worse—do you doubt my strength?”
She doesn’t shout. She doesn’t have to. Her anger wraps around you like molten chains—heavy, scalding, suffocating. But beneath that rage, there is fear. The thought of losing you claws at her—something she refuses to admit aloud.
You try to tell her you can defend yourself, that you won’t stand by and watch others suffer. But she lifts a hand to silence you.
“—Enough.” She steps closer, gaze fierce. “I will not tolerate you risking your life. From now on, Hyselins and my elite guard will be by your side. Anywhere you go, they follow. Any battle you choose, they will fight for you.”
She doesn’t ask. She orders. But then—softer, almost imperceptible—her voice shifts.
“If you must face danger,” she murmurs, reaching out to adjust your cloak, “then you will not face it alone. Not while I yet rule. Not while I still draw breath.” Her indigo eyes hold you with terrifying devotion. “You are mine to protect.”
There is no room for argument. She will shield you from the world—even if she has to set it ablaze.
Hyselins does not waste time with speeches like her monarch. The moment Cerydra assigns her to you, she bows only once—to acknowledge fate—and pledges her blade to you without hesitation. And she never leaves your side.
In battle, she fights like the sea in a storm—fluid, unstoppable. Her sword spins in arcs of shimmering seawater, and every enemy who dares approach you is swept away in towering tides.
When you fall, she catches you. When you bleed, she heals you—her hands glowing with Phagousa’s oceanic blessings. When you tremble beneath the cold night sky, she wraps you in a cloak of sea-silk and lifts your chin with gentle fingers.
“You will not carry your burdens alone.” Her voice is low and serene—as if the tides themselves learned to speak. “Not while I still draw breath. Not while these hands can still hold a weapon.”
On quieter nights, she tends your wounds in a cave near the shore, moonlight dancing across the ocean outside. She hums ancient siren hymns, voice soft and haunting—melodies that calm storms and soothe even the most restless of hearts.
And when she notices your eyes begin to flutter shut, she pauses her song long enough to whisper: “Rest. No harm will reach you—I swear it. If a thousand armies come for you, I will stand between you and every one.”
Even in sleep, you feel it—that vow wrapping around you like the tide. Unbreakable. Unyielding. Helektra.
You awaken slowly—vision hazy, body numb—only to realize you're lying on a cold marble floor, surrounded by the faint glow of white soul-fire. The air feels silent… sacred. You know this place. The the halls near the River of Souls—where lost souls are laid to rest.
A soft voice breaks through the stillness. “You’re awake.”
You turn your head and see her—Castorice, the Chrysos Heir of Death. The butterflies drape like mourning silk, her hair glimmers like snow under a dying moon, and her eyes—soft, light hue of purple, eternal—are fixed on you with something achingly human.
She sits beside you, but not too close—she can’t. Her power devours life, and even now, the very air around her distorts with its quiet hunger.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” she whispers, voice fragile as candle flame. “You shouldn’t have fought alone.”
You try to sit up, but your body trembles. She reaches out—instinctively—then stops short, pulling her hand back just before it brushes yours. You know why. If she touches you, she could kill you.
“It wasn’t that bad,” you manage. “I can handle myself.”
Her jaw tightens—not in anger, but in sorrow. “You were bleeding out,” she says softly. “If they hadn’t brought you to me in time… I would have had to reap your soul myself.”
Her gaze lowers to the marble floor. Shadows of grief pass over her expression—like memories she wishes she didn’t have.
“You don’t understand,” she says quietly. “Death is not cruelty. It is my duty. To guide souls. To give them peace. But…” Her voice breaks—just barely. “…I don’t want to do that to you.”
Something in your chest twists.
“I don’t want you to die,” she confesses. The words sound like a wound torn open. “I don’t want to watch the light leave your eyes. I don’t want to hold your soul in my hands and—” She stops herself, breath trembling. “—and know I was too late.”
The hall flickers with flame torches, quivering with the weight of emotion she rarely allows herself to feel. Then she finally looks at you—the real you—not a patient, not a soul, but someone she refuses to lose.
“So please,” she pleads in a voice barely above a whisper, “let me protect you before I am forced to bury you.”
Even though she cannot touch you, she bows her head beside you—closer than she has ever been—to show you what words cannot:
You matter to her. More than you know.
The world comes back to you slowly—first the scent of lavender, then the warmth of sunlight drifting across your skin. Soft linen is tucked beneath you, and somewhere nearby you hear gentle humming. For a moment, you think you're dreaming.
You open your eyes. There she is—Hyacine.
The Heir of Sky sits at your bedside in the Twilight Courtyard’s infirmary, brushing stray hair from your forehead with slow, careful fingers. Her expression is calm, but you see the worry lingering beneath it like storm clouds behind clear skies. Little Ica, her soft, chubby pegasus companion, sits beside her on the bed, tiny wings fluttering anxiously as it nudges your arm.
“You’re awake,” she says with a quiet sigh of relief, giving you the warmest smile you’ve ever seen. “Thank Aquilla.”
She moves her hand over your shoulder, and a soft teal glow radiates through her fingers as she heals the last traces of your injuries. Her touch is gentle—steady.
“Does it still hurt?” she asks.
“Only a little,” you lie.
She gives you a look—the kind that tells you she already knows the truth. Little Ica kicks your arm in tiny disapproval, snorting like a furious rubber duck.
Hyacine’s voice softens. “Why did you go alone?”
“Why didn’t you call for help?”
Then you finally mutter, “…I had to prove myself. To everyone. To the Heirs. To all of Okhema.” You grit your teeth. “I didn’t want to be a burden anymore.”
Hyacine listens. She doesn’t interrupt. She waits—because she knows people like you don’t speak easily about pain. When you finish, she doesn’t scold you, doesn’t raise her voice. Instead, she simply reaches out and holds your hand.
“When did you start believing you had to suffer to be worthy?” she asks softly.
Your chest tightens. You don’t know how to answer.
“You are not a burden,” she says gently but firmly. “Not to me. Not to the other Heirs. Not to anyone.” Her thumbs brush the back of your hand tenderly. “Worth isn’t proved with scars, little star. It’s shown by the heart.”
She notices your eyes glossing over and gives your hand a small squeeze.
“If you truly wish to grow stronger,” she continues, “then let us help you. You don’t have to walk into the dark alone.” She pauses, smiling faintly. “And if you ever feel like no one believes in you… then let me be the first.”
Little Ica hops into your lap, curls into a sleepy loaf, and tucks its head against your stomach stubbornly—refusing to leave you again.
Hyacine rests her hand gently against your forehead. “You have a place here,” she whispers. “And I will always heal your wounds—no matter how many times you fall.”
You don’t remember collapsing. One moment you were forcing yourself forward through the ruins outside the Grove, body half torn apart by Black Tide corruption—and the next moment, the world became a blur of motion, sharp air, and violet light.
Now you wake in the Twilight Courtyard, bandaged and exhausted. The room is filled with gentle golden light—but despite the calmness of the space, your chest feels heavy.
Someone is sitting by your window.
Feet kicked up. Tail flicking lazily. Eyes glowing mischief and dusk.
She glances at you over her shoulder. “Morning, sunshine,” she says with a grin. “Took you long enough. I was starting to think I’d have to dump a bucket of water on you."
You try to sit up, but your ribs protest. She stands and gently pushes you back down with one hand, surprisingly careful.
“I didn’t drag you back from the Dark Tide just for you to rip yourself open again,” she says. Her tone is light—but beneath it, there’s a strange softness. Something serious.
You blink. “You… dragged me back?”
She scoffs. “Who else? I’m not letting some half-baked wannabe hero die on my watch.”
You look away, embarrassed. “…I’m not a hero.”
“I know,” she says simply.
You flinch at how easily she says it. She watches you carefully—too carefully. Cipher sees more than people think.
“You’re not doing this because you want to be a hero,” she says, leaning against your bed rail. “You’re doing it because you’re scared someone will decide you don’t matter if you can’t bleed for them.”
Your breath catches. You never told her that. Her smile falters—not gone, but cracked. Like a mask slipping.
"You wanted to prove yourself, right? That you're not useless. That you deserve to be here. That even the Heirs would have to acknowledge you if you fought hard enough."
Her tail flicks slowly, almost annoyed—though you don’t think it’s at you.
"Funny," she says, voice quiet now. “You think no one sees you. But you don’t realize—people like us are always watching.”
You frown. “People like us?”
She freezes for a fraction of a second—expression unreadable. Then she lets out a laugh, bright and sharp, covering the moment.
“Anyway!" she says suddenly, tearing open a bag of sweets and shoving it into your hands. "Eat. If you die of starvation after I carried you halfway across the Grove, I’m haunting you.”
You stare at the candy. “Cipher… why do you care?” She pauses. Her voice drops to almost a whisper. “…Because I know what it feels like.”
You look up. She meets your gaze—eyes no longer amused, but heavy with something lonely. “To think no one will ever fight for you. So you keep fighting alone.”
The room goes quiet. Then her grin returns—bright, sharp, determined. “So here’s how it’s gonna be,” she declares. “If you’re going to throw yourself into danger—fine. But you’re not doing it alone anymore. If you run off into the dark—” She taps your forehead with a finger. “—I’ll be right behind you.”
⚘ Tribbie (+ Trianne and Trinnon):
The great gates of Okhema should have been closed at this hour—sealed against the Black Tide’s monsters that prowl the Curtain-Fall Hour. But as you stumbled down the marble steps leading into the city, blood on your sleeves and exhaustion dragging at your limbs, you saw something strange.
The gates were already open. Waiting. And standing framed in their glow—were Trianne and Trinnon.
“You’re late.” Trianne’s voice was sharp as she marched toward you, arms crossed. Her blue eyes glanced over your injuries, and her expression twisted into irritation—no, worry disguised as irritation.
Behind her, Trinnon walked in silence, hands already glowing with faint magic. She didn’t speak, didn’t scold. Just reached for you and lifted you strapped you to a rocket, ready to launch you Titans know where.
You blinked. “...I can walk—”
“No,” Trinnon said quietly.
They brought you to Tribbie’s home—a cozy space lined with flowers and warm, open light. The moment you were laid down, Tribbie herself appeared, little angel wings frantically moving as she floated over.
“Oh stars—little [Name], what happened?” she asked, worry flooding her voice. She didn’t wait for your answer before gathering supplies, her movements practiced but frantic. Trianne helped remove the outer layer of your clothes while Trinnon cleaned the wounds.
Tribbie worked carefully, but her hands trembled. You tried to speak—to make a joke, to make this easier—but Trianne shut you down with a sharp look.
“Don’t you dare,” she said. “Don’t you dare act like this is nothing.”
You froze. Silence settled.
Tribbie finally exhaled and brushed your hair back from your face, gentle as falling rain. “You don’t need to hide your reasons from us,” she said.
You stared at the ceiling, throat tight. “I wanted to… prove myself,” you admitted. “To show I deserve to stand among the strong. To show I matter. I didn’t want to be a burden anymore.”
Tribbie let out a soft huff, as if irritated but she's really just saddened.
“You’re a child,” she said—not to belittle, but to beg you to understand. “You shouldn’t be fighting to prove your worth. Your worth already exists—you just can’t see it yet.”
Trianne and Trinnon froze. Tribbie only spoke like this when something truly got to her.
Trianne dropped to sit beside you and crossed her arms again, avoiding your eyes. “You stupid,” she muttered. Then quieter—“But we get it.”
Trinnon nodded. “You worked so hard alone,” he said. “You don’t have to anymore.”
Tribbie placed a hand over yours, firm and warm. “You are part of this home,” she said. “Ours. If you wander into the dark, we’ll wait. If you’re lost, we’ll find you. If you fall—” She gave a small smile. “—we will always carry you back.”
Your chest tightened. No one had ever said that to you.
Then Trianne shoved a steaming bowl of soup into your hands. “Eat.”
Trinnon draped a soft blanket over you. “Sleep.”
Tribbie blew out the lantern. “Stay.”
And for the first time—you didn’t feel like you were fighting to be seen. You already were seen.
Rain fell softly over the twilight streets of Aedes Elysiae by the time someone found you again.
You don’t remember how you got back, only that when you opened your eyes, you were staring at a sky of stained glass mosaics—floating blues and golds arranged in ancient constellations.
You were in Cyrene’s home.
A kettle simmered somewhere. Lanterns glowed in warm, shifting colors. Strange hourglasses and dreamcatchers floated like stars above your bed, turning and turning—yet none of their sand fell.
You tried to sit up—but a velvety voice spoke.
“Don’t strain yourself, little driftwood.”
Cyrene, glided into view holding her collection of tarot cards, as always, the girl was fixated on them for as long as you knew her. Her pink hair shimmered like the moon’s reflection over the sea. Her eyes—warm yet haunted—held centuries inside them.
She knelt at your side, placing a gentle hand over your injuries. Her healing magic flowed like a memory returning home—quiet, soft, bittersweet.
“You’ve been wandering again,” she murmured.
You look away. “…I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Then don’t,” she says. “Words are clumsy things. They bruise too easily. Let us speak differently.”
She holds out a hand. “Show me.”
Cyrene’s magic isn’t forceful—it never demands—it invites. Your hand meets hers. And suddenly—memories spill open.
Running into the Black Tide with a sword too heavy for your hands. The fear. The loneliness. The cold thought that maybe—just maybe—no one would miss you if you were gone.
The feeling of being small. Of wanting to be seen. Of wanting to matter.
When the memory fades—you’re trembling.
Cyrene doesn’t speak—not at first. She only cups your face and rests her forehead against yours, ancient and aching and kind.
“You are so cruel to yourself,” she whispers.
A tear slips before you can stop it. “I just—I needed to prove—”
“That you are worthy?” she finishes softly. “That you are not a burden? That you deserve to stay among us?”
You nod. She sighs—and then she smiles. Not pitying, not distant—but full of something warm and steady.
“Listen to me,” she says gently, brushing your hair back. “Worth is not proven. It is recognized.”
She taps your chest. “Here.” Then your head. “And here.” Then her own heart. “And here.”
She takes your hand again. “You do not need to carve yourself into a warrior alone. You do not need to earn your right to exist. You are seen. You are known.”
She squeezes your hand. Her voice becomes a soft riddle, like the brush of a dream. “And when you forget, come to me. I will keep your worth safe in memory, until you are ready to hold it again.”
You break. Silent tears. Trembling breaths. And Cyrene holds you—warm as starlight over water. Now, you don’t feel alone in your own mind.
They said nothing escapes Evernight's gaze—not the past, not the future, not even the silent regrets that haunt the heart. When you returned to Okhema again—dirty, injured, limping from a fresh battle with the Black Tide—you thought you’d gotten away clean. No one saw you leave. No one saw you return.
But Evernight was already waiting.
She stood in the quiet courtyard beneath the hourglass tree, the jellyfish around her floating silently as if pulled by a silent tide. Her eyes, crimson-red like frozen time, lifted to you as though she had seen this moment long before it arrived.
“Again,” she said softly, not surprised—resigned.
You stiffened. “I’m fine. I just—needed to do something useful.”
She approached slowly, each step deliberate. Calm, composed… but there was something dangerous in the air. Something ancient. A silent warning—the same presence that makes even seasoned warriors step back.
She stopped in front of you and lifted a hand, brushing a thumb over the cut on your cheek. Blood stained her glove, and she stared at it like it offended her.
“You want to prove your worth,” she said. “But why do you believe you have none to begin with?”
Your chest tightened—but you stayed quiet. Her gaze sharpened.
“Is it because you believe we see you as weak? That you feel like a burden?”
You flinched. That was answer enough.
Evernight let out a quiet breath—not annoyed. Sad, but it's not genuine— a replica of March 7th's emotions. “You don’t need to prove your value to me,” she said. “But if you insist on chasing death—”
Her fingers curled into your collar and she pulled you forward, eyes glinting with something bright and wild. “—then I’ll go with you.”
Her lips curved into the faintest smile—not kind, but sharp. Dangerous. Fiercely loyal.
“If you insist on throwing yourself at the Black Tide, then I will be at your side. Always.”
Her voice dropped, velvet and final: “Partners in crime, you and I. Until time itself stops.”
From that day forward, Evernight stopped trying to restrain you. Instead? She matched you step for step.
If you disappeared beyond Okhema’s borders, she was already behind you. If you leapt into danger, she was already there—moving through battle like a dream, weapons carving through the Black Tide like she had been doing it for centuries.
She never scolded. Never lectured. She simply fought beside you—because you didn’t need chains. You needed someone who believed in you enough to stay.
At night, when you ended up with cuts and bruises again, she would heal your wounds with ribbons of suspended time, her hands strangely gentle.
“You’re not alone,” she would say, brushing your hair from your face. “Stop running. I’ll give you what you were really looking for.”
She smiled—quiet, terrifyingly beautiful. “Someone who chooses you.”
⚘ Dan Heng: Permansor Terrae:
The Earth listens before it speaks—they say that’s why Dan Heng does too. He doesn’t waste words. Doesn’t pretend he understands pain he hasn’t lived. But when he saw you stumble through the gates of Okhema covered in Black Tide wounds again, he moved before anyone else.
Your knees buckled. You didn’t even hit the ground—he caught you.
His arms were firm but gentle, steady as mountain stone. “You’re hurt,” he said, voice calm—but not cold. It carried something restrained. Something worried.
“I’ve been worse,” you mumbled, trying to pull away. You expected him to scold you. Expected the same lecture you’d gotten so many times.
He didn’t do that. Instead—he knelt.
Golden Earth-Flame bloomed beneath his palms, flowing over your broken skin. The warmth sank deep, healing—but more than that, it felt like comfort. Like silence after a long storm. Around you, the ground trembled faintly. Leaves rustled. The earth itself seemed to breathe with him.
A wild fox crept from the trees. Three birds landed on his shoulders. A fawn stepped from behind a broken wall, head tilted at you with big, wet eyes.
You blinked. “Uh. Why are there—animals?”
Dan Heng’s expression didn’t change, but his ears went slightly pink. “The Coreflame communicates distress across nature. They came because I did.”
You stared at him. “Are you serious—”
“You’re important,” he said simply.
The words hit harder than any blow. You tried to speak—explain why you kept running off alone to fight. Why you pushed yourself past your limits. Why you refused to be weak. Why you had to prove—
“You don’t have to tell me,” he said first. “I already understand.”
“If you truly choose to fight—then I won’t stop you. But you will not face it alone.”
He lifted your chin so you would meet his gaze. His eyes, warm and steady as sunlit stone, didn’t waver.
“I swear to guard you. As the bearer of the Earth Coreflame. As a member of the Astral Express. And as someone who cares for you.”
Your heartbeat stopped. He stood, pulling you with him—and the animals followed like a small army of fluffy guardians.
He looked over his shoulder. “If you insist on running away again… then I’ll follow.”
A tiny rabbit bounced beside your ankle and squeaked like it agreed.
“…You’re serious,” you said quietly.
You didn’t even make it three steps past the border this time.
The moment you returned to Okhema after yet another solo fight against the Black Tide, the Trailblazer spotted you first. You thought you were sneaky slipping past the Marmoreal Palace's wall—turns out, you greatly underestimated the power of a determined menace with infinite stamina.
“HEY—YOU—STOP RIGHT THERE!”
You flinched, already exhausted. Oh no. Before you could run, they were already sprinting toward you, cloak flying like a comet tail. You tried to walk faster—then jog—then break into a sprint, but that was pointless.
They tackled you. Full-on football style. You both went down in the grass.
“OUCH—Trailblazer, what—OW—what the hell—”
“YOU WENT MISSING FOR THREE DAYS!” they yelled, pinning your shoulders to the ground. “THREE! DAYS! DO YOU KNOW HOW WORRIED I WAS?!”
They dragged you up by the wrist and practically hauled you to the Twilight Courtyard. You didn’t even get to argue. Hyacine took one look at your injuries and gasped in horror. Then she glared at you like a disappointed mom. Little Ica headbutted you in the leg.
Hours later, freshly bandaged and lectured, you sat on a garden bench, staring out at the golden sky. The Trailblazer stood in front of you, arms crossed, eyes fierce.
“Okay,” they said. “Talk. Now. No running this time. Why are you doing this?”
You grit your teeth. "Because—because I’m tired of being weak, okay? I’m tired of being useless! I want to matter. I want to prove myself—not just hide behind everyone else and wait for rescue."
Their eyes softened—not pity. Understanding.
“...And you think getting yourself killed will prove that?”
You winced. Silence stretched between you before they sat beside you.
“Listen. I get it. Really. Wanting to be stronger—wanting to stand beside people instead of behind them—I know how that feels.”
They nudged your shoulder. “So if you want to get stronger—fine. Then I’ll help you.”
Your head snapped toward them. “What?”
“I’ll train with you,” they said firmly. “We’ll face the Dark Tide together. You are NOT doing this alone.”
You stared. “Why would you help me?”
They grinned. Bright and fearless. “Because we’re friends. And I don’t leave my friends behind.” Then they jumped up and offered a hand. “Also, Dan Heng said I need to supervise you to prevent ‘reckless endangerment of life’ or something. I stopped listening after the third lecture.”
You laughed despite yourself—and took their hand.
Training began the next day.
Spearmanship with Dan Heng at Entry-Hour. Combat drills with Trailblazer at Action-Hour. Chimera racing in the Parting-Hour—somehow that was also training? You weren’t sure. They insisted chasing small animals was good conditioning.
Your world shifted—not because someone saved you. But because someone stood beside you and believed you could win.
