"hi." you give him an awkward smile, sat besides crutches leaning against the wall and glancing down at the cast hugging your ankle. "sorry for calling you out of the blue."

he mutters an apology to his surroundings, composing himself as he crouches in front of you. "are you alright? what happened?"

contrary to his worry, you were completely fine.

"volleyball—i got this really good spike, but then my landing was all funny and it kinda hurt, but yeah—'m fine now."

kazuha's hands find their way to yours, tightly gripping onto them as if you could disappear any moment. "are you sure?"

"yes. it doesn't hurt and it wasn't severe. i'm okay." you smile down at him, gaze refusing to relent to prove your point.

the tension seizing him seemed to dissipate. his muscles relaxed and his brows unfurrowed themselves. kazuha stands with a quiet sigh, relief seeping through his features.

"if you say so then, your judgement is the only right one." his hand wove through the strap of your sports bag, hoisting it onto his shoulder. "ready to go?"

before you can answer, the doctor approaches, greeting kazuha with a handshake. she went over what she told you—elevation for the first 2-4 days, cleaning methods, down to making sure you were wriggling your toes every now and then.

kazuha listened intently, mentally noting down everything he was told. "and how long will recovery take? their foot neck."

you find yourself snorting. very loudly.

"pardon?" the doctor raised an eyebrow, but returned to professionalism quick. "their ankle should recover in around seven weeks or so. they should have regular checkups just to be safe."

"...right." kazuha murmured. "english." he found his voice again. "th-thank you for your help, doctor. 'll be driving them home now."

polite and sincere, the doctor greeted the two of you goodbye, handing you painkillers in the case of an emergency, and going as far as commenting on how lucky you were to have such an attentive husband.

by now, kazuha's face was bright red, reminiscent of the streak in his hair.

and you felt bad, but your sense of humour clearly didn't.

everything you wanted to say is drowned in breathless laughter.

kazuha closed his eyes, as if he was wincing. "i forgot. that english has it's own name for it." he buries his face in his hands, groaning. "i think your doctor thinks i'm crazy."

you catch your breath—barely. "it's okay, it happens to all of us."

"why do you even need a separate term for it? in fact, it's not even one of the hard parts of english, it's literally one word. ankles...ankles..."

though you relate to the sentiment of hating english, you couldn't help but be entertained at the ordeal. "you'll get it, it's nothing compared to what you can do."

"ankles—it sounds like uncle. what if i call someone an ankle by accident..." kazuha's face scrunches in utter disgust. "i know that word, how could i forget...what was the point of studying english literature. i feel as though i've wasted my whole degree."

"it's not that bad." you carefully stood up, reaching for the crutches. "i still ask people to open the light sometimes."

kazuha wove his arm around your back. "careful. take your time." you slowly stabilise yourself against him, clinging onto his arm. "should i just carry you instead? i'll bring the crutches and bag in later."

"y'know. foot neck isn't that bad either. it's a lot more self explanatory than ankle." you've both had funny gripes with the english language, but you're sure this takes the cake. "you have hand necks too, you can have a whole family of necks."

without responding, kazuha sighs and hoists you up into a princess carry, gracefully avoiding any further damage to your foot leg ankle.

a/n. ankle in japanese = 足首＝ashi (leg, foot) + kubi (neck). wrist in japanese = 手首 = te (hand) + kubi (neck). and ankle and uncle are kinda hard to pronounce from a japanese perspective. i wrote this in a very short amount of time oops

taglist. @yuzurins @pokkomi

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

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

The battlefield is lost. To stay is to die.

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

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

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

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

And, nothing more.

𝐈𝐈. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇

He wakes to silence.

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

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

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

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

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

A sound draws him out of himself. Meow.

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

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

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

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

What he sees makes him stop in the doorway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His head lifts, hope in his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

“What a strange thing,” Phainon mutters.

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

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

“Foggy,” he echoes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘

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

At first, he only watches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Before long, he begins to move again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

However, he is not alone in these routines.

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

Even at night, he’s there.

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

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

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

Mydei’s ears twitch, but he says nothing.

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

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

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

And eventually, the days fall into rhythm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He frowns faintly, confused. “Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then the vision is gone.

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

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

Phainon exhales, and then he goes back to work.

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

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

“Phainon.”

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

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

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

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

He blinks. “Like what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The words echo long after you’ve spoken them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s no enemy here.

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

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

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

“What… what is that?” Phainon asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why do they behave like this toward you?”

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

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

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

Your voice tilts, even quieter, “Well. They’d lose the one thing I can give them that they need most—which is medicine.”

Phainon frowns. “They don’t have doctors here?”

“No.” You shake your head. “This town is poor, though it may not look like it at a glance. They have too many mouths, but not enough coins. They would all be dead if not for me.”

You say it so easily, so matter-of-fact, that Phainon almost misses the weight of the words. His frown deepens; he wants to say they should be on their knees before you for that. That they should build shrines to your name if you’re the reason they’re even breathing.

Instead, you add, “Hyacine helps too, of course. She knows how to heal, how to prepare salves and teas. But she’s still learning, and I won’t let her rely on magic for curing sickness.”

Phainon tilts his head. “Why not? Wouldn’t that be easier?”

You shake your head again. “Because magic can fail, or worse—it can hurt if used carelessly. Herbs, remedies… those are reliable. A cure has to last longer than a spell. Hyacine is clever, but she still has much to learn before she can craft medicine without error.”

You turn another piece of produce in your palm, and mutter something about rot and poor harvests again. Phainon doesn’t say anything anymore, because he’s thinking about the eyes that lingers, the whispers, and the jeers circling endlessly in his mind.

He shadows over you as you move from stall to stall. And though he’s silent, his hands keep twitching at his sides, as though itching for a sword—or something, anything—that could cut sharp enough toward anyone who dares linger too long in their staring.

The walk back is quieter.

The sun hasn’t moved much—still hanging somewhere between noon and after—but the streets are emptier now, and the voices from the market have faded into the distance. The air smells of pine again, of damp earth and dust.

Phainon walks a step behind you, carrying the bundle of things you bought: produce, cloth, jars, and even the small pouches of salt and spices you insisted was light enough to carry yourself—until he looked at you as if you’d insulted him just by suggesting so.

You’d argued, of course. You’d said, “I have a space pocket. It’s far more convenient and easier.” And he’d said, “But you told me earlier there were other ways to be useful. This is me being useful.”

You’d gone quiet after that, lips pressing thin before you muttered something under your breath that sounded a lot like stubborn man. So now, here you are, walking through the road that leads back to the forest while he shoulders all the weight like it means nothing.

“You know,” you say all of a sudden. “You behave so much like a knight sometimes.”

Phainon blinks, caught off guard by the sudden remark. “In what way?”

“Apart from the sword you carried and the armor you wore when you came here, I can also sense it in the way you can’t sit still,” you answer, looking straight ahead. “You always need to be doing something. Helping. Chopping. Fixing. Carrying things that aren’t yours to carry. You get anxious when you’re idle. You want to be useful.”

He huffs a small laugh through his nose, not because it’s funny, but because the words land too neatly in him. “That sounds accurate.”

“I thought so.” You tilt your head. “You’re like a dog, really.”

The word hits him like a strike. He stops walking.

Something moves behind his eyes—a flicker, a flash, a sound. A voice, deep and cold and too familiar though he’s certain he’s never heard it before.

My knight.

My beast.

My hound.

The words echo through his skull, and the world seems to lurch with them. The road blurs, and for a moment, he isn’t standing on dirt beneath the dappled light of the noon sun. Instead, he’s kneeling on marble, head bowed low, and wearing his armor—he also feels a hand, heavy and pressing, resting on his head as though he were some animal that needed taming.

The weight of that imagined touch burns through him.

He sucks in a breath, and his shoulders tense. The bundle in his arms shifts, jars clinking faintly. His skin has also gone cold, yet his pulse races like it’s trying to crawl out of his throat.

You notice instantly. “Phainon?” you call his name, stopping in your tracks as well and turning to him. “What’s wrong?”

He swallows hard, but the words don’t come right away. His mouth is dry. The memory dissolves quickly as quickly as it came, leaving only the echo of the words lingering like an aftertaste.

Finally, he speaks, voice low and rough, “Don’t… don’t call me that. I don’t like it.”

You blink. “Like what?”

“A dog. I don’t…” His throat bobs. “It doesn’t sit right with me.”

You study him for a moment—his pallor, the way his knuckles whiten around the things he’s carrying, the faraway look in his eyes, the strange stillness in his face as if he’s holding himself together by sheer will.

“Alright,” you say, softly, kindly. “I won’t call you that again.”

He exhales, a small, uneven breath that sounds like it’s meant to be a thank you but gets lost somewhere before it reaches his tongue. The silence that envelops between you is fragile—like something that could break if either of you spoke too loudly.

When you start walking again, he follows, though quieter than before. His mind hums with the ghost of that voice, that hand, the word that shouldn’t have stung as much as it did.

Once you arrive back at your home, Mydei is the first to greet you.

He’s waiting on the porch, tail curled neatly around his paws. The moment he spots you, a soft meow slips from his throat. He rises and stretches, then pads down the step to brush against your leg. His fur carries the warmth of the afternoon sun.

“Missed us, did you?” you murmur, stooping to run your fingers through his coat. Mydei purrs, low and content, circling your ankles once before glancing up at Phainon.

His gaze lingers. Then, with a flick of his tail, he turns and follows after you as you step inside the cottage. He doesn’t brush against Phainon.

Behind you, Phainon lets out a short huff that sounds like laughter. “He still doesn’t like me,” he says. “So I don’t think he missed me as much as he does you.”

“Yes,” you agree without a second’s hesitation.

Phainon stares at you, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he can’t decide whether to feel offended or amused. “That was very quick.”

“Well,” you shrug, “I wasn’t going to lie. Cats can be quite territorial, you know.”

He hums, pondering. “He must think I’m going to steal you from him.”

You laugh, sudden and melodious—one of those bright little sounds that seem to catch him off guard every time, as though he hasn’t quite learned you’re capable of making it. And maybe that’s because you don’t laugh like that often. Most days your amusement comes out quieter; just a small puff of air through your nose paired with a smile, the kind of understated warmth one only notices if they’re paying close attention.

But this one—this clear, unguarded laugh of yours—is rare enough to feel like a gift. So rare that Phainon goes absolutely still for a moment, as if unsure whether he’s meant to hold it, treasure it, bow to it, or simply let it wash over him.

“Now I wouldn’t go that far,” you say. “Mydei is just protective.”

“Of you?” he manages to ask, feigning neutrality.

“Of the house. Of the forest,” you say, trailing off. “And yes, perhaps of me, as well. He’s like the guardian of this forest. He protects everything and everyone here.”

“Even me?” he asks.

“Yes. Even you.”

The words hit him strangely—like something heavier than reassurance, lighter than a promise, and yet somehow both. Phainon rubs the back of his neck as if trying to hide the warmth gathering there.

He thinks back to all the times Mydei has stalked behind him (which is always, really). The soft pad of paws trailing a few steps behind, the quiet little huffs of breath, the occasional meow when Phainon’s thoughts spiral too far into places they shouldn’t go.

He remembers the nights when he would sit up in bed, palm pressed to his ribs, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob, and Mydei would hop onto the foot of the bed and simply stare at him.

Stop, the stare always seems to say. Don’t think of it. Don’t think about anything at all.

And somehow, it works. It helps. He helps. Though Phainon doubts the cat does any of it out of affection; more likely, it’s obligation. Or maybe, just like you said, it’s out of territorial instincts. Or maybe… the cat thinks he does it out of protection of you.

Protection from what? From whom? From himself?

That possibility feels uncomfortably plausible.

He wouldn’t put it past himself to hurt someone. He has the hands for it, the instincts for it, and the memories—though he could only recall half of it. But you? No. He could never deliberately hurt you. Not you—not the one who pulled him from the edge of death, the one who gave him a home before he even remembered who he was.

You are the one thing in his life that doesn’t feel stained.

Maybe Mydei is indeed magical like the way you claimed. You’re a witch; you produce pockets of space out of thin air and murmur words that make plants grow faster. So why not a magical cat? Why not a cat that can drag broadswords through forests or curse intruders or—he snorts quietly to himself—transform into a person if he wanted to?

The image almost makes him laugh. He can imagine it: Mydei as some unimpressed, sharp-tongued man, flicking his tail in human form.

“I really still can’t see how Mydei can do so much with his tiny body,” Phainon says, chuckling.

You smile. It’s the kind of smile that looks like you’re hiding the punchline to a joke the world isn’t privy to. “You have no idea.”

Your smile lingers for a heartbeat too long. And his gaze lingers on you for two heartbeats longer than that.

The house is warm behind you, with the smell of herbs drifting through the open doorway. The trees sway lazily, and Mydei sits between you both, tail twitching, as if monitoring the entire conversation.

It’s peaceful enough that Phainon’s shoulders lower without him realizing. Peaceful in the way a wounded animal might exhale when it recognizes that, finally, it will not be hunted today.

You turn first, heading toward the cottage, Mydei following suit. And Phainon trails after you—the same way he trailed after you into town, the same way he trails behind you whenever you lead the way.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the memory of the moment on the road when you called him a dog and he froze flickers. But now, in the warmth that follows you both toward home, that memory slides off him like water. It’s not gone, but it has dulled—tucked into a corner of his thoughts where it can’t bite.

He catches his reflection in a window: tired eyes, longer hair, and face still bruised at the edges. But then he looks at you again, and the heaviness in him eases.

He wonders if that is magic, too.

𝐈𝐕. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃

Days with you slip by almost unnoticed.

Phainon wakes each sunrise to the same rhythm: the scent of herbs steeping, the air filtering through the windows, and the distant chatter of birds gathering near your porch as if waiting for you to come greet them.

He falls into that rhythm without thinking, the same way a stray animal falls into step with the one who feeds it.

He still chops wood every morning. You tell him the pile is large enough already, that the shed won’t fit another log, but he keeps at it anyway. It’s habit. When he’s not swinging the axe, he’s repairing what needs fixing—the latch on the gate, the crack in the basin, the cupboard that hasn’t loosened in years. Sometimes, you suspect he breaks things just to mend them again. And he still carries water for you. Always insists on two buckets at once, even when you tell him the well isn’t going anywhere.

(And always, there is Mydei, watching.

Always, there is you.)

But lately, he’s begun to do other things too. He helps you tend to the herbs in the garden—kneeling awkwardly in the dirt, too big and stiff for such delicate work, yet careful, almost reverent when he’s handling the leaves. Sometimes he forgets how gentle he has to be, snapping a stem or bruising a sprig, and he looks so stricken you can’t help but laugh and tell him it’ll grow back.

(He notices, too, how you laugh more now. He remembers the early days when your laughter had been quieter, almost like you weren’t sure he could handle too much warmth at once. But lately—ever since that day the two of you first returned from town—your laughter has been different, looser. As if being beside him no longer requires caution. As if something between you both unlatched itself without either of you speaking about it out loud.

And perhaps he notices more than he should. Because now, whenever he fumbles with a sprig or accidentally uproots an entire seedling, you laugh openly and he tries to pretend it doesn’t strike him straight in the chest. He ducks his heads, pretends he’s checking the soil, pretends he’s not memorizing the way the sound curls around him like the light from the sun.

He doesn’t understand why it affects him so much. He only knows that he could grow addicted to it.)

He helps you cook too, though “help” is generous. He cuts too precisely, stirs too rigidly, like he’s following orders no one gave. He asks if he’s doing it wrong, and you tell him he can do whatever he wants as long as it’s still suitable for cooking.

He goes to town with you every now and then—to visit Hyacine, to restock your supplies, to carry the heavy things you insist aren’t heavy. The villagers still whisper when you pass, and Phainon pretends not to hear them. He doesn’t realize that sometimes, his silence is more of a comfort than his anger could ever be.

And then there are the forest animals.

At first, he only watched from afar as you fed them—the foxes, the deers, the flock of birds that perch on your arms as though you’re just another tree. Now, he feeds them too, though never alone. He says he’s afraid he’ll scare them off. You tell him the creatures like him, that they sense his good intentions. He doesn’t quite believe you, and the doubt sits quietly in his chest.

He knows what still sleeps inside him. The thirst. The edge. Whatever part of him remembers blood and command and killing. He fears that if he ever lets his guard down, if he ever reaches too fast, too hungry, he’ll harm something—someone—you hold dear. So he never feeds the animals without you.

When that fear starts whispering too loud in his head, Mydei is always there. The cat watches from afar, silent, orange, and unblinking. Never close enough to touch, but close enough to pull him back to himself. It’s strange—it’s been over a month, and the cat still hasn’t brushed against him. Not even once.

It doesn’t hurt him—at least that’s what Phainon tells himself. It’s just something he’s noticed. Especially since the forest animals seem to like him well enough when you’re near. Rabbits nibble on his boots, and once, a bird landed on his shoulder. He stood frozen for a full minute, afraid to breathe in case he startles it.

When he told you about it later, you only smiled and said, “See? They trust you.”

He thinks, sometimes, this must be what peace feels like. Not the grand kind—the kind the bards sing about—but something smaller and quieter. A hand brushing against his when you both reach for the same jar. The sound of your soft laughter spilling through the house when he hits his head over something. The faint smell of mint that clings to the sheets.

He catches himself watching you too often. The way your sleeves slip down when you knead dough, the small wrinkle that appears when you read, the way you hum to yourself while tending to herbs. It’s not that he means to stare; it’s that everything about you catches his eyes. You’re steady, like gravity, and everything about you feels natural. He doesn’t know when it started, but your presence has become the thing his mind drifts toward whenever it goes quiet.

Once, when you handed him a bowl of stew and your fingers brushed his, something in his chest stuttered—like when he first saw you after waking up from his injuries. It wasn’t just gratitude anymore. Gratitude was what he felt when you saved him. Now, this was something else.

The stray in him is beginning to settle, to rest its head.

He realizes, with a sort of frightened tenderness, that he’s been dreaming of this for a long time—long before he met you, maybe even before he lost his memory. The dream of belonging somewhere. Of having someone to come back to, to protect not out of duty but out of want.

But the dream has edges.

Sometimes, while he works, something flashes behind his eyes. A street, narrow and cold. The taste of hunger. The sound of a girl’s laugh, light and tired all at once. He sees her—his sister in everything but blood, small hands clutching a loaf of stolen bread. Her smile when she splits it in two.

He always shakes it off and keeps chopping. But the memories always return like waves, merciless.

He remembers the guards’ shouts. The blur of armor. The day he was caught with his hands full of the king’s silver. How strange it was, to kneel before a man so terrible and live.

The king had looked at him and smiled. Said something about sharp eyes and quick hands. Said he could use a creature like that.

And so, Phainon became what the king wanted—a hound that learned to bite on command.

He was fed, clothed, and trained. He rose through the ranks not out of pride, but out of survival. Each order he carried out, each throat he cut, each village he burned—he told himself it was for her. For the girl who still called him brother. For the one who deserved better than hunger.

He became his king’s favorite, his lapdog, his executioner. And with every life he took, his own slipped further away.

He doesn’t remember when the love of his sister’s laughter turned into pity of what he’d become for her sake. Only that he kept going, because stopping meant she could starve.

Now, when he dreams, he hears the king’s voice again. And in the dream, the voice follows him home.

Not your home, not your house, but theirs. The one he built long ago from stone and spite and blood, where the walls gleam faintly of red, as if still remembering the men he felled to pay for them. A house bought with his master’s coin, built from the bones of his enemies, yet raised with love for her—for his sister, his tether to what little of him remained human.

The door is open when he arrives at their home.

At first, he thinks she’s sleeping. The way she lies on the floor, hair spilled like ink across the floor, one hand curled loosely as though still clutching a dream, but then he sees the blood seeping beneath her.

His body moves before thought does. He falls to his knees beside her, calling her name—Cyrene. Cyrene. Cyrene!—until the sound breaks. His hands are useless against the stillness of her body. He doesn’t know where to press, what to hold, what to fix—all he knows is how to strike, what to break, what to snap. There is too much red, but none of it are his or his master’s enemies.

When the fire from the hearth flickers, he looks up and knows exactly where to go.

He storms through the marble halls of the palace, sword still strapped on his back. Guards scatter like birds before a storm, for even they know better than to bar the way of the king’s beast. The throne room yawns open, and the king is there, as he always is—calm, immaculate, cruel.

“Your Majesty,” Phainon rasps. “Someone murdered my sister. I need your leave to find them. I—”

The king doesn’t even look surprised. He only tilts his head, voice as smooth as oil. “There’s no need to look. I gave the order myself.”

Phainon stills. At first, he doesn’t understand. He only stares, chest heaving, waiting for the jest that never comes. Then, he asks, “What do you mean?”

“She was a distraction,” the king says, amusement curling at his lips. “A hound does not need a sister. A beast does not need a home. You are mine, Phainon, and I am your master. You will serve me until there’s nothing left of you.”

The memory shatters there.

He wakes drenched in sweat, heart hammering, half expecting to find blood on his hands. But when he sits up and looks around, it’s only the faint glow of the candle on his nightstand. Only Mydei’s eyes, glowing yellow in the dark. Only your soft breathing from the other room.

And the contrast between the two worlds—the one he lived and the one he’s living now—gnaws at him. Because here, in your small house at the middle of the forest, he’s learning what gentleness feels like again. He’s learning to speak softly, to hold things that break easily. He’s learning what it means to be seen as something other than a weapon once again.

And every time you smile at him, every time your hand brushes his shoulder, he feels something bloom that he cannot name. Something that hurts and heals in the same breath.

He wonders if this is what redemption looks like; not a cleansing, but an illusion—fragile and fleeting. He wonders how long he’s allowed to have it before the world remembers what he is.

Afternoon comes, and you’re both in the garden, knees dusted in soil. Phainon’s fingers, broad but careful, move between the roots as if he’s afraid of breaking them. He’s learning how to tell weeds from the herbs now, though he still hesitates sometimes, glancing toward you for confirmation.

There’s peace in it. The small sounds, the rustle of leaves, the buzz of insects, the distant lap of water somewhere. And you hum under your breath, something tuneless.

Then he stops. Abruptly. A stem snaps between his fingers, hanging limp. His shadow falls over the patch of rosemary.

“What if my memories return,” he speaks, sudden and quiet, “but I don’t want to leave?”

You blink, turning towards him. His eyes are somewhere far off, and there’s soil in his cheek, a smear like paint that doesn’t belong there.

You don’t think before you answer. “Then don’t leave.”

He breathes out a small laugh, half disbelief, half something else. “Really? You’d let me stay? Even though my stay was only meant to be temporary?”

“Yes,” you say simply. “And honestly… I’ve grown quite fond of you.”

The words drift out like a sigh, unplanned and unpolished, but they catch in the space between you and hang there. It’s the kind of sentence that doesn’t need an echo out loud to still reverberate.

Phainon doesn’t move for a long time. He only stares, as if your words were something he needed to memorize before the air could take them away.

I’ve grown quite fond of you.

It isn’t a confession, not really, and he knows that. You said it like one might admit the sun’s warmth or that the rain falls where it wishes. Simple, natural, true. But gods, it’s close enough to make something twist in him.

The words dig in, take root, and the warmth that spreads through his chest feels almost unbearable. Because if kindness could be fatal, it would sound like that. It would sound exactly like you.

He turns back to the soil before you can see the way his expression softens—because if you did, you might realize that those simple words have already undone him. The ache in his chest isn’t the old kind anymore; it’s gentler, the kind that he doesn’t want to fade.

He works in silence after that, slower this time. You get back to work too, humming once again. And though nothing else is said, he feels the shape of your voice in his head—circling, settling, steadying.

Then don’t leave.

He won’t. Not if he can help it.

𝐕. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐃𝐎𝐆

“Go and take a break.”

From the soil, Phainon stares at you like you’ve just cast him out. His hands are still half-buried in the dirt, wrists streaked with soil. He blinks once, twice, as if trying to understand a language that shouldn’t apply to him.

“Why? I’m not tired. I can still help—”

You shake your head, shushing him before he can finish. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… you need to go outside every now and then, Phainon. Don’t be a hermit like me.”

He blinks again. “Outside? But aren’t we—” He gestures vaguely at the sky, the trees, the garden that is quite literally outside. "—already outside?”

He’s pouting. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

You sigh, pulling off one glove. “Don’t get smart with me. You know what I mean. And our trips to town don’t count. You need… enrichment time.”

“Enrichment,” he says flatly, as if it’s a punishment. “What do I even do while I’m on break?”

“I don’t know,” you say, shrugging. “Take a walk. Lie in the sun and pretend to be a rock. Anything that doesn’t involve heavy lifting or chores.”

He exhales a small sound that’s almost a whine. “Then I’ll take a walk.”

“Lovely.” You clap your hands in delight. “Get back before sunset.”

He lingers a moment longer, as if waiting for you to rescind the order. When you don’t, he dusts his palms on his trousers and straightens, a little stiff. He hesitates, opens his mouth like he might say something, then thinks better of it. Finally, he nods once and turns towards the trees.

The forest receives him the way it always does—too quietly, as though listening. He walks without direction. The world is still; only the sound of water in the distance, a bird calling, and the faint crunch of leaves beneath his boots can be heard.

A break, you said. But rest feels foreign, like a word from a tongue he’s forgotten. His hands itch for work, for something to hold, something to guard. The axe, the bucket, the rhythm of doing—those are easy. This, the wandering, the having-nothing-to-do—it gnaws at him.

He keeps glancing behind him, half-expecting Mydei to appear, silent and judging, but the cat is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps you’ve sent him to make sure Phainon really does rest. The thought makes him huff, amused despite himself.

The path slopes upward until he finds himself on a small ridge overlooking the glade. The air here smells different—warmer and faintly of wildflowers. He sits down, awkwardly at first, like a man trying to remember how to sit. He closes his eyes.

It feels like he can hear the forest breathe. He hears the wind through leaves, a frog croaking by a creek, and even his own pulse, slow and steady for once. For a long moment, he lets himself sink into it.

Then he hears something crack—a branch somewhere behind him—and instinct surges before thought does. He’s already on his feet, shoulders squared, gaze snapping toward the sound. There’s no sword, but his stance remembers one.

He prepares himself for an attack, but when only a doe comes out from behind a tree, blinking at him innocently, Phainon exhales shakily. He forces his body to ease, hands unclenching one finger at a time.

“Sorry,” he mutters, voice softer than he expects.

The animal watches him a while longer before flicking its ear and turning away. After the doe disappears, Phainon stands still for a moment longer. He exhales slowly, then straightens, scanning the woods. He decides to keep walking.

You had said to take a break, and he supposes walking counts as rest if he pretends hard enough. Besides, the forest is vast and he’s still learning its edges. If he means to protect this place, he should know its bones as well as his own.

He moves deeper into the forest. The air grows cooler the further he goes, the light dimming where the trees thicken. He marks the way as he walks—fallen birch, hollow trunk, crooked pine—and imagines how a blade might catch there, how a man could vanish behind that ridge, how once could defend this place if it ever needed defending.

He doesn’t notice the sound right away. It starts fainly: metal against metal, faint and stuttering. He stills, listening. Then comes another sound: the low murmur of men’s voices.

His breath catches. Phainon turns toward it instinctively.

The forest dips ahead into a narrow clearing, and between the trees, he glimpses movement—a cluster of figures in armors gathered around a small fire.

Knights.

He recognizes their bearing even before he sees their faces. The stance, the way they hold themselves, how their swords rest close to hand even at rest.

He should leave, he thinks. But curiosity—or perhaps the ache of recognition—roots him in place. He edges closer, silent as he can be, until he can see them clearly.

Five men, all armored in the same style. The sigil painted on their breastplates is faint, scraped by battle and time, but the mark is unmistakable—a lone tower wreathed in flame. The paint has peeled away in places, yet the shape endures: proud, ruined, unyielding. It is the symbol of the king’s dominion. The brand of the beast he once served.

His throat closes. That symbol burns behind his eyes, familiar as the weight of a sword hilt.

Phainon doesn’t remember their names, but he recognizes their faces. He’s seen them before—fought beside them, maybe. Bled beside them even. Before he can decided whether to step forward or vanish back into the woods, his voice betrays him.

“Who are you?” he calls out, and his tone is sharper than he means it to be. “Why are you here?”

The men jolt up at once, startled. Hands fly to hilts, blades drawn with the rasp of steel. For a moment, the clearing brims with threat. But then, one of them speaks. His voice cracks around the edge of disbelief. “Commander?”

Another lowers his sword, eyes widening. “Sir Phainon—by the gods—it is you!”

The rest follow, faces lighting with something between awe and relief. They drop to their knees before him, blades pointed down in salute.

Phainon doesn’t move. The sound of his name—his title—rings hollow in his chest. Commander. The word fits him like an old wound reopening. “I…” He swallows, searching their faces. “Do I know you?”

The question makes their joy falter. They look at one another with confusion. One of them—a younger man with a scar beneath his jaw—takes a hesitant step closer. “Of course you do, sir. We’re your men.”

Phainon’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He looks at them—these ghosts of a life he’s certain he doesn’t want back. “I remember your faces,” he admits. “But not who you are.”

The men exchange uneasy glances. Then one of them speaks again, almost reverently, “Commander, we’ve been searching for you for weeks. We thought you’d died.”

Another one poses a question, tentative. “None of our other comrades had made it when we came to check the battlefield. How did you survive? Have you been living here all this time?”

Phainon doesn’t answer. The question hangs in the air, unanswered, because the truth—that he woke beneath a witch’s roof—feels too strange to speak aloud.

When he stays silent, another knight fills the space with words. “The king sent us to find you,” he says. “Dead or alive. He said the kingdom couldn’t lose its hound just yet. You were his best, Commander. His right hand.”

That word lands like a blade. Hound.

Phainon feels his pulse stutter. Images flash in his mind—marble floors, cold as stone. Then a gloved hand pressing down on his head, forcing him to kneel.

My beast.

My hound.

My creature of war.

He inhales sharply, and the forest tilts back to normal.

“I’m not his anything,” he finally says, low and certain.

The knights exchange uneasy glances once again. Then one speaks first, laughing, as if to cut through the tension. “Sir, surely you jest. We can return together—tell His Majesty you’re alive! The king will be overjoyed to have you back.”

Phainon’s gaze snaps to him, sharp enough for the smile to fade. “No.” The word startles them. “I’ve seen what he is. What he makes of men. I’m not going to kneel to that beast again.”

Their faces harden. “You… would defy His Majesty?”

Phainon doesn’t flinch. “I will no longer serve him.”

There’s a pause, before one steps forward and draws his sword. His voice is strained, almost pained. “Then you leave us no choice.”

Another shakes his head, eyes full of regret. “You taught us loyalty, Commander. You told us a knight without his king is a blade without purpose. Don’t make us turn ours on you.”

Phainon huffs, almost amused. “Then perhaps I taught you wrong.”

The knights exchange one final look, grim, before they raise their blades in unison.

“Then you must die for such treachery,” one of them says, and the sentence carries all the weight of a verdict.

For a moment, neither side moves. The forest waits, silent and breathless. Then the first knight lunges. Phainon ducks the first swing, feels the wind of it graze his cheek, and moves instinctively. He grips the knight’s arm, twists, and bone cracks beneath his hands. The man drops his sword, but Phainon doesn’t bother picking it up.

Another charges—younger, faster, but clumsy with fear. Phainon sidesteps, grabs the back of his neck, and drives his face into the earth. “You shouldn’t hesitate,” he says, too calm. “Did no one teach you that?”

Someone shouts something—an order—but it’s drowned in the sound of metal striking bark. The next blade skims across Phainon’s ribs, opening a shallow line that burns hot and wet. He hisses through his teeth, eyes narrowing.

A third swings high. The tip catches his cheek; though shallow, it paints his mouth red. He tastes iron, laughs low and breathless. With the back of his hand, he wipes the blood from his lip and smears it across his jaw.

“Did I train any of you?” he mocks. “None of you move like your lives are on the line.”

They circle him, three blades catching the light. He moves through them like shadow and muscle—less a man than a reflex. He takes a blow to the shoulder, catches another’s wrist, and wrenches it back until steels clatters to the ground. He drives his knee into a stomach, his fist into a jaw. He hears the crunch of something breaking, and something in him exhales in relief.

This, his body remembers. This is what I was built for.

But even as the fight unravels into chaos, another thought threads through him. He isn’t doing this for the king, or the crown, or the memory of command. He’s doing it for something smaller, gentler, kinder. For the quiet house in the woods. For the one who said then don’t leave.

A knight swings wildly at him, and Phainon catches the blade barehanded. Blood spills between his fingers, but he only smiles. “You should find a new master,” he says, shoving the man back, voice low and rasped with laughter that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Someone who’d actually care whether you live or die.”

The knight staggers, gasps. “And you? Who do you serve now?”

Phainon’s grin fades, eyes darkening. Someone worth dying for, he thinks, but what leaves his mouth is far different— “You should worry more about your lives.”

The last two come at once. He meets them head-on. The world blurs into motion and noise—boots slipping in mud, armor crashing, the hiss of breath through teeth. He drives an elbow into a throat, hears the wheeze, feels a blade glance off his arm.

By the time the silence returns, it’s thick with the smell of iron and pine.

Phainon stands alone in the clearing, chest heaving and hands slick and trembling. The fire the knights have set is still alive and crackling. His knuckles are raw and his tunic—torn. This is what his hands are made for; what the king carved into him. And for the first time, he thinks maybe he’s learned how to use that curse for something good.

He wipes his mouth again, smearing the blood across his face again, then he starts back toward home.

You are waiting outside the cottage, entangled in conversation with the birds and a bold red fox who refuses to mind his manners. The animals cluster around you as if you are a tree with fruit, and the fox keeps yipping—short, sharp sounds, tail swishing as he tries to startle the songbirds from your shoulders. They scold him in return, fluttering just out of reach, and you laugh softly at their quarrel.

Then the heavy scrape of boots over leaf sounds through the forest, and everything stiffens. The birds that were on your shoulders flutter once and go. The fox tucks his tail and runs off. Even the rabbits that had been lackadaisical in the grass bolt into the bushes. They do not scatter because of you; they scatter because of him.

Phainon steps into the clearing like a thing that has been pressed through a grinder. He is all torn cloth and the smell of iron. There is a thin line across his cheek where the blade kissed him; the corner of his lip is dark. His eyes are wide, lit at the edges with something like hunger. For a moment, the look is almost feral—it is the look of a man who has found what his hands were made to do and will not stop until they are still.

You don’t recoil from the stench of iron or the hunger in his eyes. You only watch as the animals skitter away, as the clearing empties itself of gentle things.

He halts a handful of paces from you and breathes, long and ragged. His fingers flex at his sides, as if still aching for more.

“What happened to you?” you ask. “You scared away my friends.”

He exhales. The sound is brittle. “Your spell isn’t very effective against people who change their minds.”

You pause, humming. “Hm… I suppose you’re right. Is that what happened?”

His answer is simple: “I killed them.” The words are delivered without flourish, like he hadn’t just admitted he committed something immoral. Then he drops to his knees, head lowering toward the earth in a soldierly bow. He doesn’t look at you as he asks—asks as if testing, “Did I do a good job?” There’s a faint, needy tremor in his voice, a whine dressed up as obedience.

There is a hand on his head before he can taste the mercy of your reply. It lands there the way it once had, long ago, by a different hand—heavy and owning. For a moment, the past flashes behind his eyes: a gloved palm, a crown’s amusement. But your touch isn’t the same. Your fingers are softer, and the pressure doesn’t claim him.

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t balk. He allows himself that small thing: to be steadied by the one who steadies him. Instead, he folds into the touch.

“You’re acting quite like a dog right now,” you murmur, fingers combing through his hair as if you’re ruffling the coat of an animal. “You told me you don’t like being compared to a dog. And yet here you are.”

For the first time since he arrived, the edge in his eyes melts. Adoration pours in like warmth. He lifts his head and looks at you, and the feral light in his eyes shifts into something gentler, more worshipful. The hand on his head trembles; he wants—wants so small, wants so large—to kiss it, to press it to his cheek and seal the gesture there. But he fights it, fingers curling just enough to catch your palm without taking it.

“Yes,” he says, earnest and raw. “But if it’s you, then I don’t mind.”

You let the silence make itself then, and he drinks the sound of it. And when you draw your hand away, he instantly misses your touch. It’s visible in the slump of his shoulders—in the small twitch of longing at his lips.

“Stand up,” you say at last. “Show me where you left them.”

He rises, obedient as a man trained to obey. Though he lingers. “Why?” he asks, the eagerness leaking back into his tone. “I can dispose of them myself. Just say the word.”

You shake your head, slow and certain. “I would like to bury them properly.”

He hesitates, incredulous and almost petulant. “Even when they tried to kill me?”

“Yes.” You tuck a stray curl behind your ear. “I believe giving them a proper burial would be their last and greatest mercy.”

His mouth opens to retort, but then closes it immediately. He nods his head just slightly and, without another word, turns toward the path that leads away from your cottage and back to the clearing he left.

Phainon’s footsteps drag heavier the longer he walks, as though the earth itself is trying to pull him down. His breaths are shallow and he keeps his eyes on the ground, like he’s ashamed of letting them rise.

It makes no sense.

You’re not angry. You didn’t recoil from the sight of him returning, with blood on his face and running down his arms, chest heaving with the aftermath of killing, and eyes blown wide from the adrenaline. Yet the silence between you gnaws at him—it burrows into the hollow places inside him like something alive.

He doesn’t know why he feels like he’s done wrong.

And he has. He definitely has.

The forest doesn’t judge him. You didn’t judge him. But he judges himself.

He killed people—men who once followed him into battle, who once trusted him enough to put their lives at his back. Even if he can’t fully remember their voices, even if their names are like dust in his mind, their faces still tug at something buried deep within him.

He slaughtered them with his hands.

And the worst part is that some part of him felt relief when it was over. Relief that the violence had someplace to go; relief that the hunger in him had been fed, even for a moment.

Phainon has always been hungry. The kind of hunger that isn’t for food, but for survival. For purpose. For something to strike, to break, to destroy before it destroys him.

He remembers stealing bread for his sister with shaking hands. He remembers stealing coins from the king, and how that single act shaped the rest of his life. He remembers the moment the king looked at him and saw not a boy but a weapon.

His guilt began there; and it only grew sharper, heavier, uglier. But today it feels different.

“It’s up ahead,” he says, voice strained.

You keep walking until the trees open into a clearing.

And there they are—five bodies, scattered where they fell. Their armors are dented and darkened with drying blood, and their swords lie discarded in the ground.

Phainon stops at the threshold of the clearing, breath caught in his throat. You step past him, skirts brushing the grass.

Watching you walk toward the bodies—toward the carnage he caused—tears at him. He watches the way you kneel beside the fallen men, brushing dirt from their armor, and straightening their limbs with gentle hands. And something in him collapses. Because now, watching you give them the tenderness he never could, something new forms inside him—

Shame.

Not for killing them—that part he understands, that part he can justify—but for how quickly and easily he did it. And for how you treat the dead better than he ever treated the living.

Is that why his guts twist? Is that why his throat feels constricted?

The thought coils tight, tighter, until it hurts to swallow, to breathe.

Would you have shown him the same mercy? If he had died out here, would you have buried him too? Would you have cared?

If he hadn’t killed them, they would have killed him. And then they would come for you. They would have torn through this forest, through your home, through you, without hesitation. And he can’t—will not—imagine that.

You are the only thing in his life untouched by blood. The only salvation he has left. The last thread tying him to the person he wants to be instead of the creature he was made into.

So why—why are you burying them? Why do you give them peace when they came here to retrieve him? When they didn’t hesitate on killing him for breaking his oath to the king? Why do you care enough to kneel beside their corpses?

The questions claw at him until they finally break free from his mouth, “Why are you doing this?”

You pause. “Doing what?”

“Showing mercy,” he says. “To men who tried to kill me.”

You brush soil from the gauntlet of one knight, studying the cracked metal with dried blood. “Because death is still death and they were still human,” you reply softly. “Someone raised them. Someone will grieve for them. Even if they came here with violence in their hands… they still deserve rest.”

Phainon stares at you like he’s seeing you in another light. His throat bobs almost painfully. “If I had died that day when you found me…” His mouth feels dry. “Would you have buried me too?”

“Yes,” you say without hesitation. “I wouldn’t have left you alone to rot.”

His chest tightens so sharply he almost mistakes it for pain. He stands rigid, and for a moment, he looks less like a warrior and more like a man who’s been struck by something he never learned how to guard against.

You lift your head. “Will you help me dig?”

He nods before he can think. His body moves clumsily at first, as though the guilt has made him heavy. You step back from the bodies, life your hand, and with a small twist of your finger, your space pocket emerges into existence. From within the pocket’s glow, you reach in and draw out a shovel. You offer it to him readily.

Phainon stares at the tool, then at you, still bewildered by how easily you conjure magic like it was as natural as breathing. He takes the shovel, his fingers brushing yours, and his heart stutters. He doesn't dwell on it too much; instead, he walks to a patch of soil near a tree and thrusts the shovel into the earth with a thunk.

He doesn’t speak anymore the moment he starts digging. The soil is loose near the roots, but the deeper he goes, the heavier it gets, and you can hear how strained his breathing is. He keeps wiping at his face with the back of his wrist, but he doesn’t stop working.

You don’t speak either. Somehow, it feels wrong to make any noise.

He keeps going until the grave is deep enough. You help move the first body, slow and careful. He barely looks at the faces. Maybe he doesn’t want to. Maybe he can’t.

You both place them on the ground. Then more dirt, then another grave, and another.

Phainon doesn’t rest. His shoulders shake sometimes, but he doesn’t stop. His hands are bleeding a little from gripping the shovel too tight. You try to take it from him once, but he jerks away like the touch seared him.

“…I can do it,” he mutters, voice rough and low. He’s not angry. Just… tired.

So you let him.

By the time the last mound of dirt is in place, the sun is low. The light is soft and warm and it hits the graves in long strips. Phainon stands there with the shovel planted in the earth, head bowed. When he finally lifts his head and turns to you, he’s pale. Too pale.

“Let’s go home,” you say.

He nods, but it feels like he barely hears you.

You walk side by side, though he drags a little behind you. His steps are slow and heavy, and sometimes you hear his breath stutter. You keep glancing back, checking to see if he’s still upright. He is, but it’s like he’s walking because he doesn’t know what else his body should do.

No animals cross your path. Everything is silent.

When the house comes into view, something changes in him. Maybe it’s the relief of seeing it. Maybe it’s the exhaustion catching up. But when he steps up into the porch, his foot catches a little and he stops completely right in front of the door.

He stares at the wood, and then his knees give out.

It’s like watching a tree slowly tilt and finally topple. He catches himself with one hand on the knob, but they tremble badly. His breath is shaky—like he’s trying not to let it turn into a sob.

“Phainon—” you rush to him, grabbing his arm before he can fall forward. “It’s alright. Come on.”

He doesn’t respond. His eyes are unfocused, staring down at the ground beneath him. Dirt sticks to his palm and his clothes, and there’s blood drying on his knuckles.

You slip an arm around his back, trying to steady him. “Let’s just go inside.” You guide him in slowly. He leans heavily on you, and you can feel how cold his fingers are.

Inside the house, it’s dim and warm. You lead him to the couch and ease him down. The moment he sits, his shoulders sag, and he looks like he’s sinking into the cushions without meaning to.

You kneel in front of him, brushing dirt off his hands with your thumb.

“You’re okay,” you whisper. “You can rest now.”

For a second, his mouth opens like he wants to say something, but the only thing that leaves him is a shaky exhale. Then he lets his head drop forward. Not onto the cushion, but onto your shoulder.

You don’t leave.

𝐕𝐈. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐄𝐏𝐓

When Phainon finally wakes, it’s slow—like surfacing from deep water. His body feels heavy, almost numb, and for a moment, he isn’t sure if he’s really awake or just stuck somewhere between dream and memory.

The first thing he sees is the ceiling.

He knows this ceiling now, but his mind still does that small, confused stumble, like it’s trying to compare this moment to the first time he opened his eyes here.

Back then, everything felt new. Confusing. He had no name, no anchor, nothing to hold onto. He remembers sitting up too fast, gripping the blanket, and the world spinning while he tried to make sense of anything.

It feels weird thinking about it—like remembering something from someone else’s life. Like it was a whole lifetime ago, but also kind of like yesterday.

He blinks a few more times, trying to clear the fog of his mind and in his eyes. His wounds don’t hurt as much now, but his body still feels like it’s been squeezed dry and left in the sun.

He turns his head, and there he is.

Mydei.

Perched on the windowsill again, in almost the exact same spot he was the first time Phainon saw him. Light behind him, tail curled neatly around his paws, and staring at him with those bright yellow eyes like he’s been waiting for this moment.

Phainon doesn’t say anything. He just laughs, though nothing is funny. Something inside him loosens at the sight, something warm and kind of embarrassing. He didn’t realize how much he missed that little face until right now.

Mydei blinks once, slow. Phainon blinks back. It feels stupid, but he does it anyway.

They hold eye contact for a while. Then Mydei lets out a meow, before hopping down from the sill. His paws barely make a sound as he lands. He gives Phainon one last look and then pads toward the door. He slips through the gap like he always does, tail swaying behind him as he disappears without another sound.

Phainon watches the doorway long after the cat is gone. He breathes out and sinks deeper into the mattress. He lies there for a while before the room starts to feel too quiet without Mydei in it.

It’s silly, he knows that, but the silence presses at him in a way he doesn’t like. So he pushes the blanket off and sits up.

He regrets it instantly.

His whole body aches—like his muscles are reminding him that he hasn’t used them like that in a long time. Not since before he came here. Not since before… everything.

He presses a hand to his side, where the knight’s blade had caught him. The wounds have closed, thanks to your care, but the memory of the fight still thrums under his skin. That sudden burst of violence—after weeks of calm, of chores and menial tasks—had knocked him. He’s not used to being idle, and though his mind aches for it, he’s also not used to being that monster anymore, either. His body feels caught between two selves.

He stands anyway.

He steadies himself on the bedpost, like he did the very first time he woke here. It’s strange how easily the memory returns—how he remembers the spinning room and the ache in his skull.

And how he had followed that same meow down the hallway.

“Mydei…” he murmurs, more to remind himself that he’s not dreaming.

He steps forward. His gaut is uneven, but Mydei is already waiting in the hall, sitting like he knew Phainon would follow. When their eyes meet, the cat flicks his tail once and turns around, walking ahead.

Phainon huffs a weak laugh. “We’re doing this again, huh?”

Mydei doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t. He just keeps going, trotting ahead with that almost smug walk of his.

So, Phainon follows. Down the hallway, down the stairs. Each step is familiar but also feels new because he’s remembering the last time. But this time, the uncertainty isn’t there. There’s only that soft ache, the echo of what he used to be and what he doesn’t want to return to.

The sunlight spills in from the the door just like before. Mydei pads out into the clearing without waiting for him. Phainon stops in the doorway, and it’s exactly the same.

You’re standing there again—in the clearing, surrounded by animals. Birds are perched on your arms, a fox is pressed against your leg, rabbits are scattered around your feet. A deer lifts its head when it sees Phainon, as if acknowledging his presence, but it doesn’t run. None of them run this time.

And somehow, that makes his chest feel even tighter.

You’re smiling at something one of the birds is doing; he can see your lips move as you speak to them even from where he is, and it makes the whole scene looks unreal—like it’s been pulled straight out of some dream he once had. He feels the same sudden stutter in his chest that he felt the first time he saw you like this.

His heart jumps, but it’s not painful—just… loud. Like it’s calling out to something. Like it remembers something even if the rest of him doesn’t.

He thinks back to that very first moment, when he stood here confused and disoriented, and you had turned toward him. How his breath had hitched without him knowing why. How something inside him had reached out.

Maybe it had been a sign.

Maybe his heart had already known back then—when he didn’t yet know his name, when he could barely stand, when everything was just fog—that he would come to love you. Maybe that’s why it reacted the way it did. Maybe it was already trying to tell him something.

Maybe falling for you was always going to happen, no matter what path he took.

His fingers curl lightly against the doorway. His legs feel unsteady again, but it’s not because of exhaustion or his wounds this time.

And then you turn—hearing Mydei’s meow, or maybe you just sensed him like you always do—and your eyes meet his.

His heart jumps again. Just like before. Just like it was always meant to.

And then you smile.

Not the polite ones you give to the townspeople even when they sneer at you. Not the teasing one you shoot him whenever he messes up a chore. Not the fond one you save for Little Ica when they fly into your arms every time. No, this one is different—like something you kept tucked away, something you didn’t think anyone would see. Something only he gets to see now.

And Phainon doesn’t know what to do with the feeling that hits him. It’s sudden—like warmth blooming in his chest and running all the way up his neck until his ears throb.

This time, he moves first. His feet carry him before he even finishes thinking about it. Last time, it was you who approached him first, walking toward a stranger who couldn’t even remember his own name. But now he remembers enough to choose.

And he chooses you.

You, who he’s decided is the safest thing he’s ever seen.

You, who he thinks looks even more beautiful when your eyes are on him and only him.

He’s so focused on your face—your smile—that he forgets to watch his step. His heel catches on a root, and he stumbles. He braces himself for the impact, for his knees to hit dirt, for humiliation, but he doesn’t hit the ground.

Instead, you catch him.

Your hands come up quick, holding him by the arms just like the first day—except it feels different this time. He’s no longer a stranger with your hands pressed against him as you lead him inside your home. He’s just… Phainon. A grown man tripping over nothing because you smiled prettily at him.

He feels stupid. He feels warm.

“You should be in bed,” you say, a teasing lilt in your voice.

It’s the same thing you’d said the very first time too—except now there’s a faint laugh in your voice, like you know exactly what you’re referencing. Like it’s an inside joke the two of you have shared for weeks. And Phainon can’t stop the laugh that bursts out of him.

“I followed Mydei here,” he says, almost breathless. His face is still burning, but the words come easily. Like they’ve been waiting.

You shake your head in amusement. “Of course you did.”

He huffs another laugh, rubbing the back of his neck even though your hands haven’t let go yet. “It’s becoming a habit, I think.”

“It is,” you agree. “Every time you’re not where you’re supposed to be, I find out you’ve wandered after that cat.”

“Well,” he mumbles, eyes lowering before lifting again—slowly, shyly, wanting desperately to keep looking at you, “he usually leads me to you.”

You blink at him, surprised by the sincerity of his words. Phainon seems to realize what he’s said only after it leaves his mouth; his hand lifts to rub self-consciously at the back of his neck again.

“…Oh,” you murmur, and it comes out far too soft. You clear your throat quickly, trying to smooth the fluster from your voice. “Well… he does have a talent for finding me.”

Phainon watches you, puzzled by the sudden shift in your demeanor. You avert your eyes, looking at everywhere else but him.

“You must be hungry,” you say. “Let’s get you inside.”

You slip an arm beneath his, steadying him at the waist with your other hand, and his breath stutters—not from pain, but from the shock of contact.

You help him upright, guiding his weight with ease. His body leans into yours without resistance, as though the simple act of touching you turns his bones to water. For a moment, he stands there, closer than he normally allows himself to be. Close enough that he can feel the heat of your skin through the fabric. Close enough that when he lowers his head, he can smell the faint scent of herbs clinging to you.

But then you step back.

The moment your hands leave him, Phainon deflates. You pretend not to notice, though your eyes soften imperceptibly.

“Come on,” you say. “Inside. You should sit before your legs give out again.”

He nods, but the stiffness in his jaw betrays him. He tries to straighten his posture, tries to pretend he didn’t melt the second your warmth left his skin. His hand hangs awkwardly at his side, fingers twitching once, as if resisting the urge to reach back for you.

Mydei meows and pads ahead, trotting toward the house with the confidence of a small prince. You turn toward the cottage as well, and Phainon follows you instantly.

Not because he’s weak, not because he needs to be led, but because following you feels right in a way nothing else in his broken memory does. Because he feels steadier with you in front of him. Because the ghost of your touch still lingers on his arm like something he already misses.

The forest closes behind him, peaceful and green.

The house waits, warm and familiar.

And Phainon trails after you through the door, shoulders relaxing the moment he steps inside once again—as though he hasn’t just returned to shelter, but something else entirely that is close to belonging.

Phainon wakes in the middle of the night that same day.

For a long moment, he lies there, staring at the ceiling. Then he swings his legs over the side of the bed.

Moonlight spills across the floorboards, guiding him to the corner where his old life rests—the armor you cleaned for him when he was still unconscious, and the broadsword propped beside it like a soldier.

He crouches slowly. His fingers brush the cool metal.

It should feel familiar. It only feels heavy.

Phainon stays like that for a while, hand on the breastplate, and staring at the blade that once answered every command except his own.

He huffs a quiet breath. Then he hears a meow. Phainon turns.

Mydei is awake on the windowsill, body a small silhouette against the moon. His golden eyes are open and fixed on him, unblinking.

Phainon lifts the armor slightly, voice low. “Sorry for waking you.”

Mydei’s tail flicks once.

Phainon gestures toward the door with a nod. “I was just about to go outside.”

The cat doesn’t move, nor does he make any sound. Then, as if his attention drifts, his head dips, eyes flicking to the armor in Phainon’s hands.

Phainon lets out a soft laugh. “Oh, this?” He turns the breastplate a little. “I was thinking of burying it, that’s all. I have no need for it now.”

He pauses, then adds lightly, “Do you want to come with me?”

Mydei yawns—a long and slow yawn that nearly splits his tiny face in two. Then he curls his tail around himself and settles back down, closing his eyes like the affair is beneath him.

Phainon smiles. “Okay then.”

He tucks the armor under his arm, takes one last glance at the sleeping cat, then quietly slips out the door and into the cool night.

Phainon steps off the porch, careful not to let the armor clatter in his arms. The cottage behind him glows faintly with the warm candlelight from your room—the only star in the forest that never seems to dim.

He heads deeper into the forest, barefoot in the grass, toward a place where the forest breathes differently. Where you once told him the land grows thick with roots.

It just feels right to go there.

The armor in his arms feel heavier now—not because of the metal, but because of the memories it drags with it. The weight of commands. The weight of kneeling. The weight of everything he did because someone else told him to.

He sets the armor on the ground.

For a long time, he just stares at it.

On any battlefield, it would have marked him as something to be feared—something deadly. Here, under the rustle of leaves, it looks small and lost. Like a relic of a life that no longer fits him.

Phainon exhales slowly. He kneels, digs his fingers into the soil, and begins to carve out the first handful of earth.

It isn’t burial like one does for a corpse.

It’s burial like one does for a curse.

When the pit is deep enough, he rests back on his heels. For a moment, he hesitates, fingers brushing the sigil painted on the breastplate. The mark is faint, shaped by years of blood, years of being the hound of another beast.

“…But not anymore,” he murmurs.

Then he slides the armor into the earth.

Metal thuds softly as he settles it into the ground. For a moment, he doesn’t move. He just stares, half expecting the armor to glow with some remnant of his past—rage, violence, loyalty that tasted like rust. But there’s nothing; only silence.

Phainon releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

He covers the grave with slow motions. Soil over steel. Dirt over duty. Earth swallowing a past that nearly swallowed him. And when he finishes, the mound looks like nothing more than a soft rise of ground.

There’s no marker—no trace, no legacy.

He sits back, knees bent, arms resting loosely over them.

For the first time since he woke in your house, he feels… light. The kind of lightness that makes his chest ache. That makes his eyes sting. It makes him almost laugh at the strangeness of it.

He tilts his head back. Above him, the stars blink at him. And for a brief moment, Phainon feels the forest shift around him—like it, too, recognizes what he’s done. Like the earth has finally accepted the weight he has carried for too long.

Then he stands, wiping dirt from his palms. When he turns to walk back home, the cottage glows faintly through the trees.

Your light.

His direction.

His reason.

He moves toward it without hesitation.

© 2025 kominigiru.

end note: the “man” hyacine was talking about is mydei; she knows mydei can shift into a human. i didn’t write a scene where he reveals himself to phainon as one bc i feel like it wouldn’t match with the vibes or whatever i was going for in here, but he was in his human form when he carried phainon’s broadsword :3 ALSO I DID NOT MEAN TO MAKE THE LAST FEW SCENES SO SOFT AND FLUFFYSVDJEBFJD the fluff writer in me just had to make an appearance ig 😔 it may have ruined the vibe i was going for a little but at the same time it felt as if the last act was begging for me to write some romantic shit so there’s that. this fic was self-indulgent anyway (just like the rest of my works tbh) so pls no bashing 😣 /lh

anyway! writing this was so fun and even though i struggled a little with it, it was still such a wonderful experience! i mean, what’s writing without a little challenge, right? i usually don’t like most of the things i write because i always feel like i could’ve executed them better, but i honestly think this might be my magnum opus LMAO. it still needs improvement of course but i really like how this one turned out yk!! it’s also the most i’ve ever written for a one-shot! and even though it took me a while before i could finally post this fic, i’m pretty proud of it :’]

if you’ve read some of my works, you probably know i often stick to fluff and whatnot, but i really really REALLY enjoyed writing phainon in a different light this time. he’s such a versatile character and in a way, this fic just made me love him even more hahahaha. though yes, i did still write him like a fool in love but i love it when he’s silly