Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Traveler, your footprints

are the only road, nothing else.

Traveler, there is no road;

you make your own path as you walk.

As you walk, you make your own road,

and when you look back

you see the path

you will never travel again.

Traveler, there is no road;

only a ship’s wake on the sea.

– Original (in Spanish) by Antonio Machado, translation into English by Mary G. Berg and Dennis Maloney.

Phainon can admit that he doesn’t know what exactly happened at the end of it all.

He only remembers the nothingness that came from drowning in corrupted code after letting out all the fury and hatred he harbored for millions of cycles, after reaching out and touching the real stars for only a second before lashing out at Destruction THEMSELVES and falling and falling–

He remembers a distant call, a familiar hand, childish laughter floating in a familiar field of gold. He remembers the hand pushing him– or maybe it was dragging him away? He couldn’t quite tell, he only knew that it was finally time to finish writing the new page that had been turned, the moment to burn everything away so they could start anew.

He remembers burning, he remembers soaring, he remembers tearing apart something that wasn’t quite physical. 

He remembers looking into something red, something that tried to drag him under, under its control.

He remembers the gold in his veins burning like pure fire – but he was used to it, anyway.

He remembers a wild fight, he remembers locking eyes with the Trailblazer, Stelle. He remembers the relief in her eyes, the silent promise between them. He remembers Cyrene, changed and yet just as he knew her in a past that only he had seen.

He remembers shooting through the skies of Amphoreus, now red once again, tearing apart something that shouldn’t have existed – couldn’t exist.

He remembers the other Crysos Heirs stepping up and fighting by their side, eyes ablaze with a myriad of memories they shouldn’t have had.

And at the end, he remembers Cyrene borrowing power from beyond the skies and pouring all her love and memories into this crumbled world that was never entirely real– until it was. It is.

Because Amphoreus is now real and free and the universe embraced them all in welcome and oh, how beautiful the real stars are.

Phainon is not sure what happens next, but he’s quite sure that he collapses. Darkness claims him again, even as his body burns once again, not with hatred but with exhaustion. He doesn’t know if someone catches him before he smashes against the ground, but he doesn’t really care. He’s already fallen so many times, another fall would not kill him. Probably.

(They do catch him. 

Stelle screeches like a creature from the Nether Realm and waves her arms in the air, helpless, as a shooting star falls dangerously quick towards the ground.

A flash of gold and red manages to stand at the perfect place at the perfect time, and then immediately falls to the ground with an undignified grunt when the body falls on top of him in a mess of wings and golden blood.)

He wakes up some time later, and things have… changed.

Of course they have changed.

Amphoreus is saved.

Stelle tells him the news, a wide grin on her face, with Cyrene by her side– and oh, Cyrene, how he’s missed her. She’s alive. She’s alive and breathing and her eyes glint and her following hug is strong and firm around his torso, but her hands shake and he can feel her tears making a mess of his borrowed shirt – and he feels himself tremble and cry just like her, even though a big part of himself doesn’t quite believe it yet. He doesn’t know if he will ever believe it.

Amphoreus is saved and free to step onto tomorrow, but there is still a lot to do.

And yet, the Crysos Heirs make them stand down and rest. “As thanks for your hard work,” they say, which is probably born from good intentions, but it only makes Phainon’s insides itch with restlessness.

And the worst part– He can’t quite bring himself to look the Crysos Heirs – his dear companions and family – in the eye.

Oh, he tries. He tries every time he's visited when he's stuck on bedrest. He tries every time he passes them in the halls when he's allowed to roam around. He still tries when he finds them in the courtyard and they strike a conversation with him – not that he’s very receptive to it, as much as he would like to lose himself to the normalcy of it all.

It’s just– hard. His mind is a mess, his memories are a mess, his appearance is a mess, his body is a mess– he is a mess.

He remembers every loop, every mistake, every failure, every choice. And he would do it all again if it’d mean they could reach this point, this future, but– 

He looks at Hyacine and hears her screams of pain. 

He looks at Tribbie and Trianne and Trinnon – only three, because her ‘data’ was apparently too damaged by the end to save much else – and his hands shake every time they laugh. 

He looks at Professor Anaxa and sees his worried and then furious eyes glaring at him and then his hand through his chest.

He looks at Cipher and sees her mocking grin before he raises his sword. 

He looks at Castorice and feels her brittle hands trying to keep him in a field of beautiful flowers. 

He looks at Aglaea and sees her falling down and down and he sees his outstretched hand. 

He looks at Mydei and– and he sees so much blood, his sword digging into his spine and yet the eyes that turn to him, half-dead and delirious, regard him with pride and satisfaction and–

Phainon distances himself from them. He tells himself that it’s just as well– they don’t mean their worried questions, their gentle touches. How can they touch him, when he’s– he’s–?

He dreams of golden eyes looking down on him.

Sometimes he senses pride coming from them. Sometimes it’s interest. Sometimes it feels a bit too much like pity or empathy. Sometimes his mind twists every feeling into fury and hate. Sometimes–

Sometimes his body burns again and yet when he wakes up, he feels energized, as if he could escape this world, wave a hand and drag into nothingness three entire planets. He feels more power inside himself, different from the Coreflames, like a push from something greater to wield it in whatever way he wants – he doesn’t know what to do with it. His blood sings for Destruction, and yet, he doesn’t want to destroy.

He’s always been a protector, so why–?

He goes to Cyrene, because Cyrene always knows what to do, always knows what’s going on.

“You’ve attracted the gaze of an Aeon too, haven’t you?” he asks, and it still makes him flinch, how dispassionate his own voice sounds, how tired, how old.

Cyrene’s writing stops.

“Yes.” And her eyes find his, steady and knowing. Her smile is bitter. “So have you, right?”

He grimaces. He sits down on the klismos with a sigh and crosses his arms, as if it would help him retain that restlessness inside himself.

“Stelle mentioned that people like us are called Emanators by the people– outside,” explains Cyrene, careful. Her hands play with the writing feather in her hold.

“Like– Irontomb?” he asks, because even after all this time, he still remembers what Lygus told them in that first cycle. He made sure to brand those words, that following promise, in his mind.

“Irontomb was… weird,” answers Cyrene, and she makes the same face she did when they were kids and she didn’t quite know how to explain her strange dreams or intuition to Phainon. “But– yes. Something like that.”

“So… we’re Emanators,” he says, more for himself than as a request for Cyrene to explain it more. He can’t stop the deep frown that pulls at his lips then, the cold that travels down his spine. He crosses his arms more tightly, but at this point, it’s as if he’s trying to hug himself. “And I am… an Emanator of…”

There it is again, that golden gaze looking down on him. As if everything went according to plan, as if Phainon is once again dancing on the hands of something greater than himself, as if he’s once again something to be watched–

He feels sick.

And then, there’s a hand on his shoulder, careful and gentle. He jumps, but it’s only Cyrene, who has now sat down next to him, a worried glint in her eye.

“This doesn’t mean your doom, Phainon,” she says, soft and yet firm. “It’s in your hands, whether to be an Emanator that strives for protection… or an Emanator that pursues destruction.”

“It’s in the name, isn’t it?” And his smile is bitter and annoyed, more of a grimace, really, but after all these cycles - after all this fighting - he feels like his inner rage and fire are more difficult than ever to stoke.

Cyrene hums, just like she did as a kid. Her next smile has a hint of mischief.

“An Emanator can still go against their Aeon, you know?” she says, as if it’s unimportant, as if that simple possibility isn’t the only hope Phainon has. “What was it… Destroy Destruction with destruction?”

Phainon’s only answer is a shake of his head. He lowers his head and stares at the floor and wonders if the hope that simple idea gives him is dangerous, if the inescapable fall it presents is worth it.

It probably is.

Another moment of rebellion, another gamble. Destruction versus destruction; even if that’s what that Aeon wants, it works just as well for him. Let THEM fall to THEIR own sword, let THEM drown in THEIR own ideals and reap what THEY sowed.

Cyrene pats his shoulders with a small smile.

“The universe is so vast and unending… why should we limit ourselves so?”

And indeed, the mere idea of the universe being real and now tangible beyond their skies is overwhelming, but also exhilarating.

Cyrene’s words help, but they don’t make the path any easier.

He still can’t look the Crysos Heirs in the eye, he still spends most of his time alone, not-quite running away from them but definitely avoiding them, contemplating the new Amphoreus with tired eyes and a heavy mind. His head is still a mess of misplaced memories and a myriad of emotions he’s too tired to put a name to and process.

He’s– tired.

And overwhelmed.

It takes him days, but he finally realizes that every time he looks at something or someplace or someone in Amphoreus, there’s millions of memories associated with it that clamor up to gain his attention. It leaves him aching, nauseous, ready to retreat into a dark room and disappear for a while.

His memories consume him, they push him around like the waves at sea would push a small and insignificant fishing boat.

Amphoreus is drowning him, he realizes.

He can’t stay, he realizes.

He looks at the holy city of Okhema in the distance, all the citizens preparing for the festival celebrating their new future, and finds that he can’t bring himself to be a part of them anymore.

Instead, he looks up at the starry skies they can now see. The endless possibilities. The distance from everything he has gone through they promise.

And he makes his choice, even as his heart aches, even as he longs to find every Crysos Heir and hug them and apologize and–

He opens his wings, takes a last look at the laughter the wind carries from Okhema, and then looks up, forward. He can only look forward.

And a shooting star leaves Amphoreus without looking back.

—

Mydei’s head feels ready to burst open from all the information he has been given in such a short amount of time.

A distant part of him wonders if this is what Phainon felt when he inherited all those memories again and again and again, but then decides that it would be best to save himself the pain and worry that thought would cost him.

The most important thing is– Amphoreus is saved.

Era Nova came, though not in the way they ever expected.

Mydei doesn’t understand yet what happened – he does still need to ask quite a few dozens of question to Stelle, after all – but what he does know is that they are… free. War is over. Amphoreus can step into a bright future, thanks to the Deliverer 1, Deliverer 2 and Cyrene.

Then– why the hell is Phainon so… disheartened? Distant? Mydei has only seen him a few times since what everyone calls the True Era Nova, but he hasn’t seen the damn Deliverer smile once. He looks like a ghost, silent and haunting, gliding along Marmoreal Palace without a clear destination, eyes glassy and lost. 

Mydei feels frustration and worry roar in his mind, but it’s not like he can do much – not when he has his people, his soldiers, to look out for, first and foremost. The final battle took countless lives, and it’s still his duty to carry out the rites, give them the glory and peace they deserve.

Still, he tries to talk to Phainon, tries to get him to banter with him like before, tries to goad him into a spar once or twice. He meets defeat, being faced with a short and dry conversation about Phainon’s healing injuries instead for the former approach and a panicked and horrified look for the latter, before Phainon essentially– runs off. Avoids him. Like a coward.

“Give him time,” says Tribbie, when Mydei goes to her after one too many refusals from Phainon. “He’s… gone through a lot. I think he’s still processing everything. Looking at us… must be hard.”

Mydei can’t help but flinch at that.

They still remember the last loop and the one before that, when the Express arrived, with perfect accuracy. They do remember bits and pieces of the other loops, though it’s hard to remember anything too specific; corrupted data – explained the strange Madam Herta – lost in the final fight, data that was used as kindling by Irontomb in a desperate attempt to fight them off. What little they remember is already enough to make them shiver and have nightmares. Mydei has overhead Castorice talking to Aglaea, and Tribbie talking with Castorice, and everyone with everyone.

(Everyone... except Phainon, that is, who doesn't talk to anyone.)

Mydei can understand. He remembers fragments from past lives, some so different to his own past that he sometimes wonders if he’s numerous people at once. But– that would be false. The only one like that, the only one who is actually a collage of every loop would be…

Mydei sighs and turns away.

He sees Phainon a few more times, always too far away. He takes Tribbie’s advice and leaves him space, waiting for him to approach first, as long as that would take.

“Will he be okay?” he asks the one person who probably knows Phainon’s struggles the best, seeing as she has always been on the same wavelength as him, always tied to the same chain they bond themselves with from the start.

Cyrene hums and takes a big bite out of a fruit pastry.

“He needs time, I think,” she says, just like Tribbie. And somehow, her words always seem so much heavier.

Cipher finds them soon after, and Cyrene greets her with a wide smile. And yet– Mydei sees the slight surprise in her eyes, always present with the Crysos Heirs, as if she’s always surprised that they actually remember her.

Mydei rubs his eyes tiredly. They’re all a mess, aren’t they? Struggling to accept the past, trembling under its heavy weight, cautious and wary of the future they can now touch, but oh so hopeful like a naive child.

Okhema lights up with millions of lanterns in the night in celebration of a new era, a new future, a new world full of possibilities.

The Crysos Heirs are greeted with wide smiles, respected and praised like heroes as they walk amongst the citizens. The sky over their heads is dark, but it shows the countless stars – all of them real, all of them possible planets, full of life, just like theirs.

It makes Mydei feel incredibly small, and a part of him dreads and fears it. He’s a prince, he’s a king, he’s a god, he’s always been expected to be greater than the world itself, powerful and strong, and yet now– he’s so very insignificant. In the light of countless worlds, his humble nation and people must seem like insects to whatever laid out there.

And yet, it’s also exciting. If he wanted to, he could pull on his connection to the Express, find a way to leave Amphoreus and– explore the universe. Find other warriors, each with their own ideals and codes of honor, each with their own dreams and aspirations and a shared respect for everything that made them them. Millions of worlds, all different but so similar at the end of the day.

“Dreaming of touching the stars?” asks the other pink-haired demigod – demigod? – sliding next to him with a wide grin. “Believe me, it’s much more beautiful out there.”

“I can imagine,” he says, simply. Because he can only do that for now: imagine. Maybe in the future, after making sure that Amphoreus, that his people, would be okay, he could…

“If you ever want to travel the cosmos– well, the Express is… a bit full at the moment… But! I’m sure we could figure something out!” she continues, nodding with excitement. 

“You have many friends out there, right?” he asks, just out of curiosity.

“Oh, we sure do! Which reminds me… we should check on them, what happened in Amphoreus was quite important, after all…” At this point, March – Evernight? – seems to be just rambling to herself, so Mydei doesn’t pay her much mind anymore and returns to his previous stargazing, letting the loud cheers of celebration and music flow over him like a soft blanket.

Okhema glows like a miniature sun with all the lanterns hung up from the buildings and archways. People dance to the music that intertwines between different streets. The children seem to have been able to shrug off the danger of the past, instead focusing on their games and laughter.

A smile curls his lips, even as he remains on top of the roof, arms crossed.

He can see Aglaea and Anaxagoras arguing with each other over a plate of snacks and a couple of ambrosia cups; a bottle that never runs out.

He can see Hyacine and Castorice feeding snacks to Little Ica, laughing when the small animal makes a funny face at some of the strongest flavored foods.

He can see Cipher staying close to Aglaea, until her argument with Anaxagoras reaches a point where it’s just the same points over and over again. She slunks off, then, sliding into the prongs of people dancing. Mydei sees her hand reach into wrists and hands, taking necklaces and rings. He ignores it.

He sees Cerydra and Hylisens close to each other, talking in hushed whispers but with smiles on their faces.

He sees Tribbie, Trianne and Trinnon dancing in the middle of the plaza, hair a mess, a few of their ornamental flowers missing. Their smiles are blinding.

He sees Cyrene close to the musicians with one of the other Express members, Sunday maybe, both of them looking at the musicians and their instruments with interest and, in the case of Sunday, a deep nostalgia that shines in his eyes.

He sees the other members of the Astral Express, talking with each other, eating snacks, trying to stop Stelle from rummaging through the trash.

He… doesn’t see Phainon.

The contentment he felt… fizzles out like a small candle. In its place there's only a coldness he can’t quite shrug off, disappointment, but no surprise. He expected this, and yet, he hoped that – maybe for one night – Phainon would let himself see the present, instead of the past he couldn’t quite outrun. Mydei would have been with him, after all. If he could anchor Phainon to the present–

“No Phainon? Really?” Stelle blinks at him half an hour later, before grumbling and struggling to take out her teleslate with only one hand, since the other was full of snacks. “Wait, lemme– I’m gonna send him a message.”

“Oh, me too!” chirped March, just as ready to cause mayhem as her friend.

“... May as well,” sighs Dan Heng, taking out his own teleslate.

Mydei doesn’t know why, but he does the same.

At once, they all send their respective messages.

March and Stelle share wide grins and chuckles, while Mydei and Dan Heng look on with suspicion.

“Maybe Aglaea can find him. We can drag him here with us– for his own good!” points Stelle, when Dan Heng looks at her with a long-suffering sigh and hard eyes.

“I don’t think forcing him to come would be a good–” says Dan Heng, but then promptly gets cut off by March.

“Um, guys? Is it normal for our messages to just– not reach him?” she asks, hesitant and a bit afraid.

Immediately, they all check their teleslates. Indeed, their messages are sent, but they don’t reach Phainon.

“The World Wound Web is still up, it should work,” grumbles Stelle, sending another message. And then another. And another.

“Unless…” And Dan Heng trails off, twisting his mouth into a grimace. He sighs and closes his eyes. “Unless he’s just not in Amphoreus anymore.”

Everything screeches to a halt.

Mydei feels something cold spreading down his spine. Suddenly, he can’t quite feel the weight of his teleslate in his hand.

“Fuck.”

Chapter Text

The first time Phainon properly lays eyes on the infinite sea of stars beyond Amphoreus, he has to stop in his tracks to stare and breathe.

There are… so many. A never-ending river of countless stars, some small, some so bright they make him squint even in this newly reforged form of Destruction. He feels the pull of those other suns, calling to his own being like equals.

And Amphoreus… looks so small.

He has to remind himself that what he’s seeing is real, tangible. It won’t crumble away, disappear, as soon as he looks away.

Still, tearing his eyes away from his home is agonizing. He takes a deep breath again, wonders how he can even breathe out here, where there’s no air, and then reminds himself not to think too much – that’s what has made him stumble to the edge of the cliff that he’s on, after all.

Go forward, he tells himself, and don’t look back.

Maybe… maybe he will be able to return, one day. 

(Oh, how he hopes.)

Maybe one day he’ll be able to see Amphoreus and see it for what it is: his one true home, with his family and friends. 

One day, he’ll be able to walk through the streets of Okhema, travel through the lands between the Grove and Styxia and Janusopolis, and he’ll be able to see the present instead of the murky past.

One day, he’ll be able to look his family in the eye and be looked in return and not feel golden blood running through his fingers and dying sighs on his skin.

But that is not this day, he knows. So, with a heavy heart, he pushes himself away from the brilliant light of Amphoreus and shoots himself in a random direction, like a meteor, letting a kinder fate decide his destination.

—

They split off immediately, each one hurrying off to gather the Crysos Heirs – minus Cerydra and Hylisens, if only because they are the most distanced from this entire mess – and the other Astral Express members.

Mydei himself finds Castorice and Hyacine easily enough, seeing as they haven’t really moved from the table they have claimed as their own, watching as Ica falls asleep after a hearty meal. They both look up when he approaches, and he’s definitely making some sort of grave expression, because their smiles wither as soon as they see him.

“What happened?” asks Hyacine, standing up and looking around. Her hands glow slightly with her sky magic, ready to treat and care for. As always.

Castorice is slower to rise, but her eyes are sharp and alert as she looks around at the celebrating crowd, as if she’s expecting a surprise attack. Mydei almost scoffs – even in times of peace, conflict still retains its claws dug into their minds. It’s not surprising, but it still makes Mydei feel bitter.

“We need to meet up with the rest,” he says simply. When Hyacine and Castorice cross a sharp glance, shoulders tense and fearful, Mydei sighs. “Everyone is safe. We just have a… situation.”

Their eyes shine with something that looks like realization, so Mydei doesn’t say anything else. He parts the crowd so they can make their way to Marmoreal Palace, probably the only part of Okhema quiet enough to talk in peace. 

Leaving such a cheery atmosphere behind is hard, especially when Mydei sees numerous Kremnoans laughing loudly, raising cups full of wine and singing victory songs he still recognizes from the past out of tune. His heart longs for lost companions, which only mixes even more with the frustration he feels pertaining to one certain individual, and it leaves him in a foul mood as they take the key up to the Palace. There, the silence is peaceful, but even from this distance, the party is felt, the music and laughter flows to them anyway thanks to the wind.

Stelle is showing her teleslate to Aglaea and her Garmentmaker, and Professor Anaxagoras remains close enough to listen, a frown pulling at his lips. Cipher is talking with Tribbie and Trianne, while Trinnon sits on the floor, focused on something – maybe trying to sense him, not that she would find anything. Mydei doesn’t need to think too much to reach his conclusion, it’s obvious: Phainon has left Amphoreus. Maybe they should have seen it coming, from how distant and taciturn he’s been acting ever since it all ended and the truth came to light.

Stupid. So stupid.

“I will search for him with my threads,” says Aglaea, then. “My Garmentmakers are all around Amphoreus. There’s nowhere I cannot reach, now.”

And she falls quiet, just like Trinnon. Mydei approaches them with Hyacine and Castorice at his heels, both of them not looking surprised in the least. They stand close to Dan Heng and March, who are also talking with their two senior Express members – Welt and Himeko, remembers Mydei, and there's also who he thinks is named Sunday, not that he’s talked with them much outside of the chaotic meeting they had weeks ago, when Amphoreus’ fate was still unknown.

Trinnon’s shoulders drop. Tribbie and Trianne look at her and pout, a glint of worry in their eyes. Aglaea follows, rubbing her eyes and sighing softly.

“So, the Deliverer has run away,” says Mydei, when no one seems to want to admit it outloud.

“I wouldn’t call it ‘running away’...” mutters Tribbie, fidgeting with her hands. Her eyes lower to the ground, her lips tremble. “He’s just…”

“He’s going through a lot,” nods Himeko, as calm as ever. Her eyes are understanding as she looks around at the tense group. “I understand that you’re all worried. Amphoreus has just opened its gates to the real universe and it’s overwhelming. Phainon will be okay, though. He’s–”

“He’s an idiot, ” interrupts Mydei, just because he can’t help it. Frustration and anger boil in his stomach, climbing up his throat and spilling past his lips. “He can’t look us in the eye, he can’t look at this place without seeing whatever happened in a past that doesn’t exist anymore–”

“But it did exist, and he lived – and suffered – through it all!” shoots back Tribbie, and it’s that loud yell which makes Mydei stop in his tracks and blink, surprised at the annoyance he can see in her eyes, in the pull of her lips. “I know that you’re frustrated, De, and I am too! I wish we could help Snowy! I wish Snowy would even look at us, look at the Amphoreus he saved, at the future we can make now, together– but we can’t push him until he’s ready! He’s…”

“In a fragile state,” finishes Aglaea for Tribbie. Now, even with all her memories returned, she sounds so much more human than ever. Mydei can even feel the worry leaking into her voice, instead of the cold composure she always carried like a cloak. “Teacher is right. And yet…”

“He’s all alone out there,” whispers Trianne, hands clasped on her lap.

“Could he be in any danger?” asks Hyacine, then, looking at the Express crew with wide and worried eyes.

The Express members– hesitate.

“He’s really powerful now,” shrugs March, but even then, she doesn’t look particularly sure, and she keeps looking at the two senior members with obvious doubts.

“The universe is fathomless, though,” mutters Dan Heng, always the most cautious one in these situations.

“Oh, stop using big words–” grumbles March, rolling her eyes.

“He’s powerful, yes, but he’s inexperienced when dealing with the world outside of Amphoreus and using his own new powers. I doubt he knows his limits yet. Not to mention his probable mental state and…” listed off Sunday, soft and yet so very loud in the silence that follows.

“Well, the universe at large is not a fan of Lord Ravagers– for good reason,” sighs Welt, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses.

That’s… actually concerning.

Mydei has heard countless explanations during these weeks, conversations between the Astral Express members and Aglaea and Tribios, as they prepare them all for what making contact with other worlds would mean for them. Mydei himself has even helped with some related matters – particularly preventive measures against any foul play from the outside – and yet, there’s always so much information to process and learn that Mydei is terribly aware of how behind and out of touch they are with… everything.

Phainon’s standing and identity wasn’t a priority – another Emanator in their midst, sure, what was the problem? – but maybe it should have been, if it’s as dangerous or precarious as they make it seem.

Stelle’s lips are thin when Mydei looks at her with a silent question in his eyes. That she doesn’t immediately make light of the situation speaks louder than her unsaid words.

“Well– he’s still a friend of the Express! He’ll be fine, no one will do anything!” says March, far too optimistic.

“Would he say that, though?” asks Welt, pointed, and March deflates.

“... Probably not,” she mumbles, discouraged.

This situation is a mess.

“We need to find him,” he says, not really thinking. Suddenly, there are too many eyes on him, considering and confused. He raises his head, his idea taking root in his mind. “So Phainon ran away. Alright. Fine. Then– we follow.”

“He could be anywhere,” replies Anaxagoras, arching an eyebrow. “Literally anywhere. He can definitely travel far enough to never be seen again.”

“You have contacts everywhere, right?” asks Mydei, looking at the Nameless pointedly. They meet his gaze, something like interest and hope and determination shining in their eyes. “Use them.”

“I mean… we lose nothing by asking. Someone like him… will probably attract attention,” shrugs Stelle, already taking out her teleslate.

“You can take one of the train cars to travel,” hums Himeko, tapping a finger to her chin. “You’ll have to be careful with the fuel. And– try not to crash it, this time.”

“Oh– who will go?” asks March, eyes glinting with amusement.

Stelle raises her hand immediately, a hand already tapping away at her teleslate.

Dan Heng sighs and raises his hand too, resigned.

And then– surprisingly, Castorice raises her own hand slightly, hesitantly, as if she isn’t sure of her choice.

Hyacine follows, a slight smile on her lips, the only sign of her nervousness being how tightly she holds Ica.

The three child-like demigods whisper-argue for a moment, before Trianne raises her hand with a wide grin.

Cipher doesn’t raise her hand, but there’s something in her grin that hints at something Mydei can’t figure out.

Mydei can feel all eyes on him again and so– with a soft breath, he raises his hand.

“That’s settled then,” nods Himeko. Then, she turns to March with an amused smile. “Don’t you want to go too?”

And this time, March seems terribly shy and hesitant. She fidgets with her newly reclaimed ‘camera’, avoiding her friends’ gazes.

“I, uh… wanted to stay here for a bit longer. That’s all,” she says, which makes it clear that Amphoreus still calls to her, even now. That’s respectable, really.

The group disperses slowly, with the Astral Express members congregating further away to plan everything to the very last detail. Most of the Crysos Heirs don’t return to the festivities – which Mydei understands, seeing as he can’t quite bring himself to go back to that bright atmosphere with a million thoughts and a mix of emotions twisting in his chest – and instead disappear into the Palace, probably to prepare for their very first trip outside their home planet.

It doesn’t quite hit him, yet, what he’s about to do. He’s always traveled a lot, after all, and this time will be no different. He will only… travel further. That’s oversimplifying it, he feels like, but if it helps him keep calm and focus on the really important part of all this mess, then–

“You haven’t said anything,” he comments, not looking back as light steps finally approach him.

A laugh, light and airy, and then Cyrene is next to him. She always throws him off, with her seemingly all-knowing eyes and her gentle demeanor that hides a strength that very few people possess – reminiscent of Phainon, but where Phainon is intense like the sun, Cyrene shines with the gentleness of the moon.

“That’s because you seem to have it all handled,” she says, easily enough.

“What do you think?” he asks, anyway. 

If there’s anyone in Amphoreus who knows Phainon the best, that would be her – Mydei learnt that the hard way, the first time he saw Phainon after everything and he kept seeing a different person from the one he thought he knew so well. He started seeing the parts he was familiar with, later, but looking past the dark memories his mind pushed on him over and over again was… hard. It took him a while to look at Phainon and see him for who he is now, instead of the echoes that resounded in his mind.

Maybe he can understand where Phainon is coming from, after all.

Still, running away without a word, without being able to reach out to them– it makes something in his chest twist painfully. Regret, maybe. Longing. Worry. Anger.

“I think this will be good for him, actually,” says Cyrene, her voice honest and placid. Mydei turns to frown at her and she chuckles. “Both things, really. Him going away for a while will help him organize his head without the memories of this place drowning him. He can– breathe. He looked ready to pass out from lack of oxygen there.”

Mydei feels– cold. He did notice how overwhelmed Phainon seemed, but he didn’t know what to do to help – still doesn’t. His presence seems to make everything worse, he has never been good at comforting people. His usual tactics to cheer him up seemed to remind him of their past fights to the death and conflicts, if what Stelle - who saw some of Phainon's memories - told him was true.

And yet, is letting him go off on his own really the best way to help him?

“And this little chasing game will help him, too, I think,” nods Cyrene, as if Mydei isn’t having a crisis next to her. “You see, I don’t think Phainon can see you guys as… you.”

“He sees the past us he killed,” says Mydei, unable to shrug off the cold clinging to his bones.

“Exactly. And he probably thinks that you also see him as his past selves, most of whom… killed you,” continues Cyrene, taking a step forward and waving a hand.

Oh.

Wait–

“Does he think we hate him? Fear him?” he blurts out, completely shocked and in disbelief. Phainon can’t think that… right?

(Stupid. Stupid. He would. He always carries everything in his shoulders, he carries the world, he always puts words in his mouth, Mydei could punch him–)

“Mm… I wonder. It’s only a possibility, he hasn’t told me much,” she says, and she shrugs with a dry smile that borders on worried and a bit pained. “I hope I’m wrong, but… If I’m not… Then you guys following him out of worry and care will definitely drive the point home.”

“I hope so,” admits Mydei, finally letting some of that worry and doubt leak into his voice. Cyrene wouldn’t judge, after all.

“I know so,” she answers, with that certainty that doesn’t leave her words.

She pats his shoulder in silent support, and her smile is so wide and her eyes so bright, that it almost conceals all that she also carries, all that she hides. But Mydei’s eyes have always been sharp, and so he can see the worry hiding there, the hesitance, the silent hand waiting to be taken–

He only has memories of her from one cycle, maybe two, but they are clear and loud. A steady presence by their side, long afternoons of Cyrene offering her cards to them, her laugh bright as every card finds its match on each Crysos Heir, as if it was fated– and it was.

He reaches out with a hand and places it on her shoulder and she pauses, smile fading for a moment.

“You should also breathe,” he finds himself saying, and Cyrene remains quiet for once, unsmiling. Mydei huffs, a bit frustrated – they really are all cut from the same cloth. “We still remember you, you know? You don’t have to be a stranger.”

Something passes in Cyrene’s eyes, so fast that Mydei doesn’t catch it in time. It makes her expression soften with what could be relief, and then she’s smiling again, more genuine this time, softer, with eyes that shine in a very different way.

“As direct as ever…” she mumbles. Then, she breathes in, pointed, and then breathes out. She grins at him, tilts her head to the side in a ‘see? I did it’ gesture. Mydei rolls his eyes. She laughs and finally, they part. “Don’t worry. I’ll do my best to breathe, too. You can focus on finding Phainon.”

‘Finding Phainon’ and not ‘bringing him home’, which is a distinction that Mydei doesn’t miss. Cyrene doesn’t, either, and she winks at him before disappearing inside Marmoreal Palace.

Mydei follows his own advice and– breathes in. Breathes out.

He looks at the distant lights of Okhema, the laughter and music and hopes the air carries with it, spreading it everywhere in their little home, and decides that Amphoreus will have a bright future ahead of it.

He takes out his teleslate, glares at Phainon’s chat for a few seconds, and then–

It feels a bit like yelling at the sky, especially seeing as his messages don’t ever reach him, but it makes something finally settle in his chest.

And then, he turns and disappears into the Marmoreal Palace too; after all, he has a trip to prepare for.

—

He sees countless planets rush by him.

He sees a planet so red it reminds him of the Dawn Device at the end of times, so he veers off immediately and almost crashes into a moon – moon? – in his hurry.

He sees various spaceships coursing through the stars, but he keeps himself far away from them, just in case. He can’t imagine them smiling and greeting him, not when Destruction bleeds from him like sun rays.

He sees a planet that reminds him of the Grove – all vibrant green and wood.

He sees a planet so blue it reminds him of the sea.

He sees a planet with so many moons, some of them just crash against each other or careen wildly into the planet they orbit.

He sees a planet that seems to be made of mirrors, each one reflecting the light of their sun with such power that he hurries off, blinking spots out of his eyes.

He doesn’t stop, not yet.

It’s not like he’s tired, anyway. He’s quite sure that it would take much more to tire him, now.

Sometimes, he sees a flash from the corner of his eye – something long and thin, almost like a… train. But when he turns, he sees nothing of the sort. Sometimes, it’s a meteor, followed by its multicolored tail. Sometimes, it’s an entity or creature he can’t name.

Sometimes, he sees echoes of battles – there are still monsters scavenging around, and he can’t quite bring himself to continue on until he has dealt with them all, even when it’s too late to save their victims.

He glares down at the dark armour of one of the monsters and finally lets it be consumed by starfire. The Anti-Matter Legion. Of course.

He eliminates every monster.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been wandering through the cosmos, but he finally finds a planet that seems– calm. Peaceful, maybe. 

He’s not sure it’s populated, but when he lets himself get swept by its gravity, he finds an infinite world of white. When he gets closer to the surface, he finds that it’s actually snow – never-ending fields of snow, so pure and white it blinds him for a moment, used as he’s become to the dim light of the stars.

His feet sink in the untouched snow and the light snowfall welcomes him silently. The snowflakes disappear before they can touch his skin, even when he lets himself return to his more human form. He lifts a hand, watches as the small particles turn to minuscule raindrops, before they too evaporate.

He looks around, but he doesn’t find any living beings. It’s just as well, he thinks as he starts his trek through the snow – he can use this opportunity to actually think and process everything he’s been… running from. 

Because he’s been running away from everything, hasn’t he? Could anyone blame him, though? After everything that happened, the last thing he wants is to dwell too much on what kind of monster he’s let himself become.

A chorus of familiar voices complain and yell at that thought. They sound suspiciously like the Crysos Heirs. They yell at him that he’s not a monster, that he was just doing what needed to be done to avoid a worse future. Because now they have a future, don’t they? They are alive. They are real. They are– so far away, now.

His heart aches with longing, but he doesn’t let himself drown in it. He accepts it for what it is – it’s the proof that he still cares, that he’s still human, that his bond with them hasn’t burned away like everything he touches.

It’s a comfort, but it’s also the source of his pain.

He wants to be with them, enjoy the world they fought for, sacrificed their blood and beings for– and yet, he finds that he can’t. Because a part of himself doesn’t let him, there’s a wall he can’t climb.

He sighs, and his breath floats away as the soft snowfall starts to turn into a blizzard. Maybe he should find some cover – then again, snow has no effect on him.

It’s still annoying and disorientating, though. The strong wind keeps pulling at his long coat and hair, he can’t see much further than his own arm, and walking in this snow is more of a hindrance than a way to clear his mind.

And then he hears it– yelling, alarmed and worried.

A girl, a child. In danger, probably.

This planet is populated, after all.

(Snow, people– it reminds him vaguely of Dan Heng’s stories of Jarilo-VI.)

He hesitates for a moment, thinking back to how Stelle’s lips thinned when he asked about his new identity as an Emanator of Destruction.

Well, it’s not like he’s going around parading it. He simply– won’t tell anyone. He doesn’t know if they’d figure it out, but someone is in danger, and even though he’s not the true Deliverer, even though Destruction now runs through his veins–

He runs and follows the yelling, readying his sword.

Chapter Text

He takes longer than he would like to find them, but he finally manages to circle the sudden group of tall rocks he encounters and the blizzard parts enough for him to distinguish a small group of people fighting in the snow.

He doesn’t hesitate – he throws himself into the fight, Dawnmaker drawn once again and as unfailing as always. He sees one of the girls – dressed in purple, too dark to remind him of Castorice, though the butterfly motif sure makes him do a double-take – stumble and stare at him as he tears apart one of their enemies in a second. 

He knows as soon as his sword stabs into it: this is the Anti-Matter Legion. Once again.

His attacks turn more merciless after that.

After a short moment of consideration, the girl and– is that a robot? Tall and dressed in… a coat? They both leave the fight to him when it becomes clear that he doesn’t need their help and he’s focused single-mindedly on destroying the monsters instead of turning against them. He sees them retreat and check on a couple of shorter – and maybe younger? – girls that hide behind some rocks, keeping an eye on the fight in case one of the monsters manages to get past him. Not that they would get to do so.

The fight is short, all things considered. He glares at the monsters disappearing in a waterfall of particles, making sure that there are no others left, before he even thinks of turning his back to the dark cluster of crystals sticking to the frozen rocks – they are clearly consequences of the Destruction, he knows that much, seeing as his fingers tingle when he reaches a hand to touch them. He shatters them with but a thought.

“Hey, thanks for that,” comes the voice of the – probably – oldest girl, the one dressed in deep purple. Her hood covers her head and the blizzard still makes hearing each other a bit difficult, but her voice isn’t hostile.

“No thanks needed,” he says, out of inertia. Suddenly, he’s reminded of how expressionless his voice has become, because prowling through the mess in his mind to find emotions to stick to his voice is… a hassle, and requires too much energy that he doesn't have anymore. He coughs, a bit awkward. “Do you have… many of these attacks?”

The girl pauses, and he can feel her gaze boring holes into him. It hits him, then, that he’s being terribly obvious about not being… from around here. He hides a grimace. Oh, he would make such a horrifically bad Trailblazer.

“After the Stellaron was sealed a couple of years ago, these attacks from the Fragmentum have decreased a lot. So, it could be worse,” explains the girl, a bit cautious. Her eyes obviously take note of his clothes. And then– “You’re not from this planet, are you?”

He can’t quite push down the minuscule rueful smile that appears on his lips. It feels foreign in his face, pulling at his cheeks in an almost painful way. It makes his heart ache, once again.

“Am I that obvious?” he asks, just because arguing for the contrary would be a waste of time – a good debater needs to know the limits of their words.

“No one that lives here would venture into the blizzards dressed with so much armour,” she points out, and that’s– fair. He looks at his pauldrons, the steel hugging his arms.

“You… don’t seem surprised about meeting someone from another world,” he says, a bit confused and maybe even relieved. If this world is used to dealing with other worlds, that means that they won’t pay him much mind. Hopefully. There goes his opportunity to think things through alone, though.

“Oh, we’ve had… quite a few visits, these past few years.” The girl’s voice is dry and humorous, which probably means that these ‘visits’ were good for their world, after all.

Something itches at the back of his mind. A name, stories of a frozen land that managed to escape their fate and take their future in their own hands. But– surely not, right?

“As interesting as this conversation is, I think we should return to Belobog,” says one of the other girls, bundled so tightly in a thick coat that the only thing he can make out in the white wall of snow is the glint of round glasses. She fidgets under their gaze, but she doesn’t back out. “The blizzard will only worsen now. We should leave.”

He, though… he’s stuck on the name. Belobog. He remembers it like it was yesterday – Dan Heng, telling him of their adventures out there in the cosmos, recounting their very first expedition with Stelle and how chaotic it was.

Belobog.

What are the chances?

“Do you have enough pieces?” asks the purple girl, with an obvious frown.

“For now, they’ll do,” says the other girl, this one clearly much younger, clutching at the robot’s leg to escape the wild pull of the blizzard.

“I suppose we can always return later,” mutters the girl, and then she turns to him. Her eyes are dark and sharp under her hood, and he forces himself to push away the surprise of the simple name of ‘Belobog’. “Are you coming with us? Somehow, I don’t feel comfortable leaving you out here in the middle of nowhere to freeze your balls off.”

“Seele!” yelps the one girl with glasses. She slaps Seele’s arm lightly and glares at her, before hissing, “not in front of Clara!”

“What? She visits the Underworld regularly. Believe me, she’s definitely heard worse,” replies Seele, amusement and frustration mixing in her voice. She turns to him again, expectant. “So, stranger? Are you coming or not?”

He hesitates for a moment. He wanted a quiet place to disappear to, to organize his mind and feelings. He wanted a place where people didn’t know him, didn’t ask questions, left him alone to– maybe sulk in peace. Grieve the memories he needed to grieve, curse the names he wanted to curse, accept the facts he needed to accept. Until he could, at least, look at the future without a voice in his head telling him that he would need to drag it all back to the beginning again, tear everything apart again and again.

Seele’s eyes are sharp, but there’s something there that looks like realization, understanding. She waits patiently as his mind switches between the two options wildly– until he tires of it, sighs and nods.

“I’ll go with you,” he says, easily enough, even though it’s anything but.

If anything, maybe he can assist them with… anything. That has always helped him at least feel useful, more at peace with himself, if only because people can benefit from his actions instead of suffering from them.

As for dealing with the mess he still carries inside– well. He supposes that drowning in his thoughts wouldn’t really end well, either. This– this can be good for him. He hopes.

So, Seele nods and makes a gesture for the others to follow her. They all look at him and his clothes – clearly not meant for the cold – but they don’t react weirdly or throw glares at him, so he supposes he’s welcome. At least… as long as they don’t realize what gaze now rests on him.

“You’ve already heard my name,” starts Seele a few minutes later as she guides them up a hill. She tilts her head to the side, and he can almost see the arched eyebrow she levels at him. “But we don’t know yours.”

“To be fair, I don’t know their names either,” he shoots back, trying for another smile that he hopes doesn’t look like the grimace it feels like.

“Oh, true!” chirps the red-clothed girl, now carried in the arms of the tall robot and– is she barefoot? In this climate? He blinks. And they look at him weird. “My name is Clara! And this is Mr. Svarog! Nice to meet you!”

Okay, so the robot has a name too. And is probably conscious. Maybe. It – he? – has just nodded at him, after all.

He doesn’t have the best relationship with robots, though, thinking back to a face made of marble and outstretched arms and a red eye watching, always watching. His hand twitches.

Not the time.

“And I’m Pela. Intelligence Officer of the Silvermane Guards, at your service,” greets the other girl, though her voice is much more quiet and shy as she shuffles behind them.

“There you have it,” points out Seele, still looking at him expectantly.

He huffs, not quite a laugh. He doesn’t think he can manage that much. Not now.

He opens his mouth, and there’s a name that almost slips past – a heavy name that carries too many memories to count, a legacy that has more than once consumed him and that still threatens to drown him, even this far away from where it all started. He pushes that name away, once again; he already passed it off to Stelle, when it was time for it. Clutching onto this name would only bring him more pain, he thinks.

No. No, let these people, who have also been helped by that Nameless Hero, know him as–

“Phainon,” he says, and it sits heavy on his tongue too, but it’s better than the bitter and acrid taste of golden blood. “You can call me Phainon.”

—

“You only need to adjust the route here,” is explaining Himeko, head to head with Dan Heng as they look at the various screens on the furthest wall. “Remember what I taught you– if you need to recalculate the speed to avoid derailing, do it with a wide range. It’s better to be careful.”

Mydei lets them to it, instead leaning against the wall and looking around once more. 

It’s just– so bizarre. The single train cabin is bigger than he thought, when the Trailblazers talked of how they literally crashed into Amphoreus. It’s different from the technology he’s used to, even – the golden and white coldness of their machines is vastly different from the clear coziness of this simple cabin, full of warm colors.

“Are you excited, De?” asks Trianne, skipping until she’s right in front of him with a wide grin.

“You’re definitely more excited than anyone, I’d say.” He arches an eyebrow at her, but his lips curl up slightly.

“Of course! This is the first time that any Amphorean gets to travel beyond the stars– and see what lies ahead!” She jumps again, eyes wide, and then she looks at Mydei with a slight pout, disappointed in his lack of obvious excitement. “C’mon, light up a bit! This is an adventure!”

Mydei huffs out a laugh, but says nothing, and soon Trianne sprints off to greet Castorice as the other demigod enters the train carefully, as if she expected the floor to give under her feet. Mydei watches on, even nods at Castorice when they make eye contact and she throws a small and nervous smile at him, but he doesn’t engage. He just remains there, like a guard, arms crossed on his chest and shoulders tense.

He doesn’t have the heart to rain on Trianne's parade, tell her that he can’t quite enjoy this incredible adventure– not without Phainon. Phainon, who always dreamed of traveling around, either as a scholar or a mercenary, discovering new places and meeting new people. Mydei still remembers the glint in Phainon’s eyes when he finally admitted the naive dreams he had as a child, before fate dug its claws into his shoulders and dragged him into a painful journey of his own.

Stupid. So stupid. He keeps calling Phainon 'stupid' in his head, because it’s easier than giving himself up to the worry eating away at his chest. With each conversation he has with other people, the more he thinks about it - about the weight still crushing Phainon even after their mission of deliverance was complete - the more he can understand the signs that have led them all to this point. He can understand why Phainon would crumble under everything and seek some freedom from the water that laps at his neck. Mydei understands that feeling well. Too well.

Still, he itches to punch Phainon in the face. Maybe he'll do it, after they find him. And then– maybe– he would give him a hug? Would it really help Phainon, or would it just remind him again of all that he lost?

This is all too complicated, and he blames Phainon for it with no remorse.

He watches as Castorice and Trianne get into a conversation about what they expect to see out there, he half-listens as Dan Heng and Himeko finish their talk and Dan Heng busies himself with the control panel. 

He watches as the door opens again, and this time Hyacine waves at them with a cheery and yet just as nervous smile, before going to Dan Heng’s side. They get entangled in a conversation about the sky and the stars and Hyacine jokes about letting them leave with no trouble. Mydei huffs a laugh – he can promise the same: no murdering spears thrown at the train, either.

Finally, the last of their little group of astral-fairers appears, tapping furiously at her teleslate with a focused look in her face. 

“Do you have any leads?” asks Hyacine, as soon as she sees Stelle frowning at her teleslate. 

Mydei perks up, but his meagre hopes wither into nothing when Dan Heng sighs heavily and shakes his head.

“She’s just doing her dailies,” he says, dry. He turns to look at her over his shoulder. “Am I right?”

“Yep,” says Stelle. Everyone in the cabin deflates noticeably. She looks up, sees the clear disappointment in their expressions, and she runs a hand through her hair, making a mess of it. “Don’t worry! I’ve spread the word around. Our friends will definitely tell me if he’s on any of the planets we’ve visited!”

Mydei sure hopes so, because they are quite literally throwing themselves into a directionless wild hunt. It’s like aiming an arrow in a random direction and hoping it hits the target – but even then, they have to try. For Phainon, and also for themselves.

“Ready to set off, everyone?” asks Dan Heng, and suddenly, it all feels way too real.

Mydei gulps. He’s not the only one.

Remember who you’re doing this for, he thinks.

“Set sail!” cheers Stelle, and Trianne follows suit, even though the cabin is the furthest thing away from a boat.

Oh, well. They are setting off into the sea of stars.

—

So, these are the friends that Dan Heng and Stelle told him about.

Phainon can admit to being a bit overwhelmed with all the new sights and people he has just encountered, but he’s surprised to realize that it’s the good kind of overwhelmed – a nice change from the oppressive feeling he suffered when he was still on Amphoreus. There’s just– so much to see, so many questions he’d like to ask these people that have also gone through a world-changing salvation, bringing hope where before there was only despair and resigned acceptance. 

But he bites his tongue and follows them through the snowy landscape until they reach a… he’s not sure what it is, because it’s not exactly a settlement, but there are people mingling about the place. They are heading to the only building that can be seen nearby, a mansion that has seen better days and that is so different to the towering and pure-white buildings Phainon is used to that he has to blink a few times until he understands its shape.

The blizzard finally lets up by that time, so Phainon can finally see the faces of his companions and he’s not quite surprised at their youth. He’s been alternating between gaping at this new world, pushing his million questions back, and wriggling his messy brain to remember what Dan Heng told him about Belobog and its people and history. He doesn’t remember much, actually– but that could be a consequence of… everything.

“We’ll leave you here.” Seele nods to Clara and Pela and Mr Svarog. “You can call me again if you need any more parts– I know we haven’t really gotten much today.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll manage for now,” says Clara with an affable smile. Pela remains back, clearly counting the mechanical parts in their leather bag. “We’ll tell you if we need any more.”

“Natasha won’t mind too much if you need to push back the deadline. Especially not with how many blizzards there’s been lately,” sighs Seele, her hands on her hips.

“We’ll talk to her and Bronya,” nods Pela, still pretty quiet and shy and trying valiantly to hide it. She keeps shooting curious glances at him, even though he’s staying carefully back from their little group, waiting until someone– maybe– leads him somewhere. 

This is actually new for him, accustomed as he is to knowing exactly where to go, where everything is. Even when he wandered through Amphoreus after Aedes Elysiae’s end, he still knew enough about the world to get by. Belobog – Jarilo-VI, really – is a whole new can of worms. A part of him groans; he threw himself into the unexplored universe with no plan, no countermeasures.

(But what was he supposed to do, then? Drown silently? Fall on past habits, risk slipping and–?)

He tunes out their conversation without realizing, his eyes gravitating to the distant mountains, the fuzzy silhouettes of buildings in the horizon, the… little robots and big robots crawling all around this place. They seem unrefined, compared to the technology of Amphoreus. Their materials are rudimentary at best and a pile of functioning scraps at worst, and yet he sees the clear signs of a struggling civilization, prowling through the snow and fighting to survive in an unwelcoming world. 

Something twists in his chest at that – nostalgia, maybe. Longing. He can see echoes of Amphoreus in these lands, and that reminds him of how he connected to what Dan Heng told him about Belobog’s struggles. There’s still truth in that, he thinks. Humanity will always persist, fight, and rebel against an unjust fate.

“Hey,” calls Seele, and he tries to hide the flinch that makes him jump, but he’s not sure he succeeds when Seele tilts her head at him. “Is this– y’know, the first time you go off-planet?”

“Actually, yes,” he admits with another rueful smile. His cheeks ache, but he can’t be sure if that’s because of the cold still sticking to him or because he’s so unused to smiling now. “... Am I that obvious?”

“A bit, yeah,” says Seele, terribly honest and direct, but he’s grateful for that. He’s used to people stepping carefully around him, now– even Mydei, when he saw how Phainon reacted to his offers to spar, started to bite back some of his words. “But I suppose we’re not ones to judge – not many of us have left Jarilo yet, but I’m sure that when we do… well, we’ll probably look as star-eyed as you.”

“It is… very different from what I’m used to, yes,” he says, not taking her words to heart – he definitely looks like an idiot, he can admit. It surprises him, though, that he can still seem emotive. Feeling. Human.

“The universe sure is vast, huh?” comments Seele, a mumble really, more to herself than for him. Then, she turns to him with an arched eyebrow. “Any reason you decided to travel out now?”

Phainon pauses again. Should he even tell her? Well, he can explain himself in a vague way – she doesn’t need to know where he’s from, what he’s been through, what’s happened to his world. 

Plus, she’s a friend of the Nameless – would she tell them about his presence in Jarilo? Something cold spreads down his spine at that thought; he’s not ready to face them all so soon, not when his head is still a mess. Distance puts things in perspective, and this little trip has made wonders, as painful as it is to be far away from home– but it’s still not nearly enough. This is only the first step. If they try to drag him back to Amphoreus, drag him back to those waves that threaten to drown him once again… 

No, he can’t have that. So, vague stories it is.

“My world defeated a dangerous enemy not long ago, so we're finally free to roam the universe,” he starts, picking his words carefully. Seele’s gaze is locked on him, careful but curious and sharp. “This is the perfect moment to branch out, see the world beyond. Don’t you think?”

And he throws the ball to her. She catches it – she hums, half-accepting and half-considering. But in the end, she doesn’t ask any more questions.

“I suppose you’re right,” she nods, easily enough. “So, I’m not the best guide around, but I can at least guide you to civilization, if you’re not too keen on wandering in the snow for weeks.”

“That would be appreciated,” he nods, his smile maybe a bit less painful.

Maybe getting lost in the snow and in his head wasn’t the best course of action, after all. Maybe learning from another world and helping its people would benefit him more than silent existential crises in the snow. He can figure it out from there.

“Then let’s go, we still have a ways to Boulder Town,” says Seele, turning to go at once, fast-paced as only a laborious person can be.

Phainon takes a deep breath – and he finds that he doesn’t drown – and then follows her.

Chapter Text

Boulder Town is dark. Dark buildings, dark ‘sky’ that is actually the bottom of a different section of the city – they’re in the Underworld, explains Seele. The poor part of the city, she says with no shame, no judgement – it just is.

It’s like another world – because it is. Phainon looks around and his eyes, used to the light of either stars, the sun, or the dawn, struggle to distinguish everything skulking in the shadows of this immense city. The buildings are not tall at all – not compared to Amphoreus’ towering and overwhelming temples and palaces – and most of them are lit with warm-toned lights. They look old, some of them ready to tilt to the side and crumble into a mess of wood and brick, but no one seems to think too much about it, instead going about their day.

Phainon sticks out like– well, the sun they can’t see, with his white and blue and gold clothes. He can see people throwing curious glances at him, and some of them even look suspicious and alert. He wonders if they can sense the pulse of Destruction under his skin, starts to worry about it for a moment, and then he remembers that Seele hasn’t commented on it, even though she’s definitely a Pathstrider.

“Don’t pay them much mind,” she says, when she sees Phainon noticing the suspicious people around them. She waves a hand. “We had some… impolite guests a while ago and people are still a bit wary about outsiders. Don’t worry, they’ll see that you’re with me– and they trust me.”

That’s… relieving. The last thing he wants is to be deemed an enemy by a world he has only been in for… less than a day. As Seele leads them through the dark-lit streets, Phainon can see that, indeed, the people of this place start to relax when they see them walking side by side. It makes something settle in his chest, makes him drop his shoulders a bit.

They enter a building that Phainon soon recognizes as a clinic. It’s very different from what he’s used to, though – the walls close in on them, the rooms are on the smaller side, but there are still a few beds crammed into the same room.

“Ah, Seele. I trust your expedition went well? How is the project coming along?” asks the woman in the middle of it all – dark haired, clearly a doctor, with kind eyes that lock him in place as soon as they enter.

“Ugh, a blizzard hit us head on just when we were getting somewhere. And then we had to deal with some Fragmentum monsters– this guy here helped us get rid of them in record time, so don’t worry, the other two are okay,” explains Seele, and she points a thumb at him. The woman looks at him again, eyes cautious but not jumping straight to suspicion. Seele then turns to him and gestures to the woman. “This is Natasha, our local doctor– and to be honest, the one in charge, most of the time.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m the one in charge– of the Underworld, that is. That’s usually Oleg’s job,” she says, easily enough, with the grace of a leader, and yet the softness of a caretaker. She reminds him a bit of Aglaea, if time had been kinder on her humanity. She walks over to them and offers her hand to Phainon, a small smile on her face. “It’s nice to meet you. I assume you're not from here?”

“I’m Phainon,” he greets, fumbling for a moment to return to the present. He takes her hand and isn’t too surprised when he feels the hardness of it, the chipped nails. “And I guess I am pretty obvious, huh? I am from another world, yes.”

“Don’t worry about it. Jarilo welcomes you with open arms,” she says, and her eyes glint with some amusement. “Don’t worry about the suspicious glances from the citizens– we had some unfortunate conflicts with a faction from beyond the stars not long ago, and scars still linger.”

“But we were still helped by other people from beyond the stars, so really, people will relax soon enough,” shrugs Seele, unbothered.

“That is also true,” nods Natasha. She looks up at him, careful and considering, and Phainon feels a bit uncomfortable, if only because she has the kind of stare that can look straight into someone’s soul, into someone’s mind. She won’t find anything pretty there. “So, what will you do now, Mr. Phainon? Will you stay, or will you set off to another planet?”

Phainon doesn’t really need to think too much about it. From the first time he laid eyes on this small planet, he could feel it pulling him in, like a fish lured in by bait. He could feel the faint embers of someone he thought was already dead – that curious child that dreamed of setting off from his little village in search of adventure and knowledge. Those embers now glimmer slightly, shily, as if they are afraid to surge too much, too quickly, and consume everything in their path. Phainon cups a hand over the tiny fires to avoid the intense wind of his doubts to extinguish them. 

“I was actually thinking of staying for some time… If that’s not too much trouble, of course,” he says, and one of his hands fidgets with his sleeves before he can think better of it.

“Of course not, stay as long as you like.” Natasha’s smile is gentle and understanding. “You can probably ask for a room at the Goethe Grand Hotel.”

Phainon is about to nod, noting the name on his mind, when Seele– hums.

“Say, do you have any credits?” she asks, neutral. Natasha’s eyes widen.

Phainon blinks.

“What are credits?” he asks, feeling a bit stupid and awkward.

“Oh, that’s… a problem,” mutters Natasha, lowering her head and tapping the fingers of her right hand against the table. 

“Well, it doesn’t surprise me– you said your world only now opened its door to the universe at large, right? It'd make sense for you to have only your kind of money,” asks Seele, shrugging. “Something similar happened to Jarilo, only… we had credits to start with.”

A heavy rock falls on his shoulders. Ah. Money. Damn, he really didn’t think it over before running away– he doesn’t even have money, and money is always the most important aspect for any journey! How could he have forgotten– ah, well, he does know. Still–

“Don’t worry, we can figure something out,” says Natasha, waving a gentle hand. Her next smile is inviting. “Say, Mr. Phainon, how do you feel about helping out around Boulder Town, in exchange for some credits to cover your room at the hotel and food and any other expenses?”

Phainon blinks and then– light at the end of the tunnel.

His next smile is probably more genuine than anything he has managed in the last few weeks, which is saying something, when only a day ago he couldn’t even bring himself to fake one.

“That… would be much appreciated. Thank you,” he says, with a relieved sigh. “I promise to earn the credits fair and square.”

Natasha’s smile grows, satisfied. She once again reminds him of Aglaea, if said demigod had been able to retain her humanity for a longer period of time. He only met her sooner in the first few cycles, so his memories of that part of her are a bit fuzzy, but he does remember her gentle hands – that never changed – and her soft smiles. He wonders if she’s now returned to that version of herself– and his heart aches when he isn’t able to answer his own question because he has been avoiding her ever since Amphoreus was saved.

“Seele, can you show him to the hotel? I can cover this first night for him,” says Natasha, once again dragging him out of his muddy thoughts. 

“Ah, sure,” nods Seele, as relaxed as ever. She turns to him and waves him off. “You can go ahead, wait for me at the door– I only need to take some medicine for one of the kids.”

Phainon turns to leave, but before that, he can’t help but look at Natasha, with her kind and patient eyes, and nod again in gratitude.

Natasha nods back, smile widening again. There’s something knowing in her eyes, but she remains silent.

Phainon is grateful for that, too.

—

(“Why so helpful, Natasha?” asks Seele, frowning at Natasha as she gathers the few medicine packets from a chaos-riddled drawer. “I expected you to be suspicious of him, actually– he’s not from the IPC, that’s obvious, but– doesn’t he, like– smell of Destruction? Like the Fragmentum, but… stronger? Like ash?”

“A doctor helps their patients, even if said patients don’t know that they need help yet,” says Natasha, softly. She looks at the door with something heavy in her eyes, and Seele blinks. “Or– no, the patient knows that he needs help. But he’s not sure what could help him. This is– a good first step, I’d say.”

“Okay… I didn’t understand shit,” admits Seele. She closes the drawer with a slap and rounds on Natasha, crossing her arms on her chest and arching an unimpressed eyebrow. “Give it to me straight, then– can we trust him?”

Natasha hums.

“Probably,” she nods. Then she tilts her head. “His world has been saved recently… do you think…?”

“The Nameless? Oh, obviously,” nods Seele. She points to the door. “And he knows of us, too. They’ve definitely met.”

“And yet, he hasn’t told us anything,” musses Natasha. She taps a finger on the table. “He probably has his reasons.”

“Should I… not text Stelle?” asks Seele, a bit caught off-guard.

“Let’s wait. I don’t–” Natasha sighs, rubs her eyes. Suddenly, she seems that much tired. “He’s a bit like… an injured animal. I don’t want him to run off and get himself in trouble.”

Seele looks at her, eyes sharp, fidgeting with the medicine in her hand.

And then, after a moment of thought– nods.)

—

Seeing so many real stars at once is… overwhelming, to say the least. It puts things in perspective again, reminds them that, in the grand scope of things, they are… insignificant. Small. Powerless.

But are they really? Mydei has only heard a few stories from the Trailblazers, but the theme he keeps seeing being repeated over and over again is how people rise to the challenges the universe throws at them, overtaking them and looking out to a brighter future. And isn’t that what Amphoreus has done? An unreal world fought to the end, rebelled against its very nature, and managed to break the chains dragging it to its destruction.

“So, where should we go first?” sighs Stelle, sprawled on the sofa. She scrolls down her unending list of contacts. “Not to sound pessimistic from the start, but– the universe is huge. And we’re looking for… one person.”

“The probability of finding Phainon is, indeed, very low,” sighs Dan Heng, trying to say it with tact, but the cruel facts are that: facts. Mydei frowns at the glass separating them from the void of space, arms crossed on his chest and silent. “But we can look in the most likely places. Even if the universe is vast, there are still countless planets and worlds Phainon would not touch – inhabitable planets, for example. War zones. Conflicts. Too populated planets.”

“Speaking from experience?” asks Stelle, and though it carries some amusement, there’s still tangible care there, maybe even worry.

Dan Heng sighs, and Mydei keeps his mouth shut, because that sounds a great deal like a heavy subject that they don’t need to breach now. Or ever, if Dan Heng deems it too personal to bring up with them, short-term friends as they are.

“Maybe a bit, yes. If Phainon really wants to clear his head… he would head to more peaceful planets. Maybe small dwarf planets, not overpopulated. Probably with a small presence in the universe at large,” comments Dan Heng, tapping a hand on his teleslate, as if he’s itching to write all the ideas he has down. Predictably, he does, unlocking his teleslate and getting lost in his notes.

“Okay, so something like… Jarilo-VI? Definitely not Penacony, then,” mumbles Stelle, and she too starts paying more attention to her teleslate. “I’ll ask Seele. And Bronya. Maybe Natasha. Those three would be the first to know if someone new has arrived on their planet.” She pauses and grimaces. "I'm not texting Sampo."

“As for us…” Dan Heng pauses again, rubs his eyes. “We can always swing by the Herta Space Station. They don’t stay long in the same spot, so the chances that they could ever see Phainon are higher than nothing, at least. Or, well– higher than the rest.”

“That goes for the Xianzhou too.” Stelle arches an eyebrow. Dan Heng– flinches and then shakes his head vehemently. Stelle pouts. “Why not them? Their fleet is huge, they travel all around–”

“Stelle, do you remember the war going on between the Xianzhou at large and…?” trails off Dan Heng, looking at Stelle pointedly.

Now, this is interesting. Intergalactic politics, maybe, thinks Mydei. Wars. Conflicts. Those, he’s terribly familiar with. It’s not surprising that there’s conflicts too out here, though it is quite worrying, seeing as Amphoreus was caught up in one of those bigger-than-life conflicts not long ago. They would do well to avoid any new conflicts for as long as they can, but Mydei knows how quickly things can go to shit.

Stelle opens her mouth, frowning, ready to retort, but then she closes her mouth with a click. Her eyes lit up with understanding.

“Oh. Fuck.” She shakes her head and laughs nervously. “Um. Well. Let’s hope Phainon doesn’t end up near any of their ships…”

“Why?” asks Hyacine, jumping into the conversation as soon as she senses the very real tension between their two allies. “What would happen?”

Stelle and Dan Heng cross a glance full of meaning. They argue mentally with each other for a moment, before Dan Heng shakes his head and, once again, decides to take the lead explaining everything, if only to save them the headache of understanding Stelle’s messy explanations.

“The Xianzhou Alliance is a fleet of ships, experienced in space-wars and military tactics. They’ve been in a war against the Abundance for over a few Amber Eras, but recently, a Lord Ravager managed to infiltrate the Luofu and– needless to say, the Xianzhou is now tied into a battle against Destruction too,” explains Dan Heng and– ah.

“Ah.” Hyacine’s eyes widen, and she crosses a glance with Castorice too, who lowers her head, jaw tense.

Mydei himself needs to take a careful breath to calm the sudden spike of worry and urgency. Stupid, stupid Phainon– knowing him, it wouldn’t surprise Mydei that their runaway friend would end up at the worst possible place… unknowingly, too, which would only make things worse.

(Later, he takes out his teleslate once again and sends a “Don’t you dare go near the Xianzhou, whatever that is.” to Phainon, for all the good it’ll do.)

“That’s… troublesome,” he manages to grit out through his teeth.

“Let’s just hope that it never comes to that,” says Stelle, coupled with another nervous laugh. Her finger hovers over one specific contact, but she never ends up pressing on it. Instead, she locks her teleslate and leans back. “Anyway. You said Herta Station?”

“Yes,” nods Dan Heng. “We can also update Himeko on Madam Herta, Screwllum and Stephen’s progress with the Scepter.”

Ah. Right. The Scepter was only disabled, and then torn apart, but if he understands it correctly, it can still be studied. He’s a bit suspicious of the scientists that got their hands on the thing, but then again, he supposes he’s a bit biased. Not that anyone could blame him, anyway.

To get to where the Station is currently anchored, they need to make what they call a ‘jump’. Trianne tilts her head to the side and mimics jumping up, and Stelle laughs with mirth and a wide grin and just says–

“Hang on tight, if you don’t want to become Crysos Heir mush on the wall.”

And then– they ‘jump’.

Mydei doesn’t understand why the hell they call it that. That is no jumping. Not at all.

It feels like someone is pressing him against a wall, squishing his brain for a second, before letting him go– 

Suddenly, they ‘stop’ and the train car makes a loud sound – an anchor, mutters Dan Heng, moving about the room with steady feet and even steadier hands. Stelle skips around, too, completely unbothered.

What the hell?

“They’re crazy,” whisper-yells Trianne, clutching the sofa where the four of them are reevaluating their life choices with a white-knuckled grip.

Even Castorice, always proper and composed, looks at the two Trailblazers with wide eyes and a slightly open mouth. Hyacine, next to her, clutches Little Ica to her chest and groans slightly.

“Maybe I should have packed some medicine for motion sickness…” she mutters to herself.

At least the two Trailblazers are gracious enough to wait for them to regain their wits – Mydei can admit to needing a moment to recenter himself after his body was, apparently, thrown forward at a speed his brain can’t even comprehend. 

After making sure that no one would throw up or topple down like a house of cards as soon as they stood up, they point them to the door that would lead them – apparently – to the Herta Space Station.

And it– does. 

The change is so sudden that it’s jarring, going from soft sofas and warm colors to cold gray floors and white walls, and narrow hallways so different from Amphoreus’ grandeur. The few plants they see as the two Trailblazers guide them through confusing hallways are often thin and sad-looking, a speck of color in an otherwise soulless place. Mydei instantly hates it, and if he has to guess from the other Heirs’ reactions, they don’t seem particularly enchanted either.

Dan Heng breaks off from their group at some point, intent on checking on some Data Bank related tasks, but Stelle leads their little troupe through the hallways until they reach a spacious room from where they can see– all the stars that surround them like thick curtains. Unconsciously, all the Crysos Heirs fall back to gape at the high ceilings and the people moving around the place like a well-oiled machine.

“Ah, Asta, is Madam Herta available?” greets Stelle, with a smile that is a bit pinched – and Mydei wonders if they really want to talk to this Herta person or if they are simply ripping a bandage off, quick and brief.

“Depends on what you want to ask her,” admits the woman at the center of it all. Her eyes, a blue so different from a certain someone’s, are nonetheless kind, even though the bags under her eyes are telling of an underlying stress they certainly aren’t helping. “But– it’s good to see you. I suppose I need to thank you for Madam Herta’s good mood lately.”

“Don’t mention it. Really, don’t mention it.” And Stelle’s smile is definitely pinched now. “But, as thanks… can you do us a favor?”

“Oh? Sure.” Asta shoots a curious glance at them, but then her eyes move back to the short male a few ways away. “If I can’t manage it, I can always tell Arlan–”

“It’s not that demanding, really,” says Stelle, waving a hand. “We’re just– looking for someone. We… actually have no leads, so really, anything you might see would be helpful…”

Mydei soon tunes out of the conversation. Instead, he walks to the furthest point of the walkway, where he can see the expanse of the universe fan out on both sides. He stares out, breathless once again at the mere thought of being now a part of such an immense world.

“It’s breathtaking, isn’t it?” comes Castorice’s soft voice from behind him. Her hands are clasped in front of her like so many times before, still unsure about her curse being gone while around so many people. Her eyes are wide, focused on the stars.

Mydei hums, crosses his arms on his chest. Maybe now, that simple act is less a show of confidence, and more a way to ground himself in the little boat that is his existence, adrift in a river of neverending stars.

“But also terrifying,” he finds himself admitting. Because if there was anyone who could understand where he’s coming from, that would be Castorice.

“Looking at these stars… it scares me, how small we really are in the grand scheme of things,” says Castorice and– there it is. The very thought that has been floating around Mydei’s mind, ever since Amphoreus was saved and the next page was turned.

“It’s suffocating, isn’t it?” mumbles Mydei, looking up again and being looked at in return by countless spots of light. “Like– being adrift at sea.” 

And he would know the feeling better than anyone. The waves, pulling at him, threatening to drag him under. Water, in his mouth, in his nose, in his throat, in his lungs. Drowning him.

“Lost in a field of withered flowers…” mutters Castorice, and her hands shake.

Mydei breathes in. Breathes out.

“Maybe I can understand where Phainon is coming from,” he mutters, and this time, Castorice remains quiet in silent agreement and understanding.

Chapter Text

Life in the Underworld of Belobog is hard, Phainon finds, but also rewarding.

He starts working as soon as he can, because staying idle has never been his forte. Even back in Amphoreus – and his heart keeps aching every time he thinks about it – he always made it a point to take a walk whenever he could so he could get dragged into any errands that might come his way. A part of him just liked being helpful, like the kind and honorable hero he was supposed to be; another part of him just liked being in motion, a leftover from his childhood in a little village where tending to the fields or helping his parents and neighbors was the norm.

The Underworld of Belobog reminds him vaguely of that, of being a kid in a simple village that always needed something done. The people are close and united here, too, which is also reminiscent of Aedes Elysiae’s tight-knit community.

All of that is surprising – Phainon didn’t expect to see so many similarities in another world that’s so different to his own – but what shocks him the most is the fact that… working helps his head more than he thought. Sure, it’s not like he’s managed to shrug off all the baggage of the last months (months?), but– he doesn’t feel like drowning anymore. He just feels… tired. Not physically, because as strenuous as his tasks can be, he’s still one of the strongest people they have around and it shows. No, he’s tired mentally which– he supposes that’s to be expected.

The nightmares are also a problem. Before, in Amphoreus, he did spend at least half the day sleeping. Exhaustion and mental strain, said Hyacine in one of his check ups – where he couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eye as she explained the reason for his sudden lethargy, couldn't even raise his head, really. That exhaustion meant that he slept a lot, yes, but it also meant that he didn’t… dream. Or, at least, he didn’t remember whatever he dreamed, good or bad.

Now, though, being more rested and in an unfamiliar place, his mind seems to take it out on him. 

He sees scenes of his past mistakes, the tragedies he brought along with his own hands. The feeling of golden blood running through his fingers is a familiar sensation, now – not that he wasn’t used to it before. The pained eyes of his companions, his family, are branded on his brain, so much so that he’s sure he will never be able to push the image away.

But some nights, he dreams of what could be happening as he sleeps. Of the Scepter, Irontomb coming back to life, of Amphoreus once again in its clutches, of golden eyes looking at it with interest, of a fate impossible to run away from–

The bags under his eyes are so pronounced that Natasha confronts him one time, after he returns from the mines, where he was helping a few workers retrieve one of the carts that fell into a cavern riddled with out-of-control robots. He’s uninjured, though he is covered in grime and dust, and he longs for a shower – because baths are just not an option here, and he's surprised to realize that he misses them terribly – but Natasha drags him to her clinic, citing a quick errand. And then, she sits him down on a chair and crosses her arms, frowning at him.

“Are you running yourself to the ground?” she asks, point-blank. She’s a bit like Hyacine in that regard – she doesn’t beat around the bush.

Phainon wonders if lying to her would go over well. But he’s too tired to really think of an excuse, to lead the two of them in a dance of lies and avoidant glances and awkward gestures. So, he sighs, rubs his eyes.

“I have… nightmares,” he says, a bit too soft, and it hits him then, how childish it sounds.

But Natasha’s frown lets up like rainclouds and she leans back with a hum.

“I’m sorry. I don’t have anything that might help with bad dreams, other than some strong drugs that would probably knock you out for a few hours,” she says, tone apologetic. Her smile is dry. “I don’t suppose you’d appreciate them.”

“No. No, I wouldn’t,” he shakes his head, hiding a flinch. He’s never had a problem sleeping somewhere he’s not used to – years of traveling around acclimated him to it – but he’s terribly on-edge about everything now, so… “Thank you, anyway.”

The nightmares don’t really abate, but with time, Phainon learns to accept them, live with them, in whatever way he can, even if that sometimes means staying awake for hours until everything stops pressing on him from all sides – and it helps that a kind of woman has given him a few books as payment for an errand that he can read when it's obvious that sleep will not come to him that night.

And in no time at all, he realizes that he’s been in Jarilo-VI for two weeks.

He doesn’t know how to feel about that – not that the people around him leave him much time to wonder and get lost in his thoughts. He’s grateful for that.

(He’s sure that they have some idea of what would happen if he let himself overthink. Every time he starts slipping, someone comes and pats his shoulder, his back, offering him warm food with a smile, asking about his availability to ask for some favor or other, dragging him to a relaxed conversation about nothing in particular.)

“Phai!” calls Hook, cheery and loud, and suddenly, Phainon has a kid hanging from his arm as soon as he comes out from the snowy fields again. “Hey! You promised that you’d take a look at that legendary treasure we found the other day! You said you were an expert on knowing when something was fake or not, right?”

“Well, I’m not sure if I’d be of much help there. The artifacts I’m used to appraising are… from another world,” he says with a rueful smile. “But… I guess I can give it a try. I did promise, after all.”

Hook grins widely and starts dragging him off somewhere. 

Try as he might, his voice still sounds terribly tired and flat and bordering on expressionless, but that fact doesn’t seem to bother the children from the Underworld – the Moles, as they like to call themselves – and so, Phainon finds himself being an honorary member of their little group, much to the amusement of the neighbors who always watch on from the sidelines, leaving Phainon to his fate. Hook sometimes mentions the Trailblazers, and Phainon bites his tongue to avoid blurting out that he knows them, had even pushed a terrible responsibility on their shoulders. 

Hook drags him to their little hideout and shows him an assortment of mechanical parts with pride. And… yes, thinks Phainon, sorting through them and frowning: he has no idea of how many credits they're worth. Yet, looking into Hook’s shining eyes, he can’t bring himself to doubt their value.

“I might not be an expert, but…” he trails off and Hook elbows him on the side. He huffs out what could have been a laugh if someone was feeling generous and optimistic, and returns the mechanical parts to Hook. “I’m sure you can get quite a few credits from these.”

“Really? That would be great. I can ask Serval when I go up tomorrow,” nods Hook, and her eyes shine with anticipation. Phainon blinks.

“You’re going up tomorrow?” he asks, a bit thrown off-guard. He thought that the people of the Underworld preferred to stay here, that they weren’t particularly fond of the Overworldlers, but he might have been wrong.

“Yes! Tasha and Seele have a meeting with Bronya, so we’re tagging along.” Hook hisses a laugh. “The Overworld is more uptight than here, but Bronya is nice. I’ll try not to mess around too much– for now.”

Huh.

That night, Phainon goes to Natasha, just out of curiosity. She’s still busy with a patient, but she does approach him when she’s done, offering her usual cheap tea and a curious smile. Of course, she can see the questions in his eyes.

“I thought the Underworld regarded the Overworld with… suspicion,” he says, and he stumbles a bit over his own worlds, so he almost ends up saying something more rude. He’s really lost his touch with words, it seems. It has been too long since he trained his mind with debates, with good-natured banter.

Natasha hums.

“You could say that,” she admits, a bit reluctant. “But… ever since the Stellaron crisis was dealt with, and ever since Bronya took over as Supreme Guardian, things have… improved. They’re not perfect by any means, mind you, but they are… manageable. Scars will heal with time.” And Natasha looks at him with an arched eyebrow and a slightly amused smile. “What brought this on, anyway?”

“Hook mentioned a meeting tomorrow in the Overworld,” he explains easily enough. It’s not as if he has anything to hide, and Natasha already knows that Hook has stuck to his side like glue.

“Are you interested in going up with us?” asks Nastaha, and there’s no judgement there, no expectations. He can refuse just as easily as he can accept the offer.

Once again, he hesitates. He’s managed to keep his identity as a new Lord Ravager under wraps, but how long can it last? Fighting the Fragmentum monsters that sometimes sneak into the mines and nearby fields is easy, he doesn’t even need to tap into the Path of Destruction at all, wide open as it always is for him. A slip in front of all these friends of the Trailblaze can be… maybe not dangerous, but it would put a wrench in his progress, as small as it has been. More eyes mean more chances to get caught.

And yet…

That curiosity that he thought had died with his hometown, with his child-self, roared once again and pushed him forward.

And so, he nodded to Natasha.

—

Herta Space Station is a labyrinth of too-similar hallways and small rooms that seem useless to Mydei. Most of them only have a narrow bench, a couple of sad plants, and dozens of screens and uncomfortable-looking chairs.

Mydei hates this place with a passion that is echoed in Castorice and Trianne. 

“It’s just– so boring!” yelps the smallest demigod, throwing her hands in the air. She almost falls down the narrow bench she’s sitting on, and a few mingling researchers throw offended glances at her, before they return to their boring office work. “It needs more color! It doesn’t surprise me that everyone working here is depressed!”

“You know what? You’re right,” nods Stelle, terribly serious, playing with some random soda can. “I’m very relieved that I didn’t actually stay here to work.”

“Wait, you almost stayed here?” asks Castorice, actually surprised. She takes a bite out of an offered food, terribly bland-looking and boring, as Trianne has just said, and she tries to hide a grimace. “That’s…”

“Oh, don’t worry, you can say it: I would suck at this job,” says Stelle with a rueful and yet wicked smile. “I actually did a few errands for them in the past– they regretted it immediately.”

Mydei can only shake his head in slight amusement.

He can’t quite bring himself to relax, though. This place is unfamiliar, yes, and he knew that he would throw himself into unfamiliar places, he accepted it as soon as he stepped foot into the train car, but this– this place is too soulless. White, black, gray, and repeat. Researchers that always look at you over their glasses, down their nose, as if you’re nothing more than a footnote in– 

Ah, that’s why it bothers him. 

He clenches his fists and waits patiently for the infamous Madam Herta to appear through the door.

He has already met her once, he thinks, though it was terribly rushed and in the middle of a battle. And then, in the aftermath– well, he didn’t have the energy left to care about random people that appeared out of nowhere, not even people that helped save their world. So, even though he’s curious about this Herta, he can’t quite bring himself to look forward to the meeting. Stelle offered them to sit this one out, but then Dan Heng said that Herta is working on the Scepter, the source of the pain and suffering of their world, and– he has to make sure. He has to see with his own eyes that it won’t happen again. Ever.

He suspects that the two Nameless have the same thought, because as soon as the door opens and a long-haired woman with a big hat steps into the room, both of them straighten up and lock eyes.

“Ah, Madam Herta. Nice to see you again,” greets Stelle, a bit pinched and nervous.

Mydei soon finds out why. Madam Herta’s expression is unbothered, almost bored, and even distracted, as if her mind is too busy dealing with another problem. And yet, as soon as she sees their little group, her focus shifts – onto them.

Mydei tenses. Her presence is similar to that of Cyrene, and even Phainon, now. And yet… not. Cyrene feels distant, like the sky and stars, but also present like tangible pages under his fingers. Phainon feels like the sun, overbearing and scorching and intense, but so very warm at the same time. This woman feels sharp, as big as the universe, and her eyes seem to look straight through him and into him, both at the same time.

What was it, again? Ah, yes. Emanators.

“Ah, I seem to remember your faces… Not your names, though. No– No, don’t introduce yourselves, there’s no need.” Herta waves a hand in the air to cut Hyacine off before she can even open her mouth to introduce them all to her. Hyacine and Castorice and Trianne cross glances; Mydei keeps his eyes on Herta, unmoving. “Still tangible, right? Still physical? Real? Yes, you are. Why are you here again?”

“We don’t intend to stay for much longer. We just wanted to inquire about the Scepter, and the progress of your research,” says Dan Heng, terribly diplomatic. It reminds Mydei of Aglaea’s stilted discussions with the Council of Elders, though this interaction lacks the usual barbed arguments and knives hidden in their words.

“Oh, it’s going well. Don’t worry about it. I must say, this research has single-handedly become my current favorite project – don’t worry, the Scepter is in good hands. I do wonder if you’ll find more like it in the future… If you do, don’t hesitate to throw it our way,” she says, and though her voice still sounds bored and uninterested, there’s a glint in her eyes that points to the opposite. “Still, coming here just for that? Does the Astral Express have that much fuel after Amphoreus?”

“Ah, we came here for another reason. This was just… an extra,” says Stelle with a slight shrug. “We’re actually looking for our friend, Phainon.” She pauses for a moment, and then she leans forward. “You wouldn’t have a curio that can… track people, right?”

“Phainon? Is that…? Ah, yes. That’s the Lord Ravager, right? Nanook’s current favorite plaything.” That– Mydei tenses, nails digging into his arms. Castorice has gone rigid, as well, clutching the table. Hyacine’s expression is steely. “Ah, a shame we had to get the Scepter as far away as possible from Amphoreus, I would have loved to examine that guy more closely–”

“Keep your hands to yourself.”

And suddenly, all eyes are on Mydei. 

Herta’s eyes lock on him, sharp and cold, and yet terribly interested, and Mydei meets her gaze head-on, unyielding and firm.

He almost snarls– how dare she? After everything they have gone through, she has the gall to– to insinuate– Phainon, of all people– Oh, what Mydei would give to lunge at her, find the Scepter and tear it to shreds in front of her eyes–

Instead, he stands his ground, clenches his jaw so tightly it sends currents of pain up the sides of his face and arms, and relishes in the feeling of a charged room, cracking with tension.

And then, Herta huffs and grimaces and raises her head proudly.

“Hey, down lion– Don’t lump me in with that pile of scraps – what was his name again, Lygoose? I am a proud member of the Genius Society, the best and most renowned scientist this universe has ever seen,” she says, so sure of herself, as if it is a simple fact. And for all Mydei knew, maybe it is. But he doesn’t care.

“I don’t care who you are. You’re not touching Phainon,” he grits out, glaring at her and her stupidly tall hat.

Herta looks at him, maybe a bit surprised, maybe just offended at his lack of tact or politeness. She’s more than a head shorter than him, and yet she still fills the room with her presence alone. Mydei doesn’t back down, anyway.

And then– Herta huffs a laugh.

“Oh, I like him,” she says, amused and interested. Mydei scowls harder. Herta, though, turns to the two silent Nameless who were watching the spectacle with tense shoulders. “Don’t worry, getting my hands on the Scepter is more than enough for me. If you need help with him, though… I wouldn’t refuse. At least, not immediately.”

Stelle sighs, loud and hard, and rubs her eyes, tired. Dan Heng, behind her, closes his eyes for a moment.

“Just– don’t do anything weird with the Scepter, please,” mumbles Stelle. “One galactic crisis a month is enough.”

Herta now looks more offended than before, when Mydei was confronting her outright with veiled words and silent threats. She raises her nose, mouth curling into a full-on grimace of displeasure, her frown deep. She looks disgusted.

“Wha–? I know what I’m doing. Pff, please. The audacity to–” Herta turns and stomps out of the room, her heels clacking against the floor loudly. “I expect you to get to the bottom of the Simulated Universe in record time, Nameless.”

The door closes behind her with a soft hiss.

Silence reigns in the room for one full minute.

“That went well,” says Stelle, and it says a lot about the situation that Mydei can’t even figure out if she’s being serious or not.

—

The Overworld is the complete opposite of the Underworld.

Or– well, maybe not that extreme, but they do make Phainon think of night and day in a way. The buildings are similar, though in much better condition than in the Underworld, newer. Pristine, even. The sky over their heads is pale with the promise of snow, again, and Phainon wonders if Hook and her friends will stay out of trouble long enough to avoid the snow that will definitely fall on their heads sooner rather than later. Probably not, but there’s nothing they can do about it – Hook and her friends ran off as soon as they arrived at the Overworld, followed by Natasha’s request to be careful. 

Phainon’s eyes focus in the wide administrative building that stretches out and up in front of them. Somehow, it reminds him of Castrum Kremnos’ overwhelming silhouette, firm against time itself.

“There’s also a museum, if you’re interested,” says Natasha, and he startles slightly. She chuckles at his reaction and he can’t help but flush a bit in embarrassment, caught staring like a kid, but when she points at another building on the other side of the wide plaza, he follows her finger with deep interest. A museum… he’d really like to visit it. “There’s no need for you to attend the meeting, you know?”

“You said it was related to the cohabitation between the Underworld and the Overworld, right?” he asks, just to check. He heard about it from Seele, after all - a bit on the fly, really. 

“That’s right. The two ‘worlds’ have been in contact for a couple of years now after a long time of separation and exile, but even now there are still conflicts between the two factions, sometimes,” explains Natasha, and there’s a tinge of tiredness in her voice, a problem that perdures, stubborn, like a thorn in their side.

“I’d like to help with that,” he nods, and this time, even Seele, who was leading them at a brisk pace to the main building, looks up at him with an arched eyebrow. Phainon lowers his gaze immediately, feeling a bit inadequate again. Maybe he’s really overstepping, maybe he’s overestimating himself, even, but– He thinks back to Okhema, a city where all kinds of people met and cohabited, he thinks of the countless refugees that made their new homes in the holy city. He thinks about the loud arguments in the streets, he thinks of Mydei’s cautious eyes as Okhema offered protection and refuge in every single cycle that he can still remember. “Where I’m from… we had a similar problem. Not quite– reconnecting people that were once companions, but I lived in a city that served as a refuge for people from all over.”

Seele and Natasha cross a glance, a silent conversation, but Phainon remains silent and waiting. If they decide that his advice wouldn’t be much help at all, well– he can always follow up on Natasha’s advice and visit the museum. But, as fulfilling as helping the people of the Underworld fight against the Fragmentum is, as nice as it is for his battered body and mind to accept menial tasks from well-meaning citizens like old times, if he can make a difference – not destroying anything, not killing, just… 

A part of him longs to be something that transcends the Destruction that gave birth to his current self. He wants to be what comes after; the healing, the connecting, the gaze that looks at tomorrow with hope.

(He wants to be what he can’t bring himself to be in Amphoreus, and that hurts. That hurts. But he still needs to prove it to himself in some way, even if it has to be far from home.)

Natasha smiles gently and nods and Seele pushes them to hurry the closer they get to the administrative building.

Phainon lets out a relieved breath. The biting cold of the Overworld is a welcomed sensation – it clashes against the heat on his cheeks.

They enter the building and Seele continues to lead them through winding hallways that remind Phainon of the Marmoreal Palace baths in how confusing they can be if one is not careful. They soon stand in a wide office, in front of a girl that stands tall and proud and whose eyes are as gentle as snow, but her hands are firm as she welcomes him officially to Belobog.

“I’ve heard much about you,” she says, and her smile is warm. “You really helped my soldiers against the Fragmentum. Your assistance is greatly appreciated.”

“Ah– don’t mention it,” he says, and this time, he can feel some of his awkwardness bleed out into his voice. Better than the usual dull voice that comes out of his mouth most days, but still lacking his former vigor. He stifles a sigh.

“Mr. Phainon here actually has some advice he can share with us about healthy cohabitation between different factions,” nods Natasha, and Bronya’s eyes lit up with interest and hope.

“Really? That would be really helpful. As much as we try, there are so many scars that still bleed sometimes, that conflicts are almost a weekly affair.” She sighs, long and hard and tired, and Phainon’s lips twitch. It becomes clear then, just how much Bronya actually cares about the people she leads – a great leader, then. Belobog would find its way eventually.

“I can share some advice, but as I’m sure you expect, miracles don’t happen just like that,” he says, a bit too dry, but he tries to smile to avoid coming off as too… serious. It’s becoming a bit easier to pull up a smile, as tiny as it usually is, compared to his previous ones. 

Bronya doesn’t seem to mind. They all move to a sitting area off to the side, where an assistant offers them tea and snacks as they talk. Seele devours them in the blink of an eye, and Bronya rolls her eyes at her with a smile, but she never reprimands her.

And so, they start talking. Bronya and Natasha try to explain the situation to him as best as they can within a limited time. He learns about the previous Supreme Guardian, Cocolia, who was slowly driven to the extreme by a Stellaron – and he hides a flinch at that, sipping at tea that suddenly tastes like ash – and the scars that her choices and laws left on Belobog. He learns of the IPC’s offer, the push for a contract that would strip them of all freedom but that would guarantee their survival. He takes note of the name; maybe, when he’s finally able to look the demigods in the eye, he can tell Aglaea about this troublesome IPC.

That out of the way, Bronya explains their recent methods to unite the people, which are… hit or miss, most of the time. The people of the Overworld seem to regard the others as poor and unrefined terrorists; on the other hand, the people of the Underworld are suspicious of the people up-top. 

“They blame the people of the Overworld for what happened to them,” says Seele, and something in her voice makes it clear that she’s not too different from them. Bronya looks at her with an understanding gaze, but says nothing.

So, the problem seems to be pretty straightforward. The solution, though, is anything but.

Phainon thinks back to Okhema once again. It never quite changed course in all the cycles he can remember; it always ended up as the last bastion, the refuge the people of Amphoreus turned to when the Black Tide consumed everything else. In that way, their situation is quite similar – people moved there and remained there because they had to.

Now, this divide is more complicated, because mixing them all up, expecting the people to sacrifice a part of themselves to fit in with the others was… not the best idea. Bronya has talked about uniting the people, but at this point, Phainon is quite sure that it’s impossible. No side will give; and why would they need to? 

He thinks back to Mydei and his Kremnoans, the clearest example he can think of, the one he’s more familiar with, the one he can remember the best. They always had trouble truly uniting with the Okhemans, but at the end, they were– happy, right? His memories are a bit fuzzy, but he remembers Mydei telling him as much. They were happy with their traditions, with their beliefs – and most Okhemans respected them and, after some time, even started having contact with them, learning from each other.

He tells this much to Bronya: that they shouldn’t force people to change. A subtler approach would work better, probably. That’s where he hit a wall, but Seele and Bronya soon started brainstorming with each other, throwing ideas to the wind: a combat tournament, something similar to the Aetherium Wars (Phainon has no idea what that is, but it sounds fun) but more large-scale, a joint market, a festival?

That last one makes Phainon’s heart ache, so he retreats into himself and sips at his tea quietly. Natasha, like himself, remains quiet, listening as the two girls start arguing about their own ideas with a small smile. She looks at him and huffs a laugh, shaking her head at the two younger girls. This time, bringing up a smile to his lips is easier. 

It’s nostalgic, he thinks, remembering the banter he shared with Mydei, the useless debates he used to drag Castorice and Hyacine into during their stay at the Grove and even after that when their schedules and duties allowed, the mindless arguments between Anaxa and Aglaea.

And then he pauses, because those memories are– very clear in his mind. He remembers their laughter, he remembers Anaxa’s unimpressed stare, he remembers Mydei’s shoves as Phainon cackled, shoulders shaking, eyes tearing up from mirth.

It hits him then – there’s no blood in those memories. They are untainted. They are– just like they should be: cheerful, gentle, joyous.

It makes something in his chest twist, but it’s not– painful, per se. It’s longing, it’s warm, it’s… nostalgic in the good sense.

He remembers his friends, his family, and for once, he– doesn’t remember them dying by his hand. His hands are clean, he isn’t even wielding his sword, he’s just…

At peace.

Oh, he could cry, he thinks, and he almost does just that, coupled with a hopeless laugh.

But the door opens and a Silvermane Guard hurries to them, making a messy salute to Bronya, who stands up from the table with clenched fists.

“It’s the kids, Supreme Guardian,” he says, breathless, and Phainon’s heart drops to his feet. Suddenly, he feels cold. Too cold. “They got too close to the Fragmetum and they were sucked in and–”

“We’re going,” says Bronya, and she looks back at them with steely eyes. She nods. They nod.

And so, the cold flowing through his veins turns into unstoppable fire.

Chapter Text

They enter the Fragmentum and Phainon can smell the burning stench of the remains of a Stellaron in the air. 

At this point, after going head to head with these monsters constantly in the two weeks he’s been on this planet, he doesn’t need to wait long to see the twisted silhouettes of not-soldiers wrecking havoc in the backstreets the Guards point them towards – and it reminds him of the simple days in the past, when the only worry in Okhema was being ambushed by the Black Tide. 

His instincts kick in, just like always, and he doesn’t really wait for Seele and Bronya to catch up to him before he throws himself into the fray. Dawnmaker still sings in his hands, and the Destruction that now courses through his veins is still like liquid fire, but it’s nowhere near as painful as the Coreflames that ate away at his flesh in the past.

He’s been fighting for so long that, after accustoming himself to the sudden fight, he can look around to search for the kids. It takes him a few too many seconds, but he finally sees them bundled in a corner, with Hook at the front of the group, pointing a gigantic mechanical hand at the monsters that dare approach them – and setting them on fire, he sees later, which almost makes a disbelieving laugh slip past his lips.

Stab, turn, stab again, throw the carcases at that group of monsters that are getting a bit too close for comfort to the kids – the choreography of battle is easy, and after millions of cycles where all he could really do was fight, dealing with these insects is as easy as breathing, even without tapping into the Path of Destruction itself.

But oh, how a part of himself longs to do it, anyway. He longs to spread his wings again, let the fire of Destruction sing and tear itself apart, tear apart Destruction itself. Maybe Cyrene was correct, after all – Self-Destruction is still a form of Destruction. A distant part of himself wonders if that is what Nanook wants, if THEY long to feel the fire of annihilation THEY command swallow THEM whole like the rest. 

(If so, then Phainon would be glad to do the honors.)

With him and Seele dealing with the monsters head-on and Bronya supporting them from a careful distance, the monsters from the Fragmentum are no more. Seele sighs next to him, hands a bit shaky due to the adrenaline that courses through their veins – even Phainon’s, used as they are to fighting, still tremble slightly after sudden fights like this one, but his hold never falters. 

He heads immediately to the kids, blinking at the wall of fire that separates them. They can’t really see him from the other side, and Phainon wonders for a moment if the idea springing in his mind would only give him away to them, but– ah, whatever. It’s best that the kids get to safety as soon as possible. Finding water to quench the fire would take too long, long enough for the Fragmentum to send them reinforcements.

So, without thinking too much, he leaves Dawnmaker stabbed on the ground, takes a step into the wall of protective fire and appears on the other side, hands up to show that he isn’t an enemy. Hook gapes at him, but she accepts his hand and she disengages her own mechanical hand, dousing the fire as a result.

“You can withstand fire?” she asks, eyes wide and a ferocious grin on her face. “That’s so cool!”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘cool’, exactly,” comes Natasha’s dry response, appearing in front of them hurriedly. She crouches to look at Hook in search of any injuries, gentle hands moving her messy hair away from her face. “Are you all alright?”

“Only scrapes and bruises, I think,” says Hook, puffing out her chest in pride.

Phainon leaves them to it, sharing a nod with Natasha – she already knows that, even if he were to be injured himself, the kids come first. Not that he’s injured – dealing with the Fragmentum’s common monsters is laughably easy, compared to what he’s dealt with in the past.

“I didn’t know you could do… that,” waves Seele when he gets close enough. “That whole… walking into the fire thing.”

Phainon hums, a bit vague and uninterested. He’s in no rush to explain what exactly he can do to a world that has opened its arms to him with such trust. Still…

“I guess you could say that my powers are… fire-adjacent,” he says, tilting his head to the side in consideration. The sun is a giant ball of fire, right? Or– well. Something like that.

Bronya approaches them, rubbing the bridge of her nose with a grimace. The way she handles her shotgun is practiced, experienced, which tells Phainon more than any words could – that a leader is ready to get their hands dirty protecting their people is important, essential even.

“Fragmentum attacks have become fewer compared to the past, but they’re still a pain to deal with,” she says tiredly, and Seele pats her arm with a dry smile. Bronya smiles back at her. “I’m sorry, but I guess we’ll have to cut our meeting short. Still… I’ll keep what you told me in mind, Mr. Phainon. It’s very valuable advice, I’m grateful.”

“Don’t worry about it,” shakes his head Phainon, and this time, when he pulls at his lips to smile, it comes easier than before. 

Dan Heng’s stories were true – not that he doubted their veracity, but seeing is believing. Belobog would be just fine. They were strong. Determined. Resilient. They follow the path of Preservation, right? Fitting, he thinks with a bit of amusement.

And that brings to mind Amphoreus, once again. Because his world was once a world meant to careen into the Destruction, and yet, they found a new way. But, what is that way, exactly? Do they need to choose? Can’t they just– walk forward without ties? Free?

Phainon wonders about that as they leave the Overworld behind and head down to the Underworld. The darkness over their heads is familiar, and Phainon can see the instant shift in his companions – the relaxed shoulders, the deep breaths they all take. This is home for them.

And for him? No, it’s not, he’s quite sure. While it is reassuring to be back in the area he’s most familiar with in this city, and while it’s nice that some neighbors wave at him with wide smiles and offer him food and a pat on his back, it’s still not home. 

Because home is a world of light, of marble, of crystalline water and colorful nature. Home is a field of gold, a never-ending sea and warm wood.

He’s once again surprised that thinking back to Amphoreus doesn’t mean getting trapped by memories of golden blood, of fire eating away at his skin and insides, of sad eyes and a ceremonial blade held in shaky hands, of a glorious battle to the death that always has the same doomed victor. 

But he’s grateful. He’s grateful for this world, small and humble, yet full of vitality and strength as they find their own way to the future they dream of. He’s grateful for their open arms, the way they accepted him so quickly when it became clear that he needed a place to lay low, a place where he didn’t need to think too much, a place where people accepted the help he was ready to offer. He’s sure that Belobog would host him for however long he wanted, but–

Stellarons. Fragmentum. The Anti-Matter Legion. All of them born from the same Destruction that nests itself in his heart; and yet, where he seeks to protect, that Destruction can also be used – and is always used – as a tool for annihilation. Isn’t there another… path? Does Destruction need to be so cold and cruel? Is this really what Nanook wants? But if that’s the case, why would THEY choose Phainon–?

“Follow me, you really look like you need to think,” comes Seele’s voice, amused and dry as always.

It’s only then that he realizes that Natasha and the kids are walking away from them, straight to Natasha’s clinic for a check-up, most likely. He flushes, embarrassed – he hasn’t even realized that he’s been lost in thought long enough for them to reach their destination.

Still, he accepts Seele’s offer, even though he has no idea where they are going. Seele leads them through the streets, nodding at the people mingling about after a long day of work, but they don’t stop to chat.

“Where are we going?” he asks when it’s clear that Seele has no intention of telling him anything.

“You’ll see,” she says, cryptically, but when he keeps staring at the back of her head, she sighs and rolls her eyes. “It’s just the place where I go when I need some peace and quiet to think about everything. I thought you’d appreciate it, but if not–”

“I’m right behind you,” he says, not quite hurried, but interested.

Seele continues on through streets and turns and soon, they find themselves in what looks to be an abandoned playground in Rivet Town. He has heard about them, even though the playgrounds in Okhema look pretty different. More slides, more ropes. The paint is faded, here – old and forgotten. He remembers Cyrene’s swing, then, and something twists in his chest.

He doesn’t have to think much after that – he sits on the nearest swing, and it creaks under his weight. He waits with batted breath, but it doesn’t crumble apart, not even as he starts swinging himself lightly.

Up, down. Up, down. His heavy boots drag on the ground, but he doesn’t care.

He feels a bit silly, but at this point in his life, any emotion that isn’t exhaustion or guilt or rage is welcome. He also feels nostalgia, longing for a past that he can still remember in bits and pieces strung together like a puzzle, only because he clutched them like the desperate child he was, so tightly his fingers bled gold.

Seele doesn’t judge him, anyway. She climbs one of the slides, but she doesn’t slide down; instead, she stays seated, arms on her knees. She looks out at the distant lights of Boulder Town.

“I’ve been trying to figure something out,” she says, then. “You said that your world has been saved not long ago, right?”

“Yes,” he says, and he already knows where this conversation is headed. He lets it happen anyway, swinging up and down. Up and down.

“It was the Astral Express, right?” she continues, and ah. There it is.

“Yes,” he confirms again.

“And you know… about us. Belobog. Jarilo.” Seele still doesn’t look at him, but her voice is not accusing. She treats it like it’s just a fact. It just is.

“... Yes,” he says, and this time, he plants his feet on the ground. He lowers his head, because he can feel the silent question in Seele’s words. “I don’t know why I didn’t say anything. At first, it was just because it surprised me. Then, it just felt too late to actually say anything.” He pauses, and then– he shakes his head. “No. I lied. I suppose I just didn’t want to have to answer questions.”

Seele remains silent for a moment, clearly taking note of his answer. Once again, she doesn’t judge him. She doesn’t raise her head and glare at him, call him a dirty liar, even though he could be called one. Instead, she lets out a soft breath.

“Stelle has been asking me about… you, I suppose,” she admits, and Phainon lifts his head, eyes wide. 

His heart skips a beat. He’s not sure what to do with that information. Is he happy? Is he worried? Is he…? He’s not sure. Once again, he’s swept away by a torrent of feelings he can’t quite name. A part of him is happy that Stelle seems to care enough to ask her friends from other worlds about him. Another part is worried about her chasing him – chasing him away from Belobog? Would she? Probably not, he thinks immediately, but doubts still linger like ghosts. He shouldn’t think like that. 

“I didn’t tell them,” he blurts out, the words heavy on his tongue. He gulps down the guilt, the slight embarrassment. “I– couldn’t. I had to leave. I had to.”

“Don’t worry, I haven’t told her anything,” comes Seele’s answer, and Phainon– lets out a sigh of relief. And how horrible is he, how selfish, how twisted, that he doesn’t want his worried friend to know that he’s– what? Okay? Is he? At the very least, he’s safe. Alive. “The others haven’t told her, either. We won’t say anything if you don’t want us to.”

“Why…?” he asks, but his words trail off. Ah, once again, he sounds tired. Drained.

“You looked like you needed a break, to be honest,” says Seele, a bit dry. Her smile is small, but friendly. “You still do. We guessed– if you didn’t tell us, then you probably had your reasons. You didn’t seem like a bad guy, anyway. So, I deflected Stelle’s questions. Said I hadn’t seen a runaway hero.”

And he jumps at that, a grimace on his lips, a bitterness on his tongue.

“I’m not a hero,” he says, pure inertia.

Because he isn’t – that would be Stelle, and the sum of all the other Crysos Heirs and Cyrene and– He isn’t. He can’t be. Not after everything he’s done, how twisted he has become, no matter how much he told (tells) himself that it was necessary, that it was the only way.

“Mm, the people of the Underworld would like to vouch the opposite, actually. But we’re not getting into that.” And Seele finally jumps down from the slide, walking to his side and sitting down on the other swing. “Why are you running away?”

Phainon mulls it over for a moment, but he already knows that he doesn’t have the answer for that question. It’s the one thing he has been asking himself ever since Amphoreus was saved and yet he still felt trapped, drowning, as if there were invisible chains dragging him down to a vast and dark hole.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I just know that I felt like I was drowning.”

Seele hums, nods. She moves her legs, swings forward and backwards without lifting her feet from the ground.

“The thing about fixing the world is that… you now need to fix yourself, I think. And that’s probably the most difficult part of it all,” she says, and it feels like a weight on his stomach, but the more he thinks about her words, the more true they become. She gains speed and finally, raises her feet from the ground. The steel bar above their heads creaks horribly, the whole structure trembles under their weight and Seele’s swinging, but it never crumbles. “I think you did the right thing. Wandering around without a clear destination is said to help people find themselves, as contradictory as it sounds. And you can’t very well drown in a sea of stars, can you?”

That makes Phainon pause and then– for the first time in months, years, decades, millenia– he huffs out a laugh. It’s small, a bit too dry to be called real amusement and joy, but it’s something. It’s something.

“I won’t say anything until you’re gone from Belobog,” continues Seele, and then she plants her feet on the ground, snapping to a stop. The swing creaks loudly again, but Seele ignores it and looks Phainon right in the eye. Ah, her eyes are very different from Castorice’s. “But, I think your stop here… is coming to an end, isn’t it?”

Is it? He’s been here for a bit over two weeks now, has made new friends without him even noticing, he’s been accepted into the community with open arms, he’s managed to help them deal with their Fragmentum problem, has even managed to give some advice to Bronya.

But– himself? Has he changed? 

He doesn’t need to think much. He has changed, and it’s never been clearer than now. Here he is, looking someone straight in the eye and seeing her , instead of the memory of a friend that looks similar and yet so different. He’s here, and he’s just huffed out a laugh, he’s just admitted the thoughts that have been weighing on his mind for too long, he’s been pushing himself to remember how to smile again, no matter how dry and small.

And it hits him again: he’s been remembering his friends, not as their dead corpses, not as the final moment before he stabbed them. He’s been remembering his friends alive, breathing. Living their lives.

He lowers his head, feels something that could be tears in his eyes– but that’s impossible, right? He hasn’t been able to cry in too long, his tears evaporated–

Only, they now drip down on his pants.

Oh.

That’s… new.

And yet, he doesn’t feel– sad. No. He feels… glad.

He rubs a hand over his face, looks at the few tears in his fingers.

Next to him, Seele spins herself and the swing until the chains on both sides are twisted into the same knot.

“I think… Belobog has been a great first step,” he says, and his voice still sounds steady. He looks up at the dark ‘sky’, misses the stars that he’s sure can be seen on the surface – but no matter, he can look at them anytime. He can venture into them. “But… it’s time I take the next step.”

Seele grins at him, a glint of relief in her eyes, and laughs.

“Good, because I don’t know how much longer I can keep Stelle away from here!”

—

Mydei feels ready to throw himself out the nearest window.

They are still at the Herta Space Station, have been for more or less two weeks now, and if Mydei hears the word ‘budget’ or ‘research’ one more time, he's going to commit murder – and he really shouldn't, because that would mean tanking Amphoreus’ image not even three months after their tentative joining of the broader universe.

But Titans, he's so done with this place. One can only look at the stars for so long, walk around a limited space over and over again, without losing their mind. He's even pestered Stelle to give him something to do, and sure, she has offered him the task of getting rid of the infestation of giant bugs in the underlevels of the station, but there comes a day when even punching through enemies for hours is just not enough. Not even the strange cat-cakes – which remind him of chimeras, only more… simple-minded – manage to calm his restless mind.

He wants to leave. Badly. He's not the only one. They're here to find Phainon, not play the part of ignorant tourists on the base of one of the geniuses that helped fix their mess. But the two Nameless are reluctant to wander around the universe with no leads and a limited amount of fuel. And he can understand, really, wasting fuel would be really stupid, but–

“D’you think Snowy's okay?” mutters Trianne, fidgeting with the borrowed laptop on the desk of their shared room. Even she, who spent most of their time in the Herta Space Station reading everything and anything the so-called 'universal web' could offer her, has seemingly bored of the wait. And worry.

“He’s probably fine. We shouldn’t doubt him,” comes Hyacine’s firm answer, coupled with a small smile, but even then, Mydei knows that she’s also become restless because of their wait. She’s reviewed the photos she’s taken of the Space Station at least ten times since they have reconvened in their room and even Little Ica looks bored of it by now. “I think we sometimes forget how resourceful he can be. You remember, right, Cas? How he used to bring snacks to class, hidden in his bag– I still can’t figure out how he fit all of those in there.”

“Ah! I remember,” Castorice nods and smiles widely, a laugh slipping through her fingers. “I wonder the same thing. He always gave them to everyone– even Professor Anaxa!”

“Professor Anaxa’s reactions were always the best,” chuckles Hyacine, and there’s a nostalgic shine to her eyes that Mydei has seen countless times, even in the reflection of his own eyes.

As Castorice and Hyacine reminisce about their time back at the Grove, Mydei lets his mind wander again. His fingers find his teleslate once again, and this time, he lets himself unlock it, find Phainon’s chat window, and type.

There is no answer; not that he expected one, anyway. He stares at the icon, at the small text under it and then at the unread notification. He grumbles and leaves his teleslate on the table.

He isn’t a stranger to longing or grief or even yearning – there are countless situations he regrets, people that he misses. But this feels deeper, somehow. Maybe it’s because Phainon is not actually gone, maybe it’s because as much as he regrets not having been able to help him in time, a part of him acknowledges that he’s done what he could. He can’t take Phainon’s suffering and punch it in the face, no matter how much he wants to – he punched Irontomb quite a few times during their battle, but somehow, that felt lacking. He can’t force Phainon to look him in the eye, he can’t wind up Phainon enough for them to spar, he can’t push Phainon to do something he’s not ready to do, something that would undoubtedly hurt him. 

He can’t hurt Phainon, just like how Phainon hasn’t been able to hurt them– anymore. Because Phainon has spent countless years fighting them, hurting them, killing them – and now, that guilt eats him up inside enough for him to not be able to look at his home with hope and warmth and relief. The chains binding him are still there, just like they still bind them all – because Mydei can still see them all fall on past habits, over and over. 

Trianne still searches for Tribbie and Trinnon and panics when she can’t find them, can’t hear them, before finally realizing that– they’re okay. They’re alive. Mydei has seen her take her teleslate with shaking hands and type a random message or send a nonsensical sticker to the chat she has created with Tribbie and Trinnon; their answers are always immediate, just like Trianne’s answering sigh of relief.

Castorice still remains far away from people, hands clasped carefully in front of her. When someone bumps into her – especially now that they’re in a busy Space Station where people seem to not have manners – she flinches violently and moves hurriedly to the side, trying to hide how her breath hitches. When Hyacine takes her hand, she still makes a move to get away. When Trianne hugs her legs, she freezes, eyes wide.

Hyacine stands up every time someone makes the vaguest sound of pain – a gasp, a small complaint, a hiss. Hyacine’s eyes are sharp, her shoulders tense. Her sky magic is always ready to use. Her questions are constant, though discreet; “have you eaten yet?”, “how’s your back feeling?”, “do you need anything?”. She and Trianne share the same laptop, and Mydei knows for a fact that Hyacine is making the most of it, looking up illnesses and medicine, not limited to physical ailments.

And Mydei can admit that he’s more wound up than he should – jumping at any noise, his first instinct being to immobilize and neutralize before asking. It wouldn’t be the first time that he’s almost punched someone in the face when they rushed past him. The apologies that fall from his lips are genuine, but he can’t quite stop his frustration from leaking into his voice, so he’s quite sure that half of the Station fears him in some capacity. Not that he minds – these researchers have no filter and a big mouth, a bad combination.

All in all, Mydei supposes that they still have a long way to go before they can say that they’ve truly healed.

(They could have been healing all together, but he’s starting to understand that it was impossible from the start.)

“Say, have you guys seen a…” Stelle enters the room, frowning and squinting at her teleslate. “Anti-Entropy level measuring… bollard? Whatever that is?”

They all stare at her, eyes vacant.

Stelle types a negative, before sighing loudly and dropping on the nearest chair.

“Any… news?” asks Castorice, slightly hopeful but not delusional enough to actually believe it.

Stelle shakes her head, which isn’t really a surprise. Everyone sighs.

“I’m sorry. We promised you a super cool space vacation and… here we are. With these weirdos,” she says with a rueful smile. “If it makes you feel any better, we’re planning to set off again sooner than later – there have been some… people say that they are burglaries, but no one seems to know who or what it is that’s stealing equipment. I say it’s the Wubbaboos’ fault, but some people seem to think that we’re to blame.”

“What?” grumbles Mydei– he can’t help himself. Them? Stealing their shit? Please, as if they have anything they might want.

“Right? Complete nonsense. Anyway, Dan Heng and I are trying to think of any destinations that might be close to other planets that Phainon might have gone to, but… It’s harder than we thought,” she explains, and seeing the pained smile she dons, Mydei feels a bit bad for her. As frustrated as they are, Stelle and Dan Heng must be running around in circles, trying to help them, but just as lost as them. Maybe even more so, because they are seasoned travelers, so they have an idea of just how vast the universe is, compared to the Crysos Heirs.

“Oh, don’t overwork yourselves,” comes Hyacine’s predictable answer, coupled with her worried eyes. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll be fine. I even managed to hide the coffee machine so that Dan Heng doesn’t keep drinking– It better be worth it, because all researchers are coming after me now,” she mutters. 

That only wins her an alarmed look from Hyacine, who mutters something under her breath and takes out her teleslate, no doubt to write a scolding to Dan Heng. And Mydei thought, once upon a time, that Dan Heng was the responsible one in the group.

“And as if that wasn’t enough–” Stelle waves her hands in the air, and it becomes instantly clear that this is just Stelle venting. “Seele has been avoiding my questions lately. Which is suspicious, because Seele is the most direct, no-filter person I’ve ever known. Probably.”

“Maybe she’s just busy?” offers Castorice, as diplomatic as ever. “After all, you said she’s an important figure where she’s from, right? Belobog?”

“Yes, but–” Stelle groans and tilts her head back until it bonks against the wall. “Whatever. It’s not like she’s hiding Phainon from us. She would tell me.”

That sounds terribly foreboding, thinks Mydei with a spark of amusement. He shares a glance with Castorice and Trianne, both of them hiding a smile behind a hand – but no hurry, no suspicion. Stelle trusts her contacts, so they should do the same too. It’s not like they can rely on much else, anyway.

Stelle’s teleslate pings again and she groans louder.

She takes a look at the notification on the screen with only one eye, which then widens, before she leans forward – almost crashes to the ground when the chair wobbles dangerously under her – and starts typing furiously.

“Seele, you– you– pile of cleaning products–” she grumbles under her breath, glaring down at the screen. They stare as she sends whatever edict-length message she has just written. They stare as she raises her teleslate like how a proud warrior would raise the head of their enemy. “I… have found Phainon. Or, at least– his trail.”

The room is silent for all of two seconds, before–

It erupts into loud yells.

Chapter Text

Standing in the middle of the room where he’s been staying for a bit over two weeks, Phainon realizes how little he actually carried with him. 

Which is– technically nothing but the clothes on his back. But that nothing has now turned into a small assortment of glittering crystals that Hook gifted him as thanks for his help in the mines, a few bags of calming tea that Natasha recommended him when he opened up about his nightmares, a few cheap clothes - more discreet, but less familiar to wear, so he only really uses them as a change of clothes and to sleep, anyway -, the few books he still rereads when he can't sleep, a hand-made wallet that the old lady from the store gave him as thanks for his help moving crates – now with a decent amount of credits inside it – and an utility knife that Seele gave him with the excuse “you never know”.

He buys a bag for them and any other nicknacks that he might acquire during his travels at the store closest to the hotel, and the middle-aged man that sells it to him pats him on the back and wishes him good travels. Somehow, that almost makes his eyes tear up again.

He’s terribly sentimental suddenly, he finds. Where he was almost emotionally constipated before, now it’s as if every single and minuscule spark of feeling can run him over like a Dromas at full speed. He’s not sure he likes it, per se, but it’s a nice change from feeling as if he was walking through knee-high mud all the time. Maybe his stay in Belobog has really changed something in his head – maybe the knowledge that his help is still appreciated, that his hands can still be used for good, that his sword is still sharp enough to protect instead of hurt– maybe it has steadied him, somewhat.

A good first step, like Seele said. And now, he needs to keep walking forward.

“Where will you go?” asks Seele, arms crossed as she follows him through the museum in the Overworld, the last thing that was pending on his list.

“I have no idea,” he admits, and he might have felt embarrassed before, but now– “Last time, wandering without a clear destination led me to Jarilo-VI, so maybe it’s not so bad.”

Seele hums and follows him silently as he reads the small notes under each exhibit. He wonders when she’ll finally get bored of his slow progress through the rooms and leave him behind to do something else. He can’t help it, though – there’s so much history here, so many struggles and yet determination to succeed, to survive, in each little trinket he finds. He drinks in every word, he takes photos with his teleslate, he gets as close as he dares to the machinery exhibited.

Even after going through every room and artifact and painting, he lingers, looking around and admiring once again the history laid bare in front of him. He wonders if Amphoreus could do something like this, a place to remember and record all the struggles their world went through until it achieved victory in the end, like the golden epics that are still sung to this day.

(He grimaces at the reminder that, if one were to record everything in the path of victory, they would need to also record all of the cycles, with all they contain, all of the… atrocities that came by his own hand.

… Maybe they can make another type of exhibition.)

Seele, surprisingly, stays by his side for most of his visit, until she drifts off after two hours out of pure boredom. She returns quickly enough, though, when he gets out of the museum and heads down to the Underworld once again.

“Just some advice– don’t approach the IPC,” says Seele, when they are already heading to Natasha’s clinic. Phainon really wants to thank Natasha for everything she has done for him, all the help she’s lent him, before he leaves in only a few hours. It’s not like he has to wait for anyone or any way to leave – he’s his own transportation.

Phainon turns to her, almost arches an eyebrow at her.

“I’ve heard you talk about them before… who are they, exactly?” he asks, just in case he inevitably ends up running into them.

“You can think of them as… roaches. Or– carrion eaters. Or–” Phainon whistles mentally; they don’t sound like good news. He worries for a moment, wondering if Amphoreus should stay alert when it comes to them. Then he relaxes slightly when he remembers that the Astral Express is still with them. “What I’m trying to say is that they’re the big guys. They have tons of money and power. And they act like it.” Seele’s eyes are sharp and knowing as she looks at him, and for a moment, Phainon freezes. “Be careful. I mean it.”

Phainon gulps down the nervousness that has made a nest in his gut. Something tells him that Seele knows more than he thought, but she doesn’t pressure him into anything, and just keeps walking to Natasha’s clinic.

It’s a bit overwhelming – in the good sense – but the three of them (Seele, Natasha and Hook) insist on seeing him off, so the four of them trudge up to the snowfields closest to the city. They pass through the robot settlement so Natasha can catch up with Clara and Pela and their project – Clara explains it to him with clear enthusiasm, but he gets a bit lost with all the mechanical jargon and ends up not understanding most of it – and continue on to a more discreet spot where someone literally flying off wouldn’t be noticed.

“Before anything else, you should connect to the universal web,” says Natasha, pointed, and she drags their little group to a familiar Space Anchor. 

Phainon looks at it with suspicion. He can almost expect Stelle to jump out from nowhere, grab the collar of his coat and shake him around while yelling in his face. He stays a sensible distance away from it, just in case.

“I don’t want them to find me,” he says, and he doesn’t even need to specify who ‘they’ are. Seele huffs.

“And they won’t. But the universe is huge and there’s lots of things that can go wrong,” she says, just as sharp as always. She nods to the teleslate in his hands. “Just– do it. We can stay in contact like that– if you want.”

Seele looks at him, Hook looks at him, Natasha looks at him. 

Phainon yields.

He offers his teleslate, watches as they go to the settings, enter something or other, and the next time he gets his hands on his teleslate, it starts vibrating in his hands. Over and over. It almost feels as if it’s going to explode. He sees numerous notifications flying on the screen, getting replaced by others, again and again. The final number is high – so high, in fact, that Phainon deletes all of the notifications at once. He lets out a sigh.

When he looks up, both Seele and Natasha are trying to hide their laughter.

“Don’t worry. When Stelle inevitably comes crashing down here, we’ll tell her that you’re fine,” says Natasha, terribly amused.

“Text us if you’re ever in trouble. Leaving Jarilo is still… difficult, but we have our ways,” nods Seele, firm and no-nonsense. Almost like a challenge to him. It stirs something in his chest, something familiar, and he thinks back to all the stupid bets and challenges that Mydei and him got tangled up in in the past.

(A part of him misses that simple domesticity, even tainted by constant Black Tide attacks and heavy expectations as it was.

Not yet, though.)

“Don’t worry, I still have blackmail,” says Hook, grin wide and sharp like a shark. Her eyes glint. Seele’s glance down is amused and impressed.

“Sampo?” she asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Indeed,” answers Hook, and her grin widens dangerously.

“Cool,” nods Seele, and she offers a high-five that Hook meets with a loud cackle.

Phainon turns and looks at the distant silhouette of Belobog on the horizon. It feels familiar, now – a welcomed stop, a place he can look back on fondly. He hopes he can look at Amphoreus like that someday, sooner rather than later.

“Come visit at some point, okay?” says Seele, then. Her voice still has rough edges, but it’s softer, just like the smile she offers him. She pats his arm so hard that any other person would have tumbled down to the ground. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“I’ll come back, I promise,” he says, and he acknowledges that some part of those words are also directed at the ghost of Amphoreus – they are the words he didn’t get to say, back when he escaped the invisible waves that threatened to pull him under. He can say them now, though, and he brands these promises in his heart, just like how he did in that very first cycle, when everything began. He looks at Natasha and the next smile he manages to pull up is a trembling and fragile thing, accompanied by a knot in his throat, a wetness to his eyes. “Thank you all so much for welcoming me and treating me like a part of your community – really, it means a lot to me–”

“Oh, don’t turn all mushy on us,” groans Seele, rolling her eyes, but her smile is amused and there is no real mockery in her voice.

Hook sticks out her tongue with a grimace.

Phainon can’t help but huff a soft and short laugh. There’s a warmth in his chest that wasn’t there before, so different to the all-consuming fire of the Coreflames, to the Destruction running through his veins.

“Don’t mind them.” Natasha takes a step forward, smiles gently at him. “We’re happy to have met you… And I expect you to come visit soon.” And with that, Natasha– hugs him. For a moment, he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. It hasn’t been that long since someone hugged him, and yet… He hugs her just as tightly, the knot in his throat terribly evident for him. “And… I hope you find your way, Phainon. Keep going, and may you find whatever it is your heart seeks.”

Phainon only hugs her tighter.

It feels like too long and not long enough, but he breaks the hug some time later and nods to the three of them, meets their eyes, firm and determined, a myriad of emotions floating in his chest, but not drowning him, so– he breathes in. Breathes out.

And turns, finally letting his mismatched wings come to be with just a thought.

He hears Hook gasp and then immediately complain that he didn’t show them before. Seele laughs loudly.

He doesn’t linger anymore; he looks up at the darkening sky, he lays eyes on the familiar stars he’s started getting used to. Which one of them would be his next destination? A thrill goes through him, a shiver of excitement, and his lips curl up slightly again – he missed that, that childlike wonder, that hope, the knowledge that he would step forward and see something new, something he hasn’t seen before.

He thinks he can get used to that.

And with that, he shoots up once again, leaving behind a beautiful world with its beautiful people and friends – but he won’t leave it for too long, he will visit, he will return one day.

He has made a promise, after all.

(To both Jarilo and– home.)

—

They arrive at Jarilo-VI in record time.

And yet, as soon as they meet with Seele, it becomes clear that– it’s too late.

Mydei almost glares at Seele – a girl that shares the same butterfly motif as Castorice, a similar scythe, a different hue of purple and different demeanor in general – when she meets them with a glint in her eye and a smile that is definitely not apologetic. He only looks around enough to wonder about the dark sky – that isn’t really a sky, it seems to be the underpart of the city above their heads? – and take note of how rundown the houses around them are, before he crosses his arms and waits to hear an explanation. Because there better be an explanation.

“How could you?!” yells Stelle, waging a finger at Seele. “You lied to me!”

“I didn’t,” she says, easily enough. Stelle glares and opens her mouth. “I actually didn’t– you suck at descriptions, I didn’t know what you were talking about at first.”

“You do suck at descriptions,” points out Dan Heng, before Stelle can so much as think of jumping at Seele. “It’s good to see you, Seele. How is Belobog holding up? Any trouble since the IPC came?”

“Not really. The Engine of Creation is almost completely repaired, but getting it to work will be… a process.” Seele sighs, but the glint of pride in her eyes is difficult to miss. 

Mydei can’t help being curious, beneath the frustration and helplessness he can feel rearing in his head – after all, Stelle and Dan Heng have told them a bit about this planet, about their struggles and the way they managed to escape a bleak fate. It reminds Mydei a bit of Amphoreus, if he’s being honest, and he’s sure that Phainon feels the same.

Now, it would have been nice to talk with Phainon and get his opinion on it, but alas–

Mydei sighs and resigns himself to another lost race. A part of him isn’t really surprised; after all, when has Phainon ever made it easy? Whether it be a spar, a stupid challenge that he comes up with, an unwillingness to listen when people try to help him, support him, getting through to Phainon is like talking to a wall. It’s nothing new. 

And yet, he feels terribly disappointed. Everytime he looks out and sees something that is very clearly not Amphoreus, a world beyond their understanding, he feels this pull to reach out for Phainon, grab his arm, point at a particularly interesting– thing he sees, no matter how inconsequential it is. But every time, he only meets air.

“Ah, it’s nice to see you, Stelle,” comes the voice of another woman, this one older, more mature, clearly a doctor. Hyacine perks up from where she was petting Little Ica in an attempt to cheer herself up after the false alarm of not finding Phainon. “Sorry about not telling you, but we thought it was for the best.”

“For the best?!” yells Stelle, offended.

“For the best?” asks Dan Heng, much calmer and mostly just confused. He shakes his head, and suddenly, all the Crysos Heirs are staring at the woman with sharp eyes. “I’m sorry, but– why?”

“Mm… how do I explain this?” she mutters to herself. “When Phainon came, he looked… rough. He didn’t talk much, didn’t really react much at all.”

“He looked as if he had been working in the mines for decades,” huffs Seele, hands on her hips. 

Something in Mydei’s chest twists. He already knew that Phainon was going through a rough patch and he had seen him wandering through Amphoreus countless times, more a ghost than a living person. But to hear it from someone else, someone who didn’t even know him…

“He didn’t have any credits to pay for a room at Hotel Goethe,” continues the woman, and Stelle and Dan Heng groan and sigh loudly, as if finally realizing that Phainon pretty much left without a plan – this, Mydei knew from the very beginning, because as careful as Phainon tended to be, when making reckless choices he tended to go all the way, leaning heavily on ‘reckless’. “We figured out an arrangement. He would help around Boulder Town and the mines– and he looked like it would do him good, too.”

“ Working would do him good?” asks Stelle, arching an eyebrow.

The woman’s eyes are sharp but gentle.

“Yes. He looked to be up to his throat with bad thoughts. Working, keeping busy– maybe it could help him clear his mind, enough to avoid being stifled by whatever he was going through.”

“Did it work?” asks Trianne, small and hopeful.

The woman smiled.

“By the time he left yesterday, he seemed better,” she nods, and finally– something in Mydei’s chest unwinds. He hides a trembling sigh and has to close his eyes to let the wave of relief that hits him pass through him. “Not perfect, definitely not. But– a bit better. He didn’t look to be drowning in misery as much.”

Everyone finally– relaxes. Some with sighs of relief, some with a hand on their chest. As hard and painful as it was to arrive too late, the knowledge of his well-being is enough to at least keep them hopeful.

And– this is what Phainon wanted, right? To give himself a chance to distance himself from everything, enough to be able to face all that has happened head-on and be able to overcome it with time. If it’s working– then Mydei has even less reasons to be truly mad at him – not that he ever was. He was (is) just… frustrated. He understands, but he would have liked a heads-up. A way to communicate with him, make sure that he’s okay– or, at least, alive.

“That’s… good,” sighs Hyacine, hugging Little Ica with shaky hands.

“Do you know where he was headed?” asks Dan Heng, as efficient as always.

“I don’t think he knew either.” Seele smiles wryly and shrugs. Dan Heng doesn’t look surprised, only resigned to his fate. “But, if you’re lucky, maybe another one of your friends will cross paths with him soon.”

“If only fate was that nice,” grumbles Stelle.

And for once, Mydei can relate to her.

—

With no leads again, they are free to roam the city of Belobog.

Mydei gets a crash-course about Jarilo-VI from Dan Heng and Stelle, focusing more on history and tourist spots respectively. 

Mydei lets himself wander through the Overworld, but soon finds the cold air and countless stores a bit boring. He borrows a warm coat from Dan Heng, and he graciously takes off his armour. He feels more naked than ever, even though he’s covered head to toe in fur and cotton. Once again, he tries to nail it in his mind that he’s not at constant war anymore. He doesn’t need to stay alert at all times. Even the Fragmentum they have told him about is nothing compared to the Black Tide.

So, he wanders the Overworld for a few hours, offers to carry the bags that Castorice, Trianne and Hyacine amass together from their shopping back to the Hotel Goethe in the Underworld – the same place where Phainon stayed, apparently. He leaves them to their argument about where to go next – the museum or the workstation of a friend of the Nameless – and makes his way beneath the richest parts of the city, back to the Underworld.

In this place, people seem more… united. United in strife and hardship, he feels like, and he huffs a dry laugh – just like his people. Most citizens look at him with curious eyes, and he wonders if they’ve seen a lot of people from other worlds – at least, they have seen Phainon not long ago, which probably helps their case.

He approaches one of the food trucks that Stelle mentioned to him, curious about the food they can offer. It occurred to him, during their endless days at the Space Station, that they would get to try food from other planets – other ingredients that he might have not seen before, different recipes, different ways to prepare food. He’s curious, so he eyes the menu the man offers him and is reminded of when he first arrived in Okhema, a newcomer that knew nothing of its culture, a stranger. How things have changed, he muses.

He ends up choosing a few random things that look appetizing and waits patiently, looking around as the man prepares the food quickly – street food, which can also be found in Okhema, but different. Fried, without too much spice, but with a few sauces to accompany it.

“I heard you guys talking to Natasha back there,” comments the man, offering a chance at conversation. Mydei frowns a bit at him, and the man hurriedly waves a hand. “Don’t worry, I wasn’t really eavesdropping – this is just a small town. And, well– I heard you know Phainon?”

“You’ve met him?” asks Mydei, and he almost cringes at how desperate he must sound. The man simply nods with a widening smile.

“Hard not to– the man helped practically everyone in Boulder Town at least once during the two weeks he was here.” The man laughs, cheerful, even though Mydei can see the scars in his hands, the soot that covers his pants. “You his friends?”

“You could say that,” he says vaguely, but he doesn’t quite know why he avoids the question so directly. 

They have never quite put a name to their relationship, after all. Phainon has said a few times that Okhema was his second home – and he wonders if that still holds true, after everything – and that the Crysos Heirs could very well be family, but at this point, when everything they knew has crumbled and reformed in what could be a different form, Mydei hesitates to take anything for granted. The old Phainon felt and thought that, but what about the new Phainon? Is he any different? He’s an amalgamation of various Phainons, after all. Does that change… anything?

Once again, he longs to find the answer to those questions, to talk to Phainon like they did in the past – sometimes, they didn’t even need to talk to understand each other, and yet now– he’s always out of his reach.

“He’s a really nice kid, isn’t he? Really warm too, it was like standing right next to a heater– the workers of the mines loved his company because of that, but I don’t think he realized. He’s clearly been through some shit, though, I could see it in his eyes. Well– everyone could see it in his eyes. Ha! At first, I didn’t think he could even smile! But hey, he did in the end, small and tired as it was! Ah, how much the old ladies of the corner store cried.” The man rambles, a soft grin on his face, a reminiscing glint in his eye.

Mydei is stuck on what the man said, though – Phainon smiled. He was (is?) able to smile again?

There’s something sharp in his chest now, something that reminds him of a knife twisting in his insides – not quite a sword, because that would mean that he’s dying (thirty-three million, five hundred–) and he’s quite sure that he’s as alive as he’s ever been. More, maybe, seeing as he’s now technically real, instead of a simulation in a super-computer– Best not to dwell on that too much.

But– Phainon. Smiling. Really?

“He’s… better now?” he asks, and even though Natasha has already told them as much, hearing it from a neutral party, someone he just met a couple minutes ago, feels heavier.

“Better, yeah. Still has a long way to go, though. I hope he finds peace out there,” says the man, and it sounds genuine. It doesn’t surprise Mydei; Phainon has always had the innate ability to endear himself to anyone he meets for longer than five minutes, after all. “But– outer space, huh? Sounds exciting, but also terrifying!”

“You have no idea,” he mutters, thinking back to a dark and infinite canvas of stars.

He uses the credits Stelle offered them to pay for his food and leaves, looking around at the run-down buildings and the little stores littered around. People comment on where he’s from and try to fish for more information, and he hesitates for a moment, unsure if he should say much about his world – but the curiosity of these people seems genuine and disinterested, so he ends up throwing a few comments here and there. Yes, his world is very different from theirs. No, it’s not nearly as cold as this world. Yes, the food is actually quite good.

He later finds himself sitting on the higher point of the town, on a low wall made of mismatched bricks, finishing his last Belobog Sausage while looking out at the dark roofs, lost in thought. He runs through the various conversations he’s had during the day, thinks back to what little details he’s learned about Phainon’s stay in Belobog, and isn’t surprised in the least. Phainon hasn’t changed, at least in the very basics of his personality, which is… good. A part of him feared that Phainon’s true intention when going away was to disappear silently, burn himself away in a quiet corner of the universe and–

But that was stupid of him, right? Phainon isn’t so weak-willed. If anything, he’s the strongest person Mydei has ever known, the only one deserving of guarding his back. Mydei only hopes that one day Phainon can see it – and if not, well, Mydei would have to say it as many times as it’s necessary, until it sticks in that hard head of his.

“Ah, De! Here you are!” comes Trianne’s cheery voice and soon, Mydei has the redhead peering up at his finished sticks. “How is the food? Hyacine seems to be talking with Natasha, so it’s going to be a while until she comes back to the hotel, so Castorice and me wanted to buy some food.”

“It’s quite good,” he admits, and it is – very different to what Okhema has to offer. More meat-based, fried, heavy food, but still good. It reminds Mydei a bit of camping in the middle of nowhere with his soldiers, of nights of song and dance. “You should try it.”

“Will do!” chirps Trianne and she takes a step to run down to the town proper again, but she pauses and looks back at him with too-knowing eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asks, arching an eyebrow.

“You’re worried about Snowy,” says Trianne, as if it’s obvious– but then again, it probably is. Mydei is reserved, yes, but he’s always worn his heart on his sleeve for whoever cares enough to look. He remains silent as Trianne fidgets with her hands. “ We are too, of course. I am. I am.” She grimaces a bit. “It’s still weird, thinking for– myself.” She corrects herself again, sighs loudly. “I trust Snowy, but I also worry for him. I worry for everyone, really! We’ve all gone through so much… That’s why– don’t hesitate to reach out too, Mydei.”

That finally makes Mydei soften. His lips curl up slightly, and his shoulders drop.

He misses Okhema, he thinks, and it’s a thought that he accepts easily. He does miss Okhema, his second home. He’s terrified of what lays ahead for all of them, what the universe still has in store for their little newborn world. The past lives that sometimes brush against his mind are painful and confusing. His worry for a dear friend that could be something more is stifling at times.

Trianne probably sees all of this in his eyes, because she hugs him tightly and he returns the hug and there’s so much warmth in his chest that he wonders if this is a portion of what carrying all the Coreflames feels like.

(Probably not.)

But when Trianne lets go, throws a wide and bright grin at him and skips off singing about food, Mydei huffs a laugh and his chest feels… lighter.

Chapter Text

(Apparently, there is no different profiles for each Tribios, so... Tribbie here is just Trianne.)

Chapter Text

Phainon wanders around the planets near Jarilo-VI, but none of them seem particularly interesting – most of them he suspects aren’t even inhabited.

So, he lets himself drift further away.

He can admit to feeling a bit lost. Sure, the first planet he has visited has been a stroke of luck, but he can’t bank on that forever. Maybe he should be more careful from now on, and stay cautious before making contact with anyone. Who knows, he could even get involved in a conflict unknowingly. 

He grimaces; he could even run into one of his ‘colleagues’, another Lord Ravager. He doesn’t really want to deal with that, if he’s being honest. Would they go against him, seeing as he seeks to destroy Destruction? Or, worse yet, would they treat him like a true colleague? He stifles a shiver.

He sees a glittering planet that seems to be made of gold, but when he gets closer, it turns out to be an immense desert without end – or water.

He sees a planet that is all ocean instead, with a splatter of islands, and he considers stopping there for a moment, before he sees a gigantic whale eat one of those isles whole.

He sees a wandering asteroid, full of holes and what appears to be ice, but before he can think of resting on it, it speeds past him, racing into the void.

He sees a ringed planet that seems promising, but when he gets closer he can see a wild storm razing the land and decides that he’s not in the mood to fight against nature.

He– doesn’t know where to go.

This is a problem. And really, it’s just his fault. He doesn’t have a plan, he doesn’t have any references for where to go. He can’t really ask the people of Belobog, seeing as they aren’t skyfarers either. 

He’s… a bit stuck, to be quite honest.

He calls himself stupid in his mind, rubs his eyes. Maybe he should have asked the Trailblazers before hurrying off Amphoreus. He’s sure he could have thought of a covert way to do it – ask for more stories, any curious planets worth visiting. It would have been terribly easy for them to find him now, though, so he can’t quite regret his decision or the lack thereof. But he does regret the situation he’s in, though.

He picks a random moon to land on and takes out his teleslate.

And then pauses, because there are more notifications on his screen. He recognizes Tribbie’s eye-catching red, the high number of texts Stelle has bombarded him with – and it keeps climbing up, he notes absent-mindedly. 

He sees Mydei’s, too. His finger hovers over them, but he stills himself before he can press and open them. Reading them would mean changing his mind, after all. He decided to distance himself, for everyone’s sake – even his own. If he reads Mydei’s messages – and Titans, a part of him wants to so badly it hurts, an ache, a knife twisting in his chest – his resolve would shake. As much as he’d like to believe that his stay in Belobog has helped – because it has – the truth is that his mind is still a fragile glass-like thing.

It’s relieving to know that the Crysos Heirs don’t… hate him. Shy away from him. Fear him. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if that was the case, though he can guess, and his mind doesn’t exactly conjure up anything good.

So, he deletes the notifications with lips pressed thin after staring at their icons for a bit too long.

But he doesn’t block their contacts.

(‘Just in case’, he tells himself. Like a liar.)

He doesn’t let himself dwell on it long. Instead, he checks the so-called universal web in hopes of finding any clues on where to head next and instead gets bombarded by pages and pages of information.

His tired and overwhelmed mind can’t quite keep up with all the names the web throws at him, planets and immense spaceships that act as such and satellites and bases and– There’s too much.

He recognizes one name, though: Penacony. The prison-turned-resort. He mulls it over for a moment, and then slowly locks his screen – with how difficult it is to get a reservation there, no matter how much he would like to visit, it would be impossible with the meagre credits he has to his name and his questionable identity as an Emanator of Destruction. Does he really want to dwell on dreams, too?

With a sigh, he resigns himself to wandering. That’s what he wanted, right? It does get his mind to worry about something other than the memories he has been pushing away over and over again.

He does miss human contact, even though it can’t have been more than a few days – for him, anyway. He’s not new to time dilation and other messy phenomena.

He flies off again, taking note of the planets he leaves behind and wondering if he could even guess at where he is – but then, he finds an updated map of every zone in the universe and closes it just as quickly when he sees the never-ending list of names he can’t even pronounce.

And then he hears it– a buzzing. Which is strange, because sound in the void of space is an anomaly. He’s only able to hear the stars, after all, and even that is more of a feeling than actually hearing them – they need to be stars, after all. Suns. They call to him like kindred spirits.

But this buzzing gets into his head and makes him grit his teeth, uncomfortable. He looks around and isn’t surprised when he doesn’t see anything. Only a lost rock here and there, the distant blink of a different galaxy too far away to reach quickly.

He still rounds the area, anyway. The buzzing continues, like a giant insect stuck in his skull.

He finally finds a floating spaceship, but when he gets closer he immediately knows that it’s been attacked and that he’s too late. At this point in his life, there’s only a spark of frustration in his chest, but no pain, no fury, no anger at this unjust end for the victims.

When he enters through a hole in the wall, the buzzing becomes unbearable.

He takes out Dawnmaker and keeps it close as he ventures inside the ship. The lights blink ominously in some rooms, red emergency lights casting weary shadows on the immobile human corpses. He doesn’t bat an eye at them and continues on, frowning when he still doesn’t see any enemies, even though he can definitely hear them.

He finally reaches the control panel in the middle of the spaceship, but he pauses at the door as soon as he sees the red blur and the hulking shadows fighting against it– him? That’s a man, he realizes. Fighting against giant bugs that keep splitting into twos and threes.

Without thinking twice, he jumps into the fray, covering the back of the redhaired man. Green eyes glance at him in gratitude and then curiosity when he notices the mismatched wings on Phainon’s back and the clear glow of Destruction that he wields.

Phainon hides a grimace – careless, again. He forgot he’s still in his more divine form, even though he knows now that it’s not exactly divine at all. Too late to hide under the guise of a normal human Pathstrider. He can still deal with the bugs and then book it out of the spaceship– if the redheaded man lets him, that is.

They make short work of the bugs, and finally, the buzzing in his ears is gone, leaving behind a gratuitous silence.

Phainon thinks of getting away quickly, but the man doesn’t seem particularly hostile. No, he takes a deep breath, leaning on his spear, clearly tired but satisfied with their work. He glances at the bug viscera staining the ground and then grimaces, disgusted by them.

“Shall we find a better place to converse, honorable stranger?” asks the man, and his smile is inviting and genuine, which makes Phainon stop in his tracks where he was inching his way to the door. 

He blinks at him.

“You want to… talk?” he asks, a bit wrong-footed. He’s not exactly discreet, with golden cracks on his skin, golden eyes so similar to a certain Aeon, Destruction energy still clinging to his hands. Is this a trap, then?

“Yes, indeed,” nods the man, as if there was nothing strange about it. “Two travelers wandering through the stars that have worked together to defeat a most-disgusting foe… We’re bound to be allies.”

Phainon just– stares at him. It can’t be this easy, can it?

Still, when the man gestures for them to move to another room – just as messy and scrambled as the rest, but at least it’s devoid of any… remains – Phainon finds himself following. The man is obviously a fighter; it’s clear in the way he moves, in the armour that covers him, in the way he handles his spear as he sits down on a chair.

Phainon stays standing on the other side of the room, if only because finding a comfortable sitting position in this form is more trouble than it’s worth, and he really wants to stay in this form, in case this man is more interested in fighting him than talking. He doesn’t give that impression, but the universe is vast, and there’s still a lot that Phainon doesn’t know, doesn’t understand. A random man in a random ship fighting bugs can be an ally, just as he can be an enemy.

“I must say, I didn’t expect to run into anyone out here , so I do apologize for my unsightly state and offer you my most heartfelt salutations, dear stranger,” greets the man. His smile doesn’t change, not even as he offers a hand with a flourish. “My name is Argenti, I belong to the Knights of Beauty. Might I inquire for your name, sun-kissed stranger?”

Phainon, once again, feels at a loss.

He’s used to people in high places speaking in the most convoluted way possible, mostly to confuse their political adversaries. He has Aglaea and Anaxa to thank for that – he’s been in countless debates by now, a number that is always raised with each of his incarnations. Granted, those convoluted words usually sought to dismantle their adversaries’ arguments, mock them, and step on them like dirt. This man, though… his words almost feel like flowers.

He approaches him, eyes the hand still offered to him, the lowered head, the hand on the chest. He shakes his hand tentatively, careful to avoid tangling their armour. 

“You may call me Phainon,” he says, and he almost falls back on past habits, where he had to meet formal register with formal register. He clears his throat. “To be fair, I didn’t expect anyone to be here, either.”

“Quite fortuitous for us that fate has made our paths cross, then,” smiles Argenti. When he grips his hand, his hold is tight and firm. “What do you seek, then, stranger?”

And Phainon hits a block, because he doesn’t have a clear objective, exactly. At the end of the day, he’s just a wanderer, just like he was after Aedes Elysiae’s end, just– his home isn’t razed to the ground. He doesn’t think so, at least– he hopes.

“I’m just a wanderer, really,” he admits with the echo of a rueful smile. It’s a bit more difficult to pull up here, away from Belobog’s familiar presence and people, but still somewhat manageable.

“Ah, in that case we’re quite alike, then,” nods Argenti. They separate and Phainon retreats slightly again, just in case. “As a Knight, it is my duty to uphold the good name of Beauty. Say, have you heard about Idrila?”

Phainon frowns and tries to shuffle through his memories, seeking that name– in vain, it turns out, because try as he might, he finds nothing. He’s met countless people during all the cycles, and even the people he knew during the latest cycles are a mess of confusing names and faces. He finds no mentions of Idrila in the few names the Trailblazers explained to him, either.

“I’m afraid I don’t,” he says with a helpless shrug and a guilty glance. “I have to admit– my memory is… not the best at the moment. Even if I knew of it, recalling anything about the name would be difficult for me.”

Argenti’s eyes turn understanding. He stands – and Phainon has to stifle the flinch – and approaches him, only to bow down with a hand on his chest.

“Then it would be my pleasure to enlighten you on this Path,” he says, terribly solemn and yet, the determination in his voice is clear as day. Argenti straightens out and looks around with a critical eye. “However, this place doesn’t meet the standards of Beauty. So, what say you, sun-kissed stranger, to departing from this cemetery of broken dreams and unsightly insects and finding a place more suited for amicable conversation?”

Phainon, too, looks around and finds himself sighing. As much as he hates to admit it, there’s nothing else they can do here. It’s already lost. The bugs are gone – whatever those are. It would do him good to stick to someone that clearly has more experience wandering through the universe, at least for now.

So, he nods.

“That would be appreciated,” he says.

Maybe he can get some more information about space politics or culture – he wouldn’t say no to an extensive class or explanation about what he can expect from the universe at large, seen through someone that isn’t a Trailblazer. He’s starting to realize that this universe is fathomless and more complex than anything he could have expected, after all. He’s become aware of just how terribly under-prepared to deal alone with it all he is, which could be very dangerous – for him. He doesn’t like thinking about it, but he’s a Lord Ravager, an Emanator of Destruction, something that common people – and not so common – will regard with suspicion and sometimes even hostility.

And as Aglaea taught him countless times, back in the day, a politically thorny battleground is best faced – and won – via meticulous information gathering and cautious feet.

“Then, I shall guide us both to the nearest safe stop. Maybe you can even meet a good friend of mine,” musses Argenti, taking his spear in hand once again.

Phainon only hesitates for a moment, before following this strange knight out of the spaceship and once again into the wide expanse of the universe.

—

Mydei can admit that, as much as he laughed at Phainon and his penchant of running around the city looking for people to help, he falls into the same category himself. The only difference was that he didn’t run; no, he waited and dealt with the problems the Kremnoans presented to him, which were usually enough to keep him occupied for the good part of the day.

All of which to say that, when being faced with a lot of free time, his go-to approach to it is to… find someone to help. Just like Phainon. 

When this fact hits him as he helps some delivery workers take a few heavy crates up to Natasha’s clinic, he huffs, annoyed. Maybe Phainon’s conclusion about them being more alike than not has some merit, after all.

He finishes in no time, and the workers thank him profusely, running off immediately after. He looks at their retreating backs and wonders if their pay is really that good – it probably isn’t, but it brings food to the table, which is enough. He returns to the clinic and leans on the door for a moment, watching as Hyacine and Natasha talk animatedly over a few notes and medicine boxes.

Hyacine has been single-mindedly talking and consulting with all the doctors she meets, from the Space Station to Jarilo-VI. Her eyes shine with determination, she keeps a thick notebook with her at all times, and her writing is fast and slanted as she tries to note down every little detail and seed of knowledge they offer her. Even now, only two stops later, Mydei can see her turn pages so fast that by the time they leave Jarilo-VI she’ll need another notebook, if not before.

She nods and smiles at Natasha after they are done, and she shakes her hand with a small grimace as she walks over to Mydei’s perch.

“Ready to go to dinner, now. Thanks for waiting,” she says with a radiant smile.

He grunts an affirmative and starts leading them out of the building and towards the small hole-in-the-wall restaurant Trianne found yesterday. All the while, Hyacine massages her wrist and Ica floats around her, eyes shining with the promise of food.

He can’t quite help himself, though.

“Why go through all this trouble? Is medicine really that different from place to place?” he asks, more out of curiosity than anything else. 

He has no idea about healing – he’s an expert at hurting, though, which a part of himself still resents and regards with bitterness, but he’s already made peace with it countless times; didn’t quite have any other choice. Sometimes he wonders if he could even bring himself to heal, to care for, to learn how to treat injuries and illnesses and– But he pushes himself away from it every time. There’s no way someone with hands as stained with blood as him could ever heal anything. There’s no way someone that only knows how to tear apart could mend broken bodies, instead of hurting them more.

He thinks that Hyacine would disagree with his assessment, which is why he never mentions it to her. Maybe he’s afraid, he thinks.

“Our methods are very different to theirs, that’s true,” nods Hyacine, and her eyes glint again with that passion, that fervor. “It’s always good to learn from others. Professor Anaxa made that very clear when we were studying at the Grove– and after, when I stuck around.” And she pauses, looking down at the notebook stuffed in her bag. “But that’s not exactly why I do it.”

“Why, then?” he asks, and when she meets his eyes, he pauses too, understanding it all at once. He’s not surprised. “You’re preparing for the worst?”

“I… wouldn’t call it that.” Hyacine shakes her head, but her smile shakes, before she lets it fall with a sigh. “It’s just– the universe is so big. When I was little, like so many other kids, I dreamed of traveling around Amphoreus, meeting new people, seeing things I hadn’t seen before… Now, we can go anywhere beyond the stars. It’s– overwhelming.” She takes a deep breath. “There’s a lot we don’t know. There are a lot of threats. And I– a healer needs to be prepared for anything. If that means branching out, learning more from others– then I’ll do it. If it helps me save more lives, I’ll do it in a heartbeat.”

Comendable and admirable, just like always. And yet, Mydei can already see the signs that point at Hyacine biting more than she can chew – the tenseness of her shoulders, the crick in the fingers of her dominant hand, pained from so much writing in such a short amount of time. He looks down at her for a moment, before letting out a quiet sigh.

They’re all the same. At any other time, he might have laughed.

Now, he’s just realizing how bittersweet their situation really is– or was.

War leaves scars on everyone, invisible as they can be. They haunt them like ghosts, they hang from their shoulders and whisper cruel ‘what-if’s and corrupted advice. War and conflict never leave, never will. It burrows in their hearts and brains and eats at them slowly, sleeping at times and raging at others.

He’s seen his people march to the beat of Strife and violence, has seen them suffer because of it, and even cutting it at the stem meant hurting, but was it worth it? He’d like to think that it was, that it is.

Mydei wishes he could tear it out of them now too, cut it at the stem, break the cycle of suffering, but he knows that he can’t. He never will. Not anymore.

“What you're doing is admirable, Hyacine,” he says, staring straight ahead. “But… don’t lose yourself in your duties. A healer needs strong hands to care for their patients– don’t injure yours, trying to cover the ground others have covered after years of hardwork.”

Hyacine blinks at him, surprised, and then she looks back at her hands, ink-stained and still stiff. She grimaces as she moves her fingers, purses her lips at the slight tremble to them. Ica chirps at her and bumps his head against her arm, expectant.

Hyacine finally smiles, eyes soft.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Lord Mydei,” she says with a determined nod. 

By the time they reach the restaurant where Trianne and Dan Heng are already waiting for them, Hyacine is trying to figure out what she wants for dinner and asking Mydei for his opinion on the few foods he’s tried.

It’s when they’re already seated that he takes out his teleslate at Trianne’s prompting, searching the short list he’s started with the foods he’s tried since they left Amphoreus – a ranking of dishes and foods.

And then he pauses, eyes locked on a specific chat and the few messages he sent on a whim, knowing that they wouldn’t reach their receiver anyway.

He bites down on the glass of water he was drinking from, so hard that the glass itself cracks under the pressure.

The conversation around him dies out immediately. Suddenly, all eyes are on him with alarm and curiosity.

He has to fight with himself to place the glass back on the table instead of smashing it down. He glares at his teleslate with fiery eyes.

“Phainon has received our messages,” he says, voice tight with frustration. “And yet… he hasn’t said shit.”

The table remains silent for all of one second– before it explodes in sound.

Mydei’s hands are steady as he types out another string of messages, jaw clenched.

And yet, when he sends them, he isn’t surprised to see that– they remain unread.

Chapter Text

Argenti guides him to a small meteorite-like… floating island. 

It’s not in the best condition; the underside of the ‘island’ is terribly battered after probably years of wandering through the cosmos, getting pelted by wandering rocks and maybe attacks from various factions. The roof of the single building on it is a patchwork of different-colored slabs of steel, the walls are obviously parched up as well as they could, but it still gives the place a run-down image. The sign that blinks at them has quite a few lights burnt out and tilts dangerously to the side, but it never falls down, not even as Argenti opens the door under it and has to slam it behind them with more force than usual to actually close it.

Phainon has to squint to see anything in this place – the lights are dim and neon-like. A bar, if he has to guess from what Dan Heng described. It’s very different to what bars Phainon is used to; he’s more used to what they call taverns, bright and lively with people talking loudly and dancing and singing, with musicians and bards always at the back. Instead, the people here huddle together at the tables and remain with their heads close together, talking in soft voices that get drowned out by the equally soft music in the back.

“Ah, come with me,” says Argenti, dragging him out of his thoughts.

The knight leads them further in, past the counter where a robot-like being cleans the glasses, keeping an… eye? On the patrons. Phainon looks around with careful eyes as Argenti wanders through the tables, attracting the attention of various groups – all of them frown at the armor covering Argenti, before they look away. Phainon huffs a sigh of relief – it’s a good thing that he decided to return to his more human appearance, even if the white of his clothes sticks out like a sore thumb in this place, anyway.

Argenti finally stops in front of a table in one of the corners and Phainon follows him, looking at the other two people seated at the table, a half-eaten plate of what could be fries and two untouched glasses of dark liquid in between them.

One of them lifts the wide-brimmed hat from his eyes, and Phainon is surprised to see the glint of metal– well, everywhere in his body. Or, nearly everywhere. The eyes that look at him with clear suspicion and the sharpness of a blade seem to glint under the dim light, gray and also a hint of red. A shiver runs through him at that – it reminds him of a certain Antikyrethian, or Intellitron, as the Astral Express called him.

Phainon averts his eyes from him, instead looking to the other person, who actually does nothing to alleviate the nervousness already coursing through his veins.

The other person turns out to be another man, maybe younger, with ashy blond hair and eye-catching clothes that speak of wealth – extensive wealth, actually. He twirls a coin between his fingers, and Phainon wonders for a moment what someone of his obvious station is doing in such a backwater place. But then he looks into his eyes – a deep magenta and a ring of blue – and feels seen , appraised, and recognized. Something glints in those eyes, something interested and cautious, even as the man’s lips curl up into a genial smile.

“Well, color me surprised. Our knight has found another stray,” comments the blond man, and his voice is sweet as honey and yet just as sticky, a trap laid in the ground for those stupid enough to fall for it.

“Forkin’ hell, man! I thought I told you to be discreet when meeting with us!” whisper-yells the other man, and suddenly, Phainon finally notices the gun in his hand, relaxed and yet with the safety catch removed. 

He tenses immediately, feeling the fires of Destruction once again lick at his fingers. He doesn’t let them win, though – he keeps them on a firm leash, clenching his jaw and remaining as still as he can behind Argenti’s armored form.

Said knight doesn’t seem to have much of a problem with the situation. He nods with a smile and sits down on one of the chairs, gesturing for Phainon to do the same.

“Don’t fret. This esteemed colleague aided me when dealing with some pesky insects on the way. It is because of him that I managed to arrive here on time. Travelers should help other travelers, right?” And Argenti looks pointedly at the gun-wielding man. Said man frowns and clicks his tongue, but he leaves his gun on the table.

“An Emanator helping out, huh? Talk about interesting,” muses the other man, eyes locked on Phainon as he finally makes up his mind and sits down next to Argenti, a careful distance away from both others.

He freezes, breath itching in his throat for a moment. Argenti doesn’t seem surprised in the least, but the metallic-man in front of him pauses with a fry in the air and stares at Phainon with wide eyes.

“An Emanator? Fudge, Knight! You really know how to find ‘em!” he says, a bit too loud for Phainon’s liking. 

He looks around, tense, but he relaxes slightly when he sees no one paying them any mind – no one obvious enough, that is. That has to be enough for now.

“I’d appreciate it if you could… not bring attention to that,” he says through gritted teeth. 

Argenti shoots a curious glance at him, but he doesn’t comment. The blond man hums, but keeps flicking his coin, unbothered. He never says that he won’t mention it anymore, but his gaze is now considering instead of outright suspicious and defensive.

“Hey, no problem– as long as you don’t go around killing us,” says the other man, finally eating the fry in his hand. His teeth are sharp like a shark’s, Phainon notices.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he says vehemently, shaking his head.

“Now that we’re all on the same page,” says the blond man. His smile is back and he offers a hand. “I think introductions are in order. I’m Aventurine.”

“And I’m Boothill,” greets the other man, though he doesn’t offer a hand.

Phainon takes Aventurine’s hand and shakes it – his hold is firm, like an experienced businessman used to closing deals.

Phainon frowns slightly, takes note of the expensive watch on Aventurine’s wrist, the expensive clothes, the expensive everything. A thought nags at the back of his mind, a memory, once again about Dan Heng’s stories. A prison-turned-resort, a fight against a madman seeking something greater than a simple victory against the Express, coded names…

“You’re… from the IPC,” he can’t help but mutter when it finally clicks in his tired mind.

Aventurine’s smile turns sharp, just like his eyes.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not on the clock right now. I’m just… catching up with an ‘old friend’,” he explains, without really explaining anything.

Dan Heng said that Aventurine was cunning, highly intelligent – a gambler, through and through, with crazy plans that always come to fruition. Phainon should remain cautious, for his own good. It’s unlikely that Aventurine knows about him and his status as a new (new?) Lord Ravager and where he comes from, but the less information he gives him, the better. For all of them.

Aventurine sees his suspicion clear as day, if Phainon is reading his eyes well, but he has to admit that the blond man has a perfect poker face. Still, Aventurine doesn’t press and just leans back and takes a sip of his drink, seemingly relaxed now that Phainon has made himself less of a threat – for now.

Phainon looks at Argenti and wonders why the knight has even dragged him here. It’s not like he has any destinations in mind – quite the opposite, in fact, he was pretty lost when they met – but introducing him to these two was… a thorny choice.

“So? You a wanderer too? Well, not like we are actually wanderers– only Sir Knight here is truly a wandering soul,” says Boothill, the only one seemingly laid-back enough to start a friendly conversation. He must see Phainon’s curious glance, because he grins, showing all sharp teeth. “I’m a Galaxy Ranger.”

“Galaxy Ranger… that was… Hunt?” he mutters, mostly to himself, as he tries to shuffle through all the information the Nameless offered them about different factions in the universe. Names blur together in his mind, though, so he can’t be quite sure.

“Yes, Hunt. Wait– oh, you’re new at this, huh?” Boothill pauses, eyes lighting up with realization. Then he groans, rubbing his eyes and leaning back his head. “Fudge! You took in a newbie?”

“I don’t see a problem with it. He’s a capable fighter, he has a shine few can rival, akin to a sun, and he’s receptive to hearing about Idrila, the Aeon of Beauty–” starts Argenti, voice firm and solemn, befitting a knight. 

It reminds Phainon of the heroes from the stories he used to read as a child; strong, determined, grander than life. Phainon himself could never compare to them, even at the end of it all – no, he fell short and ended up as the failed hero, tainted by blood and ashes.

“Oh, no, there he goes,” groans Boothill, leaning back with his chair. Aventurine’s eyes dance, next to him, terribly amused.

Phainon blinks. 

“The Aeon of Beauty…” and he thinks of Aglaea and her gentle hands, silk and thread running through her fingers. “Aren’t THEY… dead?”

“Well–” starts Argenti, a hand up, ready to explain, but Aventurine is faster, sharing a glance with Phainon.

“Yes, THEY are.” Aventurine leans forward. “It’s not like you can follow another path, though, can you? You… are already taken.”

Phainon presses his lips, frowning deeply.

It’s not like Aventurine is wrong– no, in fact, he’s right. He’s already fallen into the Path of Destruction. One could say that he was destined to, from the start. After reading the Admin notes from the Scepter’s archive, it was clear as day – from the moment one of the past Khaos attracted Nanook’s gaze, to the moment when Phainon retained it for a long while, culminating in his mad dash and– the scratch on THEIR cheek.

He can’t leave this Path, not when he’s started finding a meaning to it – a meaning that’s only his, a hope that he can make a difference, a vow to himself.

Still–

“Extensive knowledge is always the key to victory,” he says, mind flying back to endless debates and the sharp eyes of Anaxa and Aglaea arguing, and mountains and mountains of books on everything and anything he hoarded during his stay at the Grove.

Aventurine’s eyes lit up with what could be interest or surprise, but the next smile he offers Phainon is maybe not as obviously fake.

“Ah, maybe you won’t die like a fool out there,” he comments, more easy-going than before. Phainon feels a spark of offense in his chest, but before he can even think of acting on it, Aventurine raises a hand. “I know better than to make an enemy of people like you, so… let me give you a piece of advice, free of charge: money moves everything out here.”

“When does it never?” he asks before he can think better of it. Aventurine’s smile widens.

“Exactly. So, you need a good way to earn money. And that, for wanderers like you, who can topple entire armies with a swing of your blade, means– commissions. Bounties.” He waves a hand, and Phainon finally sees a board on the other side of the bar, full of photos and announcements and, indeed, bounties. “Our friend Boothill here would know.”

“Oh, I sure do, greenie,” nods Boothill, his grin all teeth. “Good pay, some of ‘em. Some of ‘em are sheep, though. My advice: look 'em names up in the web, and then make your decision. If what Mr. Gambler here said is right, then you probably won’t have any trouble dealing with most of them, so don’t go worryin’ about how difficult it will be to subdue the targets.”

So… a mercenary. A bounty hunter. He thought of being just that, back in the day, right? A fighter, wandering around Amphoreus, taking care of the bad guys and dragging them to justice. Now, he knows what being a mercenary entails, so it doesn’t quite leave a good taste in his mouth, but he does acknowledge that it would be the best way for him to earn some much-needed money out here. He might not need to eat much, rest much, but going around the universe like a homeless person– doesn’t sit right with him. Not when he’s not truly homeless, he’s just…

Then again, if he wants to lay low, would doing this really go over well for him? They – the universe at large – might figure out his identity, and as much as he’s starting to understand what his own personal objective in this Path might be, he’s not sure he wants the cosmos to know of his existence just yet. Not when they can turn on him as quickly as the Crysos Heirs did in a lot of the cycles, when they realized that–

He takes a deep breath, crosses his arms, and frowns at the table, only to be interrupted in his musings by a waving hand on the other side of the table.

“I can act as your intermediary, if it’s bothering you so much,” says Aventurine, voice steady – definitely experienced in deal-making, which isn’t surprising at all. His smile is amused, but also courteous. “We can make a deal. You deal with the targets, I act as your intermediary– you can act as an anonymous helper, and I get 5% of the bounty itself, no extra charge, no loopholes. Just the cost of the transaction.”

It doesn’t look that bad a deal, especially since Phainon is not really worried about money – not the amount of it, anyway. He only needs enough to get by, and if he does his research right, he can find bounties that target real ‘bad guys’, so to speak, so he shouldn’t feel that bad about using his new-found powers this way, even if they are probably a bit overkill.

Aventurine offers his hand again.

Phainon only hesitates for another second, before he takes it.

“Deal.”

—

Castorice, Hyacine, Trianne and him visit the museum of Belobog one day and it only takes him five minutes to decide that Phainon probably had the time of his life in here. 

Each exhibit has lines and lines of dates and explanations and names. He reads quite a few of them, trying to make sense of who is who and the confusing timelines they present. Hyacine takes quite a few photos; she even asks Castorice to once again pose for them. Castorice tries, of course, still uncomfortable and awkward in front of the camera, but at the end of the day, these just serve as nice reminders of their travels. It's nothing official, nothing serious. Castorice's smile soon turns warmer, even as she struggles to find a pose in which her hands don't hover awkwardly in the air.

Mydei wanders around the big museum, eyes flitting from place to place. His hands even manage to send another text to Phainon, unanswered as it remains.

Some time later, when he's ready to leave, he finds Stelle and Seele talking with each other by the main hall. He intends to slip past, but Stelle catches his eye anyway, so he sighs softly and changes course.

Seele’s eyes focus on him and she rolls her eyes. For a moment, he feels a spark of offense in his chest, but then she shakes her head with a rueful smile.

“Of course, you guys also like museums. Why doesn't it surprise me?” she comments, a bit dry, but Mydei is starting to understand that it's just her way of talking.

She obviously means Phainon, which prompts him to huff out a laugh. Even after this entire mess, it's reassuring – and heartwarming, though he won't admit it – to know that Phainon is as predictable as always. He hasn't changed that much, then. It makes something else unwind in his chest, a relief that feels like sun rays on his skin, though he knows from experience that doubts will once again appear at some point.

“How do you like the museum? I worked hard on it,” nods Stelle, eyes glinting and grin wide.

Mydei blinks at her, caught off-guard. He knows that Stelle is the kind of person that has their finger in all pies, but managing a museum of all things? 

“Ugh, don't lie. It wasn't just you, we did a good chunk of the work. After all, it's in the name: Belobog History and Culture Museum,” points out Seele, rolling her eyes, but her smile is warm.

Stelle is still staring at him with glinting eyes and a grin, so Mydei coughs lightly and takes a last look at the museum – clean floors, organized exhibits, all in good condition – and nods, satisfied.

“It’s a good way to educate the people in this place’s history,” he says, and immediately, Stelle’s grin widens and she takes his hand, shaking it vigorously.

“Thanks for your review, Your Highness!” she says, too cheery to be actually addressing a member of royalty. Someone should tell her to cut down on that, before she gets her head cut off – and he wonders how she even managed to survive Cerydra and her moods, back when Amphoreus’ fate was still a dark blur in the horizon. 

But– not his problem.

“‘Your Highness’?” repeats Seele, but it sounds more like a question. Surprised and a bit alarmed, really, because her hands fidget with her loose clothes. “Hey, Stelle, you didn’t say–”

“I’m not the Crown Prince anymore,” he says, interrupting the mess that was approaching them at maximum speed. He meets Seele’s eyes, then, sees the clear relief that bleeds out of her at his words. He tries to relax the air. “I already ended the Dynasty, remember? I will not wear a broken crown.”

“Aw, party pooper,” mutters Stelle, shooting a disappointed glance at him. He meets it with an unimpressed stare.

“Anyway… I was just going.” He takes a step towards the door, but then he pauses and tilts his head at Stelle. “You should ask the others what they think of the museum, too. More reviews, right?”

“Oh, I will.” And just like that, Stelle stomps her way inside the exhibits with a determined gaze and teleslate already in her hand.

Mydei shakes his head, not really surprised and not really with a guilty conscience – he knows the other Crysos Heirs wandering about the rooms will have genuine and good-natured criticism and advice for Stelle and her museum. They were done with looking through the exhibits, anyway. Hyacine will probably end up with even more photos to look through, by the time they exit through that door.

“Ah, wait!” comes Seele’s surprising call, and Mydei once again stops before he can step out of the museum and into Belobog’s frigid air. He’s not too fond of it, he can admit. Seele catches up to him in no time, and not for the first time, Mydei recognizes another fellow fighter, even if she takes an approach different to his own. “I wanted to talk to you for a moment.”

“About what?” he asks, because, as far as he knows, the only thing they have in common is knowing Phainon. Would she ask him anything about that guy? Tell him something?

“I was talking with Stelle before, and I told her about what Phainon advised Bronya when they met – about our long-term project of uniting the people of the Underworld and the Overworld.” Seele’s eyes seek his own, sharp and determined and interested. “She mentioned that Phainon’s advice sounded a great deal like something you would know how to follow up on.”

That’s– surprising, actually.

Uniting people is the most difficult endeavor any leader will face during their rulership; that, he knows with certainty. It’s a good thing that Bronya – the leader here, he knows – is willing to focus on it enough to make it a priority, but he already knows that she has her work cut out for her. He’s seen how the two factions of this city regard each other with suspicion and self-righteousness. There are scars even they, who come from afar, can see clear as day. Time would be the most efficient way to heal them, of course, but something of this calibre needs something… more.

Which makes the fact that Phainon apparently gave them some advice – based on Mydei’s experience, even, though Phainon probably based his approach on Okhema’s example as a whole – very interesting.

“What did he say?” he asks, unable to keep his curiosity hidden.

“I can do you one better– Bronya has invited you to chat about the whole thing,” says Seele, and there’s a glint of pride there, clear warmth. From what he knows, for someone like Seele – born and bred in the Underworld – to trust Bronya that much speaks volumes of their bond and what kind of person Bronya Rand is.

So, Mydei doesn’t really need to think about the offer.

“Then, I accept,” he says, simply enough. 

It makes a nervous itch go through him, but he’s also interested. After all, he can see echoes of what he’s seen in Okhema, with his own people, in this small corner of the universe, where people are doubtful of reaching out a hand to the other side. He can see why Phainon felt compelled to help them, offering his own two cents. Mydei follows in his footsteps without even realizing.

And also– he should take this seriously. With how things are going, Jarilo-VI is shaping up to be the very first official contact that Amphoreus has established in the endless sea of stars.

After all, the planet has seemingly gotten the approval of their resident Lord Ravager, Kephale himself.

Chapter Text

The first bounty he takes is pretty easy and straight-forward. 

Boothill helps him decide, pointing out where he needs to go – and looking at him in horror when Phainon admits that he doesn’t have or need a spaceship to move around the cosmos, nor does he have any navigational tool to guide him – and what to take into consideration when choosing which commissions to take in the future. Having Aventurine as a liaison is helpful, more than helpful even, and it really smooths out the process for him.

It also means that he needs to use his teleslate more often, for both navigating the grand expanse of the cosmos and to notify Aventurine of his progress and deal with the transactions.

The first bounty is simply taking out a particularly strong Anti-Matter Legion higher-up; a monster that reeks of Destruction when he finds it terrorizing a touristic spaceship, full of people screaming and crying. It seems pretty empty-headed, though; it pauses as soon as it sees him, considering, no doubt recognizing the Destruction inside Phainon and wondering if it should bow to him or something similar.

Phainon doesn’t let it come to a decision.

Destroying it in one fell swoop is anticlimactic, but it means that the panicked guests don’t have time to recognize him.

He calls Aventurine when he’s already far away from the place, floating in the middle of nowhere. When he checks the new navigation app that Boothill made him install on his teleslate, he glances at the planet seemingly called Vrandium – a mass of storms and lightning at his feet – and the belt of asteroids that looks to be more of a hindrance to go through than simply… going around it.

“That was… quick,” comes Aventurine’s surprised voice. Not that he lets it show that much. “You know, when you said that you didn’t have a spaceship or a shuttle or anything to get around the cosmos, I– I don’t know what I expected.” Aventurine whistles. “You Emanators are scary.”

Phainon frowns, a bit afronted. He doesn’t know much about other Emanators and how they are perceived – just enough to know that he should avoid being recognized as one, especially one of Destruction – but somehow, lumping them all together seems… counterintuitive.

“I thought you worked under an Emanator?” he asks, just to make a point.

“Exactly. You’re all scary,” says Aventurine, a bit smug, but with no real bite behind his words. Phainon still can’t quite get a read on the man – he doesn’t know if they count as allies, or if Aventurine simply wants something from him, or if the Stoneheart just doesn’t want to be on the bad side of a Lord Ravager. Any of those possibilities would be understandable, feels Phainon. “Anyway, it’s dead?”

Phainon thinks of the charred corpse he left behind.

“Pretty dead, I’d say,” he says, and he can feel a bit of amusement leak into his voice. And that– that is new. Amusement. In his voice. Dry, sure, but still– he almost joked, there.

Aventurine hums on the other side of the call, ignorant to Phainon’s realization and subsequent relief. He’s clearly busy with something, something that’s probably related to his work as a Stoneheart, and Phainon wonders just how much trust the IPC has for its employees, if they let Aventurine communicate this easily with someone that doesn’t have anything to do with that world. Or, maybe– Aventurine just doesn’t care.

“So you’ll move to target B?” asks Aventurine, referring to the second target that Boothill suggested to him; more difficult, half-human, half-robot – a cyborg, they explained – terribly dangerous for any bounty hunter with a big mouth and no real strength or experience. Doable for Phainon, Boothill said. It would give him enough credits to last him months.

Phainon grimaces and thinks back to the blurry poster Boothill thrusted into his hands. Theodore Kaczynski, a madman, a genius bomber. Phainon remembers the crazed glint in the man’s eyes, the chill that ran down his back as his gaze met the man’s – a red eye. “Obsessed with Destruction” said the poster. “Has an entire planet hostage. It’s recommended to be swift and quick when dealing with him. Hand him over, preferably alive.” 

It had almost made Phainon laugh, almost made him look Boothill straight in the eye and ask him if he was joking.

Because he was reminded of a certain man-robot, also obsessed with Destruction, also with a glint of passionate madness in his eyes, and so, he folded the poster and thanked Boothill for the suggestion – he would take care of it.

Aventurine’s eyes were considering, then, calculating, as he looked at Phainon and his reaction to the poster. Phainon can be inexperienced in interstellar matters, but he isn’t stupid – out of the three wanderers he’s met, Aventurine is the most likely to connect the dots. And he will, given time. After all, Amphoreus has opened its gates to the cosmos, and from what little he knows, the IPC will be one of the first to knock on their door.

Is that dangerous or troublesome or better avoided? Phainon isn’t sure, but their deal still stands and is beneficial for both of them, so he has no real reason to break it. Yet.

“I’ll move to target B,” he confirms, resolute. One more puzzle piece in the image that is appearing in his mind, of the path he should take from now on, with Destruction’s gaze on his back like a target and fire in his veins, different to the past inferno that burned him from the inside out, but just as fiery.

(Nanook wants destruction? Then let THEM have it. Let Phainon be the one to bring it to THEM.

“I brought you Destruction!” echoes in his mind, tears at his throat.)

“Good luck then, friend,” says Aventurine, and it sounds meaningful, somehow, with a heaviness that Phainon didn’t expect from the other man.

And so, Phainon checks the 3-dimensional map he’s still figuring out and– flashes away, like a shooting star.

—

Bronya’s schedule seems to be packed everyday at all times, so Mydei has to wait a few days to meet with her. 

It’s enough time for him to pay more attention to the situation and come up with a few ideas. He wanders the Underworld some more, forces himself to start meaningless conversation with the citizens– until they are not meaningless anymore, going deeper than usual pleasantries. He doesn’t do that in the Overworld, if only because people are colder there, more distant. He still sits at one of the restaurants and listens to the conversations floating around him, waiting for something to catch his ear.

By the time he gets led by a blond knight – with soft and yet determined blue eyes that remind him of a certain someone, but not quite – Mydei already has a vague idea of what’s keeping the two factions apart. Not that the answer to their problems is easy, though. He has a few ideas, some of which he will share with Bronya Rand – if she’s receptive to his advice, that is.

Immediately after meeting her, he is relieved to find that his reservations were unfounded. He expected as much, because Seele – someone who is clearly cautious of the people of the Overworld – seems pretty fond of this woman, but it’s good to see it with his own eyes.

“I apologize for my tardiness, Mr. Mydei,” she greets, and her hold is firm and strong when they shake hands. “I’ve been trying to deal with a sudden… thief that’s stealing some of our– oh, but it’s none of your concern.”

Mydei frowns slightly – didn’t the Space Station also deal with a mysterious thief during their stay? – but he follows Bronya to a small table where they can talk calmly with each other over a warm cup of tea that Mydei holds between his hands to ward off the chill that keeps sticking to his body.

“Stelle mentioned that Mr. Phainon based a lot of his advice on your people and how you interacted with the city that took you in. I expect you already know the situation that Belobog finds itself in, am I correct?” she starts, and Mydei nods.

“What exactly did Phainon tell you?” he asks, if only because it will be easier to work around the points Phainon already addressed, instead of wasting time repeating themselves.

“He made a point to try to unite people, but to let them keep their individuality. I… can understand where he’s coming from.” Bronya sighs, a bit too long, and it only highlights how troubled she is by the entire thing. Mydei’s lips twitch – he can see a lot of himself in her, back when he struggled to find a balance between the good for his people and what was expected of him as Crown Prince - and then as the demigod of Strife. “Belobog is split in two. Neither side will consent to being absorbed into the other, and neither side will accept the other as their equal – not as an identity, that is.” Bronya pauses for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “Mr. Phainon mentioned that it would do us good to find a way to… get them to interact with each other. Find common ground.”

“That would be a good start, yes,” nods Mydei, and he tries to think back to the past that seems too far away now, as if it was years ago. And the thing is, some of those ‘pasts’ were years ago. Centuries. Lifetimes ago. For a moment, they blur together. He sees faces and names land on his tongue, but they don’t quite click, because they don’t fit with each other. Different cycles, different lives. And yet, in all of them– “From what I’ve seen, each faction is mistrustful of the other. The Overworld sees the Underworld as uncivilized, poor, violent. The Underworld see the Overworld as… threatening, not quite worthy of their trust– because they hurt them.” Mydei pauses for a moment. “Phainon did well in telling you to work on ways to make them interact peacefully.”

Mydei thinks back to Okhema, the melting pot of Amphoreus. He thinks of bustling streets, the Marmoreal Palace in the distance, the noisy baths, the vendors offering their produce with wide smiles. He thinks of his people, always proud, always cautious after years of struggle – they were so hesitant at first, so distant, so set on their old ways. From what he’s seen, Belobog doesn’t cling to any troublesome traditions, not that he can see, so that makes things easier. Still, scars remain, and this time, there is no Kephale watching over them, no Black Tide to unite them all against a common enemy. There is no crown to shatter on the ground, no blood to clean off.

And yet– he can see a similar path, a hand reaching out to the other side. Now, if only the other side reached out too, accepted the offered hand to walk side by side.

“This world bears a lot of scars,” he comments, softly, and Bronya opens her mouth, maybe to explain, but there’s a glint of grief in her eyes that Mydei knows too well, so he shakes his head. “At this point, the only advice I can give you is… make the people of the Underworld feel appreciated, like they really matter. Respect their traditions, spread awareness to the Overworld. Make them work together for a common objective, preferably on neutral ground.”

Bronya repeats his words under her breath, head low and nodding slightly. She taps her nails on the cup of tea she hasn’t quite touched since they sat down, thinking and probably taking note of his advice. Mydei can admit that it’s not the best, but without knowing in depth what happened – even though the museum and his wandering did wonders – he can only do so much.

“Thank you for your advice,” nods Bronya, and this time she smiles, grateful. “It’s very helpful. It does remind me that we are already working on something together… it is helping, though the progress is limited, due to how many workers actually interact with others from the other part of the city. But… it is helping. I think.”

“What are you working on?” he asks, arching an eyebrow. He hasn’t heard anything about it, but then again, Stelle and Dan Heng have been doing their own thing while they are here, and he doubts that the project the people of Belobog have been working on would be a tourist spot recommended to people like them, the Crysos Heirs.

Bronya’s smile widens and she leaves the untouched cup of tea on the table.

“Would you like to see?” she asks, and there’s a spark of amusement and deep pride in her voice, then. Something bright, like the sun.

Mydei nods.

And so, soon enough, he finds himself looking up and up, to the hulking silhouette of…

“A giant robot?” he mutters, eyes wide. 

It reminds him of a Titan, maybe Kephale himself, with its humanoid form, but much more… boxy. Dark steel, wide and strong ‘arms’, clearly meant for defence or even terraforming.

“This is the Engine of Creation,” explains Bronya. “My… mother, the previous Guardian, tried to use it with the Stellaron to… grant a new beginning to Belobog, so to say. A new future.” She pauses, smiles bitterly but with hope at the robot. “I suppose she wasn’t that far off. We’re restoring it to its past glory.”

Mydei remains silent, looking at the robot and the various people flitting from place to place. He sees people from the Overworld, people from the Underworld, Silvermane Guards, everyone working together to make one of their historical breakthroughs stand up again.

Humanity sure is something, he thinks, and his lips curl up in what he recognizes as pride and nostalgia, longing for another world that he knows is also working hard to stand back up on their feet and embrace hope.

“Anything I can help with?” he asks Bronya, with Seele now in tow. Seele arches an eyebrow at him, but Bronya smiles.

“There’s always work to be done,” she says, light and yet proud.

Seele huffs a laugh behind her, eyes locked on Mydei.

“Just like Phainon. Workaholics,” she mutters.

Mydei can’t bring himself to feel offended by that – not when it’s true.

—

Target B – Theodore Kaczynski, alias Unabomber – is hiding in a small planet that floats aimlessly through the cosmos without a sun to anchor it. That’s why it takes Phainon more time than he would have liked to find it, but it helps him practice with the navigation app, anyway.

He returns to his more human appearance as soon as he sees the people mingling about the small town he’s landed in. The buildings are tattered, made from scraps, and the inhabitants cover themselves with long and dirty capes. It’s cold – very cold, in a different way from Jarilo-VI’s snow and ice. This planet is just… lifeless. One deep breath and leftovers from Destruction threaten to burn his nose and throat – it meets his own Destruction, stronger and more fiery, and melts into nothing.

It makes something twist in Phainon’s chest as he hurries through the dusty streets, keeping to the walls and snatching a faded rag to cover his pristine clothes and white hair. He tries asking for directions, but the people of this planet look at him with apathetic eyes and stare in silence. It shakes him to the core when he thinks more on it, if he’s being honest with himself – did he (does he) look like that before (now)? Did his eyes lack that shine, did he look like a walking corpse? He hopes not, but it would explain a lot of things; like the worried glances the Crysos Heirs would shoot at him, when he dared to steal glances at them.

He doesn’t let himself dwell too much on what this planet has been through, what they have lost, and what they continue to lose. He’d like to say that he can save them, too, but once again, he’s terribly aware of how little he knows of the universe. He doesn’t know how to help them. He doesn’t know if he can. The Astral Express would know, he thinks, but– he stares at his teleslate, presses his lips into a thin line, and then pockets it again. He can’t ask anymore of them, as good-hearted as they are. He’s already been selfish enough.

They can’t save everyone, and his heart bleeds, but– he’s here for a job, and he will see it to the end, and maybe, just maybe, without the mad bomber making their lives miserable, they can– stumble forward. Find a future, different from this black hole.

(A bitter and fatalistic part of himself that he hasn't been able to shake off scoffs.

He doesn't have anything more to give away.

He can't save them – but he can burn the obstacles in the way, and he can clear the path for them.

Maybe that's what he's been looking for, that new role, with Destruction as his weapon - his tool.)

So, he wanders until he finds the suspicious building that’s falling apart, the building that hides the laboratory of said crazy scientist – it reeks of Destruction, it tastes like ash on his tongue, familiar and aching. He moves through the messy and dirty laboratory, ignoring everything in his path, until he finds said cyborg, Kaczynski: a man with half the face made of metal, just like his right arm, just like his right leg. The red eye that looks up to him is enough to make a shiver run down Phainon’s spine, enough to make him unsheathe his sword and swing it to the cyborg’s throat immediately, no words needed.

Kaczynski laughs, and his voice echoes. Just like Lycurgus’.

He swings his sword again, this time letting some of the Destruction he’s kept carefully back bleed into his blade and burn.

“Destruction…” mutters the cyborg, and his laugh is choppy, sometimes cutting off like an old record. “I finally… got the gaze of Destruction…”

“You got nothing ,” he says, and his voice is raspy from the fire now lapping at his tongue, burning it like so many times before. “You are nothing.”

(And are those words meant for this cyborg he doesn’t know anything about, or–?)

The cyborg laughs again and doesn’t stop, not even as he falls on the table, scattering far too many bombs, most of them half-done, some of them defective. Some of them fall to the ground, but not one of them explodes.

He slams his sword on the cyborg's leg, bending it in half and rendering it useless.

“Destruction… say, how would you destroy this planet?” asks the cyborg, grin wide and crazed. He makes a wide gesture to the bombs he’s been working on with another laugh.

“I wouldn’t destroy it,” comes his answer, stilted and cold and yet scorching. He glares at the cyborg, pines him against the table and almost snarls. “I’m not like you.”

“Aren’t you?” asks the cyborg, and that red eye, so bright it seems to glow in the semi-dark of this laboratory, feels like a nail stabbing his chest. “Don’t you sing and dance to the Destruction, too?”

He grimaces, takes a deep breath that tastes like fire and ash.

He thinks back to a tide of red and black, of fire and death and repeat, repeat, repeat–

This time, his blade cuts off the right arm with a grating sound. Smoke curls off the severed ‘wound’, multicolored cables spilling out of the socket in a familiar way that he doesn't allow himself to think much about.

The severed arm falls to the ground with a dull 'thud'.

“The Destruction sings to me,” he spats, and with that–

He hits the cyborg on the head.

Kaczynski crumbles to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

He stares at the man for a moment, taking deep breaths and trying to placate the fire in his chest, so familiar, but just as terrifying. Fire dances in his hand. His wings are out, as is his halo – they’ve left grooves on the walls, carved deep and bright orange as the steel melts around them.

He takes a final deep breath – and Phainon breathes out.

He hides his wings and halo again, adjusts the rag around his shoulders, making sure that his clean and bright clothes can’t be seen through its gaps, and drags Kaczynski out of his laboratory and into the streets like a glorified bag or a sacrifice.

People stare at him with lifeless eyes. They pause, slow and stilted, as if they have forgotten the script.

Phainon keeps walking, dragging the madman of Destruction away from the town, away from his victims.

People pause and stare and then– someone cheers. Their voice is grating, hoarse, but it’s definitely a cheer. Hands raise in tired celebration. Someone throws an empty can at Kaczynski being dragged through the dust by Phainon’s hand.

No one stops him, no one talks to him, no one thanks him – but their tired eyes are enough.

Somehow, that simple reaction is enough to bring some relief to Phainon’s weak, weak heart. 

He drops the man on the ground a few ways away from the town, in the middle of nowhere. He keeps a foot on top of the cyborg’s chest, just in case – though, he knows that he won’t be waking up anytime soon and it's not like he can run away in his present state – and calls Aventurine.

“Wow, that was fast. Again.” Aventurine picks up on the third try, whistling as soon as Phainon informs him of his… success. “He’s alive?”

“Unfortunately,” says Phainon, before he can think better of it. It sounds a bit too raspy to be normal. His voice still smolders with echoes of the fury that seems to be still nested in his chest. And that’s surprising – after everything, Phainon expected that rage to fizzle out silently, leaving only ashes behind. It seems like he was wrong. “Can you come pick him up?”

“Mm… I’m not too far away, but… Let me see what I can do,” says Aventurine, and then he hangs up on him. Just like that.

Phainon stares at his teleslate, blinking.

Rude.

He sighs, glares down at Kaczynski for a moment, before he kicks him lightly on the side to make sure that he’s not waking up for now, and then drops down on top of a dusty rock to wait.

His teleslate lights up with new notifications, but he ignores them, once again.

Instead, he breathes in. Breathes out. And tries to shake out the anger still clinging to his heart.

If he really thinks about it, it makes sense that his anger hasn’t just– left. It has been his most loyal companion for millions of cycles, after all. It has been the fuel that drove him forward, it was what made him rush to the heart of Irontomb and look Nanook in the eye and curse his name. It’s probably what opened the Path of Destruction to him in the first place, and it’s the reason why he accepted it in the first place.

Destruction is a part of him, as much as he hates it – hated it? It’s the Path that Amphoreus fell on, the sword hanging above it like a cruel joke. It’s the lie of Era Nova. It’s the gaze Irontomb wanted to attract, the gaze it wanted to keep. And in the end, it’s the gaze that Phainon– Khaslana– Khaos attracted and still keeps.

He looks at Kaczynski and grimaces.

And thinks that– people don’t actually understand Destruction. Not in its entirety.

Because, yes, it can and will destroy.

(And he thinks of Irontomb, of Lygus, of this– this mad cyborg that terrorized a planet in the middle of nowhere and yet almost fell to his knees in insane reverence as soon as he saw the real shadow of Destruction, balancing on the knife’s edge until he fell–)

But, he wonders - his hatred and his thirst for Destruction came about because of his deep love for his family and friends, his world, all of whom suffered again and again. He wanted to set them free, and what better way to do that than breaking their chains? What better way than burning away everything that tried to smother them under their (THEIR?) heels? There are so many Paths to take, and yet, he wonders if those are simply chains waiting for their prisoners to arrive, to make them kneel and careen into a different self-destruction-?

He looks into the distant stars and huffs.

“I think I understand what you want,” he mutters, maybe to himself, maybe to an entity that keeps glancing at him, as if THEY expect something from him. And yet– he clenches his fists. “Don’t misunderstand. If it’s YOUR own Destruction what YOU seek… then let me do the honors.”

He gets no answer.

But it’s alright – he never expected one, in the first place.

Still, this whole thing leaves him with a bad taste in his mouth. Playing the part of the hunter, preying on others, it reminds him of a past he would rather leave behind, and is still trying to outrun. The waves are higher here, reaching out to him and scratching his back like icy claws.

He looks at the inert Kaczynski and sees another. He sees himself, mind fractured, hanging onto the very remains of his sanity and humanity, tailing golden-blooded companions, his prey, hiding in the shadows, steps careful and silent until they aren't, jumping to attack, sword ready and a hand reaching for the Corefla–

He looks away just as quickly with a flinch and a hiss.

No. He makes his decision: no more human targets for his bounties. He's sure he can find commissions related to the Anti-Matter Legion or other monsters or creatures he can take care of without dredging up memories he would rather keep buried. Yes, he can do that. He will do that.

His teleslate shakes in his hand. Aventurine. He picks up, frowning, but the fire in his voice is now just embers, cracking slightly before they too fall silent.

“That was rude, you could have explained what you meant–” he starts, a bit annoyed. He doesn’t want to stay in the vicinity of this crazy cyborg any longer than he has to.

“I’ve sent a… friend to pick him up,” says Aventurine, and he sounds a bit hurried, a bit worried, maybe. Phainon frowns deeper, wondering who this ‘friend’ is for Aventurine to sound a bit reticent when mentioning them. “She has a request for you, I think. Hear her out, but don’t hesitate to refuse if what she says is a bit… strange.”

Phainon opens his mouth to ask him what he meant, why he’s being so cryptid about it, but a flash comes from the starry sky and he jumps up, his sword already on hand, as a small pod crashes into this little planet, kicking up a dense cloud of dust that makes Phainon cough and his eyes tear up.

He stares at the pod as the door – door? Front side, really – opens up and out comes… a girl. Dressed in a red dress? He’s not sure if it's a dress, but it looks like one. Her hair is dark, tied in two twin-tails, and as she hops onto the ground, the bells tied to her ankles jingle cheerfully.

She waves at him with both hands, grin wide, red-pink eyes shining with amusement and silent laughter.

She puts him a bit on edge, but he can’t quite say why.

“Hey, there Goldie!” she greets, skipping to Kaczynski, who he’s abandoned on the ground, and leaning down to frown at him with exaggerated disgust in her face. “This is the guy? Oh, he’s so ugly! He better be worth the trouble!"

Phainon stares as she kicks the cyborg on the side, just as he’s done moments before.

“The people out here are nuts,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

Aventurine laughs, still on the line.

“Oh, you have no idea, friend.”

Chapter Text

Sparkle, as the girl introduces herself, is… strange.

A bit unhinged, thinks Phainon, though he’s too polite to say it to her face. He’s becoming increasingly aware of the fact that the people of Jarilo-VI are the more… normal bunch that can be found in the wider universe. In only a few days – he doesn’t know how long he’s been jumping from place to place, now – he’s met quite a colorful cast of characters from all over. He’d like to think that they are, if not true friends, then at least allies. At any rate, he hopes no one runs their mouths about his identity.

He doesn’t know what to make of Sparkle, though, but it’s not like he can keep his identity as an Emanator from her. She already knows about it somehow, but Phainon highly doubts that Aventurine would snitch on him, especially after his way of introducing her, which was… not really fond, but not hostile, either. 

So, here they are – in another space bar, floating in the middle of nowhere. Literally.

Phainon stares at her over his tall glass of– he doesn’t know what it is, but he’s made sure it’s nothing alcoholic. He’s not the best with those drinks – or, at least, he was before… everything. Maybe his inner fire of Destruction would burn through the alcohol, but he's not willing to risk it. The last thing he needs right now is to be too drunk to think carefully and be unable to be on guard for any possible threats.

Sparkle, for her part, sips from her colorful drink, seemingly carefree.

“So, what’s the deal you wanted to offer me?” he asks, just because he’s quite sure that she’s just trying to make him uncomfortable, make him tick, figure out his limits. It’s a dangerous game she’s playing, he thinks, especially since she already knows that he’s a Lord Ravager. Wouldn’t it be better for her to remain cautious around him?

Sparkle grins widely again and slaps a poster on the table – only, it’s clearly hand-made and unofficial. The face of the person is a blue blob of paint, no true features, nothing more than a vague idea of a humanoid figure. The name under it is just as confusing: Memokeeper. Phainon recognizes the name – isn’t that what Cyrene kind of is? Followers of Fuli, though nowhere near Cyrene’s status as an Emanator. Their involvement in Amphoreus is a bit lost to him, seeing as when they explained it to him he had just woken up from a week-long nap (coma) after his collapse, but he can glean enough to decide that they aren’t exactly friends of their world. And that is enough to make him reevaluate his new rule of not accepting human targets for his commissions – he makes an addendum: no human targets, except direct enemies of Amphoreus; those take priority.

And then he pauses, because… he also knows that there are countless Memokeepers all around the cosmos.

“You should… probably be more specific than that,” he says, a bit uncertain. Sparkles’s gaze and grin don’t fall; no, they widen.

“Don’t worry. There’s only one– At least where I want you to go,” she explains vaguely, and there’s a note of laughter in her voice. Phainon wonders if she’s actually messing with him.

“And where do you want me to go?” he asks, cautious.

“Penacony,” says Sparkle, simply, grin widening even more.

Phainon freezes.

“That… is a bit–” he starts, sweating slightly. 

If there’s one thing he remembers about Dan Heng’s stories about Penacony, it’s the clear extravagance of the place, the exclusiveness of it all. Even the Astral Express could only get into Penacony thanks to a direct invitation. If so, what chances does Phainon have of getting in to carry out this hypothetical mission? None.

Plus, the idea of walking through dreams, leaving reality behind… Somehow, the idea doesn’t sit right with him at all. It reminds him too much of Amphoreus’ unreal origins. It means leaving the reality he’s trying so hard to accept behind, plunging into a sea of blades that could and will cut him – his dreams are anything but pretty, always, without fail.

“Don’t worry, I’ll pay for the costs,” says Sparkle, waving a hand in the air.

Phainon looks at her, not quite believing her words.

“Everything?” he asks, just to be clear. Sparkle’s eyes light up, so he raises a hand. “I’m not accepting your deal. Yet.”

Sparkle deflates against her seat, exaggerated, like a balloon, and pouts.

“Aw, stop being so hard to get, Goldie,” she grumbles, and the nickname makes Phainon squirm on his seat, uncomfortable. He gets the urge to reach up with a hand and cover the sun mark on his neck. “But– yes. I’ll… pay for everything.”

Phainon almost asks if she would also pay for any purchases he might make inside the hotel and Dreamscape, but he bites his tongue. He shouldn’t accept this deal. Not when it means dredging up his past even more – something could go wrong, the Destruction running through his veins might react weirdly to the Harmony of Penacony, maybe he could even collapse the Dreamscape. He has no idea if that could be possible, but– He looks at Sparkle, her unbothered deal. She knows about him being an Emanator, right? She wouldn’t throw him into the dream without knowing if his presence could jeopardize everything, right? 

Sparkle sighs loudly, rolls her eyes and her head.

“Your thoughts are so loud, ugh. Look, you won’t destroy the Dreamscape as soon as you step onto Penacony.” Phainon frowns at her, suspicious. “ Really, you won’t. An Emanator of Nihility was there not long ago and see? Penacony is still standing.”

Phainon shuffles through what he remembers of Dan Heng’s stories and– yes, he remembers now. Acheron, an Emanator of Nihility. She did cut a chunk of the Dreamscape, but other than that, her presence didn’t end in the Dreamscape’s total annihilation. So, Sparkle is probably right.

That doesn’t really help with his other reservations about going there, personal as they are.

He’s doing better now. He can feel it himself. Being away from Amphoreus, seeing what lies ahead, has really put things into perspective, but it has also helped him distance himself from what happened in his world, what he did and what he brought. It has made him sit down and actually think of what awaits him now as an Emanator that most of the universe will probably fear, has made him come to terms with the fire running through his veins and the permanent gaze of golden eyes on him. And even if he doesn’t feel quite at peace about it yet, he’s getting there. He’s getting there, which is more than he could have dreamed of merely a month ago.

He’s looking to the future now, but Penacony would undoubtedly make him look to the past. And is he ready for it?

Sparkle sighs again and this time she slams another piece of paper on the table: a ticket to something called a ‘Wardance’.

“... What’s that?” he asks, still cautious. Sparkle’s vehemence about him accepting her deal is strange, if not worrying.

“It’s an event revolving around combat,” she says and that’s enough to pick his interest immediately. And she knows it, by the way her eyes glint. She leaves the ticket on the table and leans back to wave a hand and slurp more of her multicolored drink. “It’s yours, if you accept the deal.” She grins again. “Not bad, huh?”

Phainon crosses his arms, conflicted. The deal sounds pretty good, all things considered. Not many people would go all this way to get a random Memokeeper behind bars – probably? He doesn’t know what Sparkle wants to do with that Memokeeper, and he won’t get involved, either way.

All of those benefits, and their cost: his sanity.

Sparkle stares at him as his tired mind fluctuates between the two options – decline and lose on a very good deal that would open the door for a next destination, or accept and risk encountering trouble, either by bringing ruin to Penacony itself or ruining the leeway he’d made in healing his exhausted and scarred mind. 

A possibility versus a fact; Professor Anaxa would arch his eyebrow at him, in that way he always does when he’s disappointed by a student’s answer to a question he posed.

With a sigh, Phainon grabs the ticket from the table.

Sparkle chuckles and offers her hand, bells jingling around her wrist.

“We have a deal, Goldie?”

Phainon hesitates for a last moment, before he sighs again and shakes her hand.

“Deal.”

Something tells him he’ll regret this.

—

“Okay, be honest with me now.” Stelle takes a deep breath, hands clasped in front of her face and eyes closed, until she finally opens them and looks at their little group sharply. “Are any of you stealing shit?”

“Stelle–” comes Dan Heng’s tired and exasperated call from the other side of the hotel room, but Stelle waves a hand at him and the other Nameless closes his mouth with a deep sigh that reverberates through his entire body.

“I just want to know,” she continues. “I won’t judge. As long as you come clean.”

The Crysos Heirs, all of them seated in different places around the hotel room that Hyacine and Trianne share, glance at each other, confusion and amusement clear in their eyes.

Mydei almost huffs out a laugh. They look like schoolchildren being scolded by their teacher after doing something wrong – not that he has any experience being in the receiving end of these scoldings, but he’s seen the children of Okhema visit the baths with their schoolmates and teachers and he’s witnessed many troublemakers get caught and scolded by their caretakers. Hyacine and Castorice hide wide smiles; they probably think the same, though they probably lived through it in some capacity, back at the Grove.

“It’s not us!” says Trianne, and she would sound offended– if she wasn’t laughing as hard as she is, almost falling off the bed.

“That’s right, why would we need to steal?” asks Hyacine, and her smile is much more relaxed and free, now, even though her hands are still permanently stained with ink and her wallet lighter, after buying another notebook for her notes. “You lend us credits to pay for our purchases.”

That makes Stelle pause, raise a finger, open her mouth– and then close it just as quickly, looking at Dan Heng, who sends back an unimpressed glance her way.

Mydei shakes his head, amused, with a slight smile. And yet, there’s something itching at the back of his mind. Apparently, the stealing has followed them onto Jarilo-VI, which is… curious. And also a nightmare for Bronya, who already has enough work to tire anyone out. Seele has already manhandled Stelle into investigating what is going on, saying that “it’s always related to you, in some way” and that “Bronya doesn’t need more fucking work”.

Stelle sighs, sharp and annoyed.

“Well, then, I’m out of leads,” she grumbles. “Not that I had many, anyway.”

Trianne, Hyacine and Castorice soon try to cheer her up, seeing as their dear guide through the stars has turned into a mush of disappointment on Trianne’s bed, but Mydei leaves the room with a vague suspicion taking root in his mind.

“If I were an intergalactic thief, what would I try to steal from here?” he asks himself, walking down the hallway of the hotel.

He eyes the few decorations scattered in the hallways, the dirty windows, the faded wallpaper, the old carpet under his heavy boots. Then, he goes out to the streets and frowns at the few stores he’s become accustomed to after a week of staying at Belobog, the humble products they offer. Somehow, he doubts their resident thief would much care for what the Overworld can offer – no, the thief is probably staying around–

He catches a flash and suddenly, one of the glowing fists hanging from the entrance to the Fight Club is– missing. The red one, to be exact.

Immediately, he crosses a glance with Hook and her merry band of mischievous kids he’s played with on occasion – it seems these kids follow in Okhema’s kids’ tradition of looking past Mydei’s somewhat intimidating appearance in favor of dragging him into their games. Though, he’s learned soon enough that their ‘games’ sometimes veer off into dangerous self-imposed missions and treasure hunts that are best supervised by a capable – and experienced in battle – adult. Just in case.

Hook tilts her head to the side, completely confused.

But– there. A flash of a shadow, annoyingly familiar.

Mydei hurries after the slight blur his eyes only catch because he knows what to look for. It’s not quite a silhouette, it’s not quite lightning, but both of them – a flash that hurries out of the area until he loses it behind the buildings. 

He curses in his mind, but he doesn’t lose hope. He follows a random street, then another. He sees nothing out of the ordinary, which is funny, because you’d think that a glowing red fist would be pretty eye-catching.

In the end, he has to get out of Boulder Town proper to find anything resembling a clue– but when he does discern another flash and hears a familiar laugh full of mirth, he doesn’t hesitate and rushes down the stairs and street, between run-down buildings, until–

His hand closes around the back of a dark tunic with a hood and the Trickery demigod yelps as she’s dragged to a stop.

“Ah, that’s rude! Don’t interrupt someone’s training regime– oh.” Cipher blinks at him, blue eyes wide with genuine surprise. “It’s you.” And then she grins widely with a nervous laugh. “What a coincidence, isn’t it? To meet here in this place, so far away from Amphoreus–”

“I’m not an idiot,” he says, not really angry, only curious. “How did you get here?”

Cipher huffs and crosses her arms, still kept still by Mydei’s grip on the back of her tunic and very much hating the fact.

“A master thief doesn’t tell her secrets,” she sniffs, nose high.

“You’re the mysterious thief that’s been stealing at every stop we’ve gone to, aren’t you?” he asks, not really surprised. A part of him wonders how he didn’t see this coming, but then again, it’s not as if anyone could have expected Cipher of all people to get out of Amphoreus– not without the Astral Express. Which does make it all the more interesting.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, little lion,” she says, looking away, crossing her arms.

Mydei sighs and shakes his head, but when he lowers Cipher to the ground and lets go of her clothes slowly, she doesn’t run away. Instead, she sniffs again and adjusts her sleeves and hood until they are in their rightful place.

“You know, I should complain to Gray Mystery and her dragon friend– they have shit taste for choosing stops. The spaceship was cool, but I didn’t know what half the stuff there was, so I had no idea what was the best thing to–” Cipher closes her mouth with a click, but the unsaid word is loud anyway. She turns around, arms crossed once again. “Anyway, this place is no better. I have no idea what counts as valuable.”

Mydei sends an unimpressed glance at her, arms similarly crossed on his chest. He remembers vaguely how Phainon told him once that Cipher was easy to deal with, if you knew how she worked. Mydei figured it out on his own after a few meetings with her, but he still had a hard time understanding where she came from most of the time. He could see clear as day the words she always left unsaid, the hand she always kept in the air, silent and waiting but too hesitant to reach out on her own. He wouldn’t call it ‘running away’ – especially now that the truth of her lies came to light – but he wonders what would change if Cipher became more… direct. More honest. Maybe he expects too much from the demigod of Trickery, but…

“I wonder what Aglaea would think of clothes from other worlds,” he says, a bit distant, as if he was thinking out loud. This isn’t his usual strategy, but Hyacine has been joking lately about Mydei being everyone’s therapist – and he supposes that she’s not wrong. This new era of peace seems to have opened more doors than just Amphoreus’.

“There were some pretty coats up there…” comes Cipher’s mumble, but then she freezes and looks at him with a mighty frown, before sniffing again and turning around again. “Don’t stop me, little lion. It’s not like I’m taking anything important– not from here, at least. Now, those rich people up-top… well, they won’t miss anything.”

And with that, she’s gone in a flash.

The giant sign of a fist is left abandoned by the wall, blinking at random intervals and burning Mydei’s eyes from the direct light.

He huffs a laugh and grabs the sign, shaking his head once again and making a mental note to start a betting pool with the others on how much longer until Cipher finally has a heart-to-heart with Aglaea, instead of floating around her, too far away to touch.

When he gets to Boulder Town, though, Stelle grabs his arm in a vice-like grip and stares at him with wide eyes.

“Who was it?” she asks in a too-loud whisper. No one reacts to her antics, which probably means that they are all used to her maniatic and strange habits by now.

Mydei looks her in the eye and hands her the huge sign like someone would hand over a panphlet. Stelle struggles to hold it up, cursing under her breath.

“I found Cipher,” he says, apropos of nothing.

Stelle stares at him.

“Fuck, why didn’t I think of that?” she mutters, soft and frustrated. She groans loudly and turns around, lugging the sign after her. “Of course she would.”

—

Phainon can’t help but fall back as Sparkle skips her way to the front desk of the hotel, his eyes wide and mouth slightly agape.

He’s heard much about Penacony, both from Dan Heng and from the universal web, but even all the words and photos in the world could never make it justice. The floors of the hotel stretch up and up and up, into the infinite stars. Countless ships arrive and leave at every minute, with more and more people pouring into the main hall. He sees the workers – all from the Family, he remembers – keeping up with the flow of people in a feat that seems impossible to achieve for his overwhelmed mind.

This is– this is too much. And it’s also what he expected from the outer universe: unimaginable, incomprehensible, and yet, so very promising and beautiful.

Not for the first time, he feels like a kid seeing the world beyond for the first time. Excitement climbs up his chest, warm, so different from the fiery flames of fury of the past. It makes him feel– giddy, for the first time in centuries, millenia, where every cycle was the same tragedy over and over again. This is new. This is all new. It’s so different from what he knows.

He wants to explore it all.

Someone pokes his side and he startles so bad he almost forms his sword out of flames and–

Sparkle grins at him, unbothered.

“I’ve taken care of everything. Here, this is the key to your room.” She pushes a card into his hand, and he almost asks how a card could be the key to a room, but then she leans back and turns to go. “Remember. To find the Memokeeper, you’ll need to submerge yourself into the dream.”

Right. The dream. Submerge. Great.

Sparkle skips away with a wave of her hand and a ‘good luck’, effectively leaving him alone in the middle of an overcrowded hall, with no idea where he needs to go and how to ‘submerge’ himself into the dream everyone is talking about.

So, he wanders. That’s worked for him so far.

He starts inching his way to the side, where he can see most people heading with their luggage. He feels a bit unbecoming with his small bag thrown over his shoulder and the slightly dirty clothes he’s wearing, but no one stops him as he takes the elevator up. 

He rubs a thumb over his room number: 013N. He doesn’t know if it was intentional – and if so, how did she know? – but he huffs a dry laugh.

He finally manages to find his floor, following the helpful signs strewn around the elevator and hallways and one time even asking one of the staff. They don’t bat an eye at his attire and lack of sizable belongings or his tired eyes and obviously-fake smile that he’s still working on making a bit more genuine, a bit wider than just a curl of his lips, and he’s grateful for that.

By the time he finds his way into a wide lounge full of sofas, with a bar in the middle and actual live music – played with instruments he’s never seen before – he’s too tired and overwhelmed to truly stop and admire everything. So, he heads to the stairs and then finds his room with no trouble – he does frown at the card in his hand for a moment, before figuring out how the mechanism to open the door works.

The room is just as expensive-looking and extravagant as the rest of the hotel, and not for the first time since he stepped foot into this resort, he feels a bit out of place. It reminds him vaguely of how he struggled to find his place, back when Aglaea invited him to Okhema at first – invited him to the city and the limelight of being an official Crysos Heir. He felt something similar, then; the buildings were too big compared to Aedes Elysiae’s small houses, the clothes were too soft, too colorful, there were no fields where he could run, there were too many faces he didn’t know, couldn’t count. His world suddenly multiplied in size, too quickly for him to find his footing.

This is something similar, but also not. He’s been wandering through the stars for a while now, so he’s become a bit more familiar with the idea of just how overwhelmingly infinite the universe is. He’s met more people, he’s seen more places, but– this is the first time he’s seen what money can do beyond the skies of Amphoreus. What it can buy – dreams, it seems.

He leaves his bag on one of the sofas and takes the opportunity to poke around the room. He finds a– he doesn’t know what it’s called, but it plays music. It’s not live music, but it sounds good. He uses his teleslate to find out who the singer is – someone called Robin, and the name itches at the back of his mind. He tries to remember, but he’s too tired to actually make much leeway on it.

When he can’t avoid it any longer, he looks at the wide bathtub on the other side of the room.

‘Submerge yourself in the dream’... so it’s quite literal, then.

With a sigh, he gets out of his heavier armour – as much as he’d like to be prepared for anything, going into the water fully dressed would be a hindrance. And– if things truly go wrong, then he would have no choice but to give free reign to the Destruction in his veins, anyway. He’d like to avoid it, though. Somehow, using so much Destruction could mean lasting damage to the dream… and who knows what would happen then.

He gets into the water and lays down, trying to relax his tense body. It helps that the water doesn’t really move. It’s quite warm, in fact, and for a moment, he tries to convince himself that he’s only at the Hero’s Bath, soaking in the glittering water, with Mydei by his side, ready to indulge his latest challenge–

He starts to drift off with that thought.

For a moment, he feels ready to fall asleep and, who knows, maybe this time he won’t have to worry about nightmares and twisted memories haunting him in his sleep.

But then, the dream shakes.

He startles and almost wakes– but it’s just that: almost.

A wave pulls him under and he goes down and down and down–

And he drowns.

Chapter Text

He wakes up gasping for air.

And yet, when he sits up and pats himself down, Dawnmaker already by his side, he finds that he isn’t wet, drenched in water as he thought and felt like. His clothes are dry, his hair is dry, his face is dry.

He tries to calm his breathing after that, feeling the frantic beat of his heart in his chest. He grips Dawnmaker’s hilt with a white-knuckled grip, but he soon notices that he’s– alone. In the middle of a room that looks too similar to his hotel room to be a coincidence.

It takes him a minute, but when he can finally stand up and breathe steady and look around himself without panicking again, he notices that there are a few objects flying through the air, the air feels thick and– wasn’t he supposed to appear in Golden Hour? Has he made a mistake? He remembers Dan Heng telling him that Golden Hour was anything but modest, after all. An extravagant show of wealth and flashiness, he called it. Phainon can see nothing of that here.

He keeps Dawnmaker by his side as he approaches the only door in front of him. He braces himself as he opens it, expecting– he doesn’t know what he expects, but a normal-looking hallway is not it. He only needs to look to the left to decide that it’s not actually a normal hallway, though; he sees what seem to be bubbles floating leisurely in the air, their blue surface opaque.

When he steps out of the room, there’s no reaction. Taking a deep breath in and out, he leaves the room behind and continues onward, to what he expects to be the lounge.

Right now, there is no music, no chatter. There is no one, in fact. He only sees a cluster of colorful creatures that turn to him immediately after he gets to the lower floor. He doesn’t feel any Destruction from them, but that doesn’t mean that they are inoffensive – as proven when they lunge at him, no questions asked.

They are easy to take care of, though. He frowns at their remains, Danwmaker leaned on the floor. This entire situation is weird – he’s quite sure he followed all the instructions the hotel offered to the letter, so he should be standing in Golden Hour’s promised splendor and light. And yet, here he is, fighting weird monsters, in a mirror-world too similar to reality. He taps a finger on his sword; he’s in the Dreamscape, right? He’s quite sure he fell asleep in the water, even as tense as he was. Then–

Is this that Memokeeper’s doing? He only knows the bare minimum about them, and a lot of what he knows comes from Cyrene herself’s abilities. The normal Memokeepers’ abilities are probably much more limited than Cyrene’s power, but… Memories and dreams. 

He tightens his jaw – all of those are dangerous against him, especially with his mind made knots as it is. It’s probably not as bad as it could have been – he shudders to think what would have happened if he had been in Flame Reaver’s state, mind turned to ash – but still dangerous.

He should thread with caution.

So, he keeps Dawnmaker by his side as he opens door after door and blinks as the dream changes around him.

It makes his head hurt, a slight dizziness that doesn’t really go away. He wonders if it’s normal or expected, but he doesn’t let himself linger too much on it. If one lingers on worry and sadness too much, dreams jump on them like a hunter to prey. 

He arrives at the main hall soon, after taking care of more of those strange creatures. It’s becoming more tiring and confusing to fight with a headache that only grows, so he finally admits to himself that something is wrong and pauses in the middle of the hall, frowning at the floating bubbles and oppressive silence.

“Stop hiding!” he yells, and his voice feels muted, as if he’s underwater– “Come out, I have no interest in playing games!”

Something moves behind him, so he turns around quickly, sword raised.

The world tips around him– or maybe he’s the one falling?

Falling into water.

He hears the distant clang of Dawnmaker hitting the ground, but he’s too preoccupied clutching his head, trying to keep the splitting pain from cracking it open mercilessly.

It hurts. It hurts– but it’s nothing compared to the Coreflames eating away at his tired and half-dead body.

He pushes away from the water, and sometimes it seems like the sea itself is working against him, trying to pull him under – and then others he’s running through a scorching field, barefoot and blind.

He fights against the water. He runs. He shoves at the pressure in his head.

He’s gasping again, but now he can feel ground under his legs. He can hear distant yells and cries.

And when he opens his eyes, he finds that he can see again – but he’s not at the hotel main hall. Not anymore.

Ruined Okhema spreads around him. Crumbled houses, immobile silhouettes of fallen citizens, broken stalls, a red sky over his head.

His next breath comes out shaky.

(Once again, there’s water in his lungs.

Once again, he’s alone in a ruined world–

He has to– 

Where’s Cyrene’s ceremonial blade? He needs to–)

Heavy steps drag his eyes away from the immobile figure of Kephale in the distance and the Dawn Device on his back, where Phainon knows Irontomb–

He comes face to face with himself– or, not quite. 

With Flame Reaver’s collapsing form.

—

The Engine of Creation is a marvel of human creation, thinks Mydei, but he can also admit that it’s terribly difficult to fix.

It’s not a matter of technical problems or that the engineers working on it don’t understand how it works – quite the opposite, he finds, when he overhears a blond woman that Stelle calls Serval talking with the workers that would climb to the top of the gigantic robot to take a look at its condition. Her explanations are clear and to-the-point, firm like a leader, and Mydei almost expects to see her wearing a Silvermane Guard uniform, only to be surprised when she isn't.

Rather, the problem lies in its sheer size. In Amphoreus, this kind of infrastructure – because it is infrastructure – is worked on via other robots, aid from mechanical contraptions and an extensive use of blessings from the Titans themselves. As the Black Tide advanced and threatened their lands, Amphoreus’ progress soon snapped to a halt, veering instead into defence and repairing.

In Belobog– well, they don’t have much that could help them make the job easier. They can fabricate more robots, yes, but even that process is slow and sometimes not worth the materials it would cost them. He knows that Natasha has asked a favor of two quite smart young girls – Clara and Pela, who he’s met at least two times by now, he’s sure – but progress is slow. Mydei still doesn’t understand what it is they’re working on, exactly, but Clara has tried to explain it to him once and he’s quite ready to admit that he understood less than half of what she said, so he’s not too keen on trying to figure it out again.

Right now, his strength is most helpful; he ends up carrying boxes full of materials from place to place, pushing carts, moving gigantic steel plating when it’s needed. He also takes care of the few Fragmentum monsters that dare get close to the site, but they are few and far between.

“That Phainon friend of yours did a number on them, I think,” says Serval with a wide grin, once. “They come from the Fragmentum, so taking care of the ‘holes’, so to speak, tends to put a dent on their attacks. And your friend, well– he seemed pretty good at sniffing out Fragmentum nests. Why, I’ve never seen the mines as clean of monsters as they are now!”

Of course he would. Mydei shakes his head, not really surprised. If there’s one thing he’s noticed as the days go by in Belobog, it’s that the Fragmentum seems more similar to the Black Tide than he thought – which makes sense, when he thinks about it. The Black Tide, from what he understands, is also tied to the Destruction. And… It also makes sense why Phainon would be so adept at tracking these things down.

He’s taking a break with a cup of warm tea that one of the workers offered him between his hands when Stelle stumbles over to him, too busy staring at the huge robot to notice all the obstacles in her path. He watches, amused, as she finally reaches his spot under a half-tent they’ve set for breaks and sits down heavily next to him.

“Tired from not working?” he says, a bit too amused to really mean it. 

He knows for a fact that Trianne is also helping around the construction site – small as she is, some of her power still remains, now as a Pathstrider instead of a demigod – and Castorice sometimes appears as well, if only to help with the more delicate work of circuits and what not – she has very steady hands after years of hand-made projects. Hyacine is a bit of a drifter, but she sometimes swings by, just in case there are any accidents that require her help, which are uncommon but possible.

Stelle huffs and crosses her arms.

“ Excuse you, I’ve been working too. You need to thank me, too – I’ve managed to get you guys an opportunity to meet with one of the Ten Stonehearts from the IPC. She’s even the most open-minded of the IPC, so really, I’m doing you a favor.”

“The IPC?” repeats Mydei, and he can’t quite hide the slight discontent from his voice. He frowns deeply. “Didn’t they…?”

He trails off, but the meaning is clear as day. He nods to their surroundings, the hardworking people finding a future for their world, free from any chains. He remembers Seele’s sharp words when she commented anything from the Corporation during dinner, he remembers Bronya’s pinched expression when dealing with specific budgets for this project that everyone is so passionate about.

“Yes. But if Amphoreus really wants to be safe and connected, a relationship with the IPC is pretty much inevitable.” Stelle pauses, and for a moment, she seems terribly serious. “It would be better if you could start off on the right foot, huh? Have more control over how that first meeting goes. I can give you that chance now – Topaz is passing by this area in a few days. I've talked to her and she says that she can make time for you.”

Mydei presses his lips, thinking. He clutches the cup in his grip, feeling warmth climb his arms. Even after weeks of being in Belobog, he still can’t quite get used to the cold that gets into his bones like icy nails. And right now, that cold feels even more poignant, more present.

“We need to ask Aglaea and Cerydra,” he says, and he almost blurts out Phainon’s name too in passing – as much as Phainon tried to deflect, they all knew that he was Aglaea’s right hand when dealing with political matters. Mydei can step in if needed, of course – especially now that he has Aglaea’s trust after years of working together and numerous cycles of collaboration at their backs – and he has the impression that he would have to, soon, seeing as Stelle has come to him. So, he sighs. “Have you asked the others?”

“I asked Trianne, too. After all, she’s still… Tribios, I guess. She’s amongst the oldest demigods and has acted as Aglaea’s confidant for– a long time,” explains Stelle. The other name floats between them, unsaid, and Stelle predictably sighs and leans back, looking up at the white sky. “I would have also asked Phainon, of course. Being Aglaea’s second, technically the oldest demigod, Worldbearing… yada yada. But–”

“You can ask him when we find him,” says Mydei, interrupting Stelle. She turns to him, arching an eyebrow, and so he meets her gaze with his own, firm.

“Hoping to find him in less than a week?” asks Stelle, a bit pointed, but with no real mockery behind her words. Only dry bitterness, but no judgement or real anger. Mydei suspects she feels just as frustrated as the rest of them, maybe even more – and yet, like all of them, she doesn’t hold it against Phainon.

Hard to, after all.

“No. But that hypothetical agreement and treaties and other paperwork… we don’t need to negotiate it all right now, am I wrong?” he asks, but he knows that he’s right. Decisions of this magnitude, treaties, anything related to the laws and agreements tend to take a long time – too many interests on the line, too many things that can go wrong, too many toes to step on.

“Probably not. I mean, this is only the first meeting. First contact. Just to see what their angle is going to be– or that’s what Dan Heng and Himeko say,” mutters Stelle.

Ah, that explains a lot. This is actually the other Nameless speeding things up a bit, throwing their weight around in their favor. It makes something bitter stick to his tongue. He’s not too keen on more debts between them – Amphoreus’ salvation is a heavy-enough weight on the scales.

“We’ll call Aglaea tonight,” he says, though he doubts that Aglaea would refuse such an offer. She won’t like being further in their debt, of that he’s sure, but well– He’s starting to realize that having an amicable relationship with any Emanator is a pretty big deal in this power-based universe. They’ll have to bank on the tight friendship between their two Emanators and the Nameless, plus promises of aid in the future.

Stelle nods and doesn’t press the issue further.

He’s grateful for that, too many thoughts running through his mind.

—

It feels like deja vu.

Dawnmaker clashes against itself.

The past against the present. Fire against fire.

He knows this is not real – of course he knows. And yet, his body moves for him, falling back on old habits, old instincts and old reactions. Old duties. A broken promise that should now lie abandoned at the bottom of the sea. A sea that continues to do its best to drown him.

“You’re not real,” he tells his reflection.

The Flame Reaver remains silent.

“Amphoreus is safe,” he grits out as their swords clash again.

The Flame Reaver tilts his head to the side, almost mocking.

“There is no need for more Coreflames,” he gasps out. “There is no need for more resets.”

Flame Reaver pushes him away, and the action is so sudden that he can’t do anything to stop himself from stumbling back and losing a second of control.

It’s enough for their surroundings to change and now there are voices. Familiar voices.

He doesn’t look away from his opponent, jaw clenched tight and hands tense around Dawnmaker. He already knows who they are – he could recognize their voices anywhere, he knows how they sound in countless situations, tinted with each different emotion. 

He knows how they sound at the end of the world. Okhema, falling to pieces around them. The Black Tide, consuming everything in its scorching embrace. Their wishes, burning to ash, scattered in the wind, never to be heard again. And in the end, he stands, alone and–

“The world… must be reset…” says Flame Reaver, himself, voice ruined after millenia of burning himself.

“There is no need for that anymore,” he says, but this time, his voice sounds more unsteady. Hesitant. Drowning in doubts.

“Take the Coreflames… and reset… this world…” continues the Flame Reaver, just like a broken record. Just like in the past, where his other self – past self? – pushed him to the end.

He frowned deeply, gritting his teeth.

“I refuse,” he almost growls, glaring at this shadow, this lie that stands in his way.

A part of him yells and screams and scratches at the walls of his mind. Amphoreus is saved, they are all alive and well, he’s now free, he can make peace with all that he did in the past, seek forgiveness for himself– and he was doing so good, before he stepped into this Titans-forsaken nightmare and the waves he managed to leave behind crept up again, trying to drag him back into a stormy sea–

He’s furious, and it’s so familiar it hurts.

So, he rushes in, Dawnmaker high above his head, with a scream that tears out from his throat, coupled with the smallest of flames trailing his mad sprint.

The Flame Reaver meets him half-way, firm like himself, because they are one and the same.

But just like so many times before, the Flame Reaver falls to his sword, once again.

And once again, his head splits open with the flow of memories that he already has, there is no need for this, he’s already done his part, he’s already helped the true Deliverer step forward and make a true change–

The Crysos Heirs are in front of him, alive and well, unbothered.

Okhema still burns.

“Kill them and take their Coreflames. There’s no time,” says his own voice, hoarse, and an armored hand is placed on his shoulder. He tries to flinch away from himself, but the hand keeps him in place. “What’s wrong? You’ve done this countless times before. Why is one more any different?”

“I refuse,” he says through his fury. He shakes the hand away and turns to the unmasked Flame Reaver that now looks at him with empty eyes. He bares his teeth. “I refuse.”

“Selfish,” shoots back the masked part of himself, and the venom in his voice cuts deep into his chest. “Do you want Irontomb to be completed? Destroy the universe? Break the promise you made with Cyrene? Her sacrifice–”

“Is over,” he shoots back, but even now, his hands shake around the hilt of Dawnmaker, the fury in his chest – so fragile now, so… tired, just like him – spluttering. “Amphoreus is saved.”

“How can you be sure? After all, you're not there.” And that, finally, makes him flinch violently. Flame Reaver– Khaslana– himself, shattered and so, so tired, gestures with a hand that holds Cyrene’s ceremonial blade. “Amphoreus could be gone, for all you know. They could all be dead by now.”

“They’ll be fine,” he replies, but he can feel doubt creeping in. It’s the one fear he’s had since running away from Amphoreus, right? No amount of messages can assuage his paranoia, no rationality can quiet the voices in his head that speak of more death and destruction, brought not by his own hand but from a grander threat. “Amphoreus is safe.”

“So you say, but… you can’t reset it anymore, can you?” The Flame Reaver tilts his head to the side, too slow and stilted to seem natural. “You could, if you took their Coreflames again. Kill them all… and you can guarantee Amphoreus’ survival in the long run. They’ve always been the sacrifices that paved the path to Amphoreus’ salvation, you’ve killed them so many times before– what’s one more time?”

There’s something sick climbing up his throat now. He hasn’t eaten in a while, now, and yet, his sight wavers and blurs and he trembles. Dawnmaker is suddenly too warm, burning his hands, and when he feels something liquid running down his skin, he lets go of it immediately with a choked cry – it clangs loudly on the floor.

He’s vaguely aware of the fact that he’s breathing too fast– and yet, it’s as if air doesn’t get to his lungs. Instead of air, he’s sure there’s water – hot and scalding water that burns him from the inside, a sensation so familiar that it only exacerbates the pain.

He falls to the ground, choking on air – or is it water? – and claws at the cold marble, and when he coughs, he sees liquid fall onto the ground- water? Or-?

Through his fingers, he sees gold – liquid gold, so elegant like Aglaea’s threads, like Mydei’s jewelry and eyes and his very blood that spilled on the ground over and over and over again. It glitters under the flames he spits out, the ashes that crumble from his chest.

A foot kicks Dawnmaker back to him.

He can’t really see it – the world blurs around him, red and gold, red and gold– just like Mydei’s clothes and hair, just like his blood, in the ground, in his hands, in his sword, over and over again.

“Take your sword, Executioner.”

Countless voices mix into one, cutting and heavy like a rock, like the world he was destined to bear on his shoulders.

Up and down, up and down.

Climb, fall, climb, fall, climb, fall… again.

“Take your sword, and finish what you started.”

He takes his sword, hands too steady, too experienced.

The blade is still clean of blood – it reflects his blond hair, the golden eyes, the mismatched wings at his back.

The fire in his chest burns bright once again, a relentless inferno that consumes everything it touches, a blaze that turns all stars to ash, a Destruction that is his and his alone.

“Take your sword, and finish what you started. Only then, will Amphoreus be saved.”

And so, he steps forward, sword by his side and ready, eyes focused onwards – on the group of demigods that now laughs with bright eyes and free smiles, finally allowed to dream of the future, their wishes heard.

He passes by the Flame Reaver, unmoving like a statue.

He looks at Hyacine, her hands gentle as always, with Little Ica by her side. He looks at Professor Anaxa, with inkstains on his sleeves and bags under his eyes but a satisfied smirk on his face. He looks at Castorice, touching everyone’s shoulders carefully, eyes fond and soft. He looks at Aglaea and Cipher, finally talking, working together on a beautiful dress with experienced hands. He looks at Hylisens singing to Cerydra, who listens to her with her eyes closed and a small smile on her lips.

He looks at Cyrene, now grown-up, dressed with a glittering veil of love, her smile radiant and knowing. 

He looks at Mydei, a steady and firm presence watching over them, eyes finally at ease, shoulders less heavy.

And so, Phainon stops before them.

They look at him, and they meet his gaze, unflinching and ignorant to the blade he wields.

He raises his sword, like so many times before.

This will be the end – and the beginning. Again.

He takes a breath.

And stabs Dawnmaker into the ground with a hoarse yell.

He smashes open the gate to the Path of Destruction and takes and takes from it, channeling it through his blood, through his body, through his soul.

The dream fractures.

Cracks appear beneath his feet, deeper and deeper the more he drives his blade into the unreal ground.

Soon, the entire nightmare goes up in flames – there is no more Okhema, no more Crysos Heirs. Only Flame Reaver stands beside him, silent and unmoving, as Phainon tears apart everything around him with a tsunami of fire and golden Destruction.

The memoria around them breaks apart like dry clay, showing glimpses of what lies beyond – a sea of nothingness, a void.

Phainon looks into the empty eyes of the Flame Reaver, knowing that whoever is responsible for this nightmare is looking straight at him through this twisted puppet made from painful memories. And so, with a snarl–

“I refuse.”

The waters that threatened to drown him turn into steam.

And the dream– shatters into a million glass pieces that fall to the void and a radiant inferno.

Chapter Text

Phainon wakes up, drowning in panic.

His hands only meet water, which does absolutely nothing to quell his stormy mind. He stumbles about the bathtub, eyes probably too wide, breathing too fast, clothes clinging to him and only making it all worse. He slips and almost hits his head on the side of the bathtub, but manages to catch himself with a hand and a choked gasp.

Suddenly, there is a hand in front of him – not touching him, and he’s glad for that. He stares at the hand for a moment, uncomprehending, feeling as if he’s drowning once again, only so much worse.

And then he hears it– a soft voice, worried. Unfamiliar.

“... hear me?” she’s asking, but even then, she doesn’t touch him. She just offers her hand and waits for him to return to the present.

And he finally remembers – he’s in Penacony. The prison-turned-resort that Dan Heng told him about, the place where dreams and reality skirt the line between each other, a place for wealth and Harmony. 

Sparkle offered him a commission, a bounty. A Memokeeper.

He lets out a long breath, placing a hand on his chest, willing his heart to stop beating so wildly. He leans on the side of the bathtub, lowering his head – and the more aware he becomes of his situation, the more embarrassed he feels.

The girl that offered him a hand tells someone to go and find them some water and a few towels. Phainon hears steps rushing out of the room and for a moment, he wonders what would happen if he just decided to force himself to fall asleep once again and escape to the dream.

But, no. He’s tired of running away from everything. So, he finally opens his eyes with a long sigh and peeks at the girl still kneeling by his side.

He finds a pair of worried turquoise eyes focused on him, framed by light violet hair and– wings? Somehow, she reminds him of the Astral Express member named Sunday. Maybe it’s their similar noses, or maybe it’s their face-shape? He can’t be sure, but that suspicion helps him ground himself to the present and reality once again.

Still, it takes him another minute before he can bring himself to talk.

“What… happened?” he asks, if only because he only knows what happened to him – and he hates how vivid it feels like, as if he’s lived through it all again. He’s back in reality, and yet, his hands burn and his head still aches.

“I felt a disruption in the Dreamscape, so we came to investigate. I couldn’t get to you in the dream, so I was going to try tuning– but it seems like you managed to break free on your own,” explains the girl, and her voice is a curious thing, thinks Phainon. It would sound normal to anyone else’s ears, but he can detect a slight– it’s not a distortion, but it sounds a bit like an echo. It speaks of power, probably from the Harmony, if he’s remembering everything correctly – which could very well be wrong, seeing as he’s not thinking straight right now.

“Ah,” he says, simply. The door opens once again, and a staff member leaves a jar of water with a couple of glasses and a pair of towels on the table, before nodding to the girl and walking off at said girl’s nod.

She stands up, adjusts her white dress and then turns to him, offering a hand again with a slight smile. There’s still worry in her eyes, but no suspicion. It makes Phainon hesitate for a moment – he’s quite sure that his situation is not the norm here, so this girl’s reaction seems a bit of an oddity to him – but in the end, he accepts it and lets the angel-like girl help him to his feet. She gives him a towel, so he starts drying himself off–

“Do you have any other clothes?” asks the girl, helpful as ever.

Phainon once again hesitates, but he points her to his meagre bag, where he’s stashed the few other clothes he got his hands on in Belobog. Simple and a bit on the lower-end of quality, but comfortable and practical. The girl doesn’t react to them and their obvious lack of expensive-ness – she only hands them to him when he’s done drying his hair and upper part of his body. She turns away from him to pour them water and to check on her phone as he changes and finally gets out from the bathtub. He sends a suspicious glance at it – he knows this is not Penacony’s fault at all, but he can’t help but feel a bit resented by how his first ‘dreaming’ went.

“Are you doing better now?” asks the girl, passing a glass of water to him, smiling.

Phainon finds himself flushing again.

“Ah– yes. Sorry for the trouble,” he says, and his rueful smile trembles slightly, but doesn’t fall like it did a month prior. 

That’s– good. For a moment there, he worried that the nightmare that Memokeeper submerged him in would destroy all the progress he’s done in his time outside of Amphoreus, but it seems like the only thing it’s managed to do is reignite some of that old fury that surfaces every time fate tries to dig its claws on him again. He can use that – he’s used that rage to fuel him forward through all those cycles, he can use it again to fuel his dash to a better future.

“That’s good,” nods the girl, seeming genuinely relieved. Then she blinks and startles, and her smile turns a bit rueful. “Ah. I’m Robin, the current head of the Oak Family.”

The name is familiar – maybe Dan Heng mentioned it when explaining what happened at Penacony? – but he can't quite remember, seeing as his mind is a mess and his memories are more scattered than usual. But he does remember that the Family is related to the Harmony. It makes sense. He has no idea what each Family represents or is in charge of, no matter how hard he tries to remember, but the fact that an actual head has decided to become involved in this puts him a bit on edge. Then again, Robin doesn’t seem to be too worried about his hand in all of this – she probably thinks him a simple victim, which… she wouldn’t be actually wrong.

“I’m Phainon,” he introduces himself. “A… simple traveler, I guess you could say.”

Robin’s eyes, soft as they are, regard him with something that looks a great deal like recognition and curiosity.

“And a Destruction Pathstrider… at the very least,” she mumbles, smile gone, too quiet for her voice to be heard from the outside of the room. Phainon can’t quite hide his flinch in time. Robin softens. “I have to ask… are you–?”

“I’m here for a bounty,” he says, before the words can leave Robin’s mouth, even though he’s not sure what she was going to say.

Robin frowns slightly, but she gestures for them to sit down on the sofa, so at the very least, she’s willing to hear him out. Phainon lets himself drop on the plush sofa and has to keep himself from slumping down from exhaustion – that dream has done nothing to alleviate the tiredness he felt before falling asleep. To be quite honest, it’s managed to do the opposite. 

He feels wound up, tense, and yet too tired to do much of anything. His mind is too alert, too on edge, even though he’s back in reality, where the Memokeeper has a more difficult chance at catching him unaware. It puts things in perspective – if that Memokeeper can do all of this, a tailor-made nightmare just to tip him over the edge, then Cyrene, as an Emanator, would be able to do… well, she could use the memories of a simulated world to turn it into reality.

“Who is your objective? If you don’t mind me asking,” asks Robin, dragging Phainoin out of his – as always – murky thoughts.

“Ah, it’s a… Memokeeper. I don’t know their name, but the girl that offered me the bounty said that the Memokeeper is here and that it would be easy to run into them,” he explains. It only brings attention to how little information he has– and how easy it has been to, indeed, run into the Memokeeper in question. Which opens up a wide variety of possibilities – each more worrisome than the last – but that he's too drained to think much about right now.

Robin hums, interested and thoughtful.

“This girl… who is it?” she asks, and something in her voice makes it seem like she already has an idea of who it could be and just wants the confirmation.

“She called herself Sparkle,” he answers, easily enough. If Sparkle didn’t want him to say her name, then she would have said so.

Robin’s eyes lit up in recognition, so his theory was right.

“I know her, yes. But… a bounty, for a Memokeeper…” Robin trails off, trying to make sense of it all in her mind. Phainon can admit that the entire situation is strange and a bit too much of a coincidence. If Sparkle does know anything about Amphoreus and how it is related to the Memokeepers, Phainon wonders how she has come to have that information. “To be honest, at the same we found out that you were having trouble in the dream, we also found… a Memokeeper. Unconscious, with burns all over her body.” Robin looks up at him, not quite accusing, but knowing. “Was that you?”

Phainon looks into her eyes and sighs softly. The exhaustion that nibbles at his body makes him lower his gaze, too tired to really fight back. And why would he? It’s the truth, even if the method of doing it can very well out him as an Emanator – an  Emanator that is probably not welcome here in this land of dreams.

“Yes, it was me,” he says, easily enough. “I… burned down the nightmare.”

Robin seems surprised at that, eyes wide as she blinks at him. But there’s no judgement in her gaze, only acceptance as she takes out her teleslate.

“Then, I suppose you were successful in your commission,” she says, not really shaken. Phainon stares at her. “I’ll contact Sparkle– and hope that she responds. I’ll hand her that Memokeeper on your behalf, if you want. Right now, they are in the custody of the Oak Family, after all.”

Phainon struggles to find words through the surprise he feels. As friendly and open as Robin seemed, he didn’t expect–

“Ah, that would be… appreciated,” he stutters out when Robin stares at him expectantly. He clears his throat and coughs, confused. “You don’t need to go through all that trouble, though…”

“Don’t worry. From what I understand, this has been more a mistake on our part, an error in security,” she says, perfectly proper. Phainon can’t help but stare at her as she sends a pair of messages. “For someone to use dreams this way… to hurt someone this deeply… I’m very sorry. Penacony’s dream shouldn’t be like this, shouldn’t be used like a– weapon.”

There’s something heavy in her words, something melancholic and hurt and longing. He immediately feels kinship, an understanding that passes between them, silent as it is. Her words hide scars that haven’t healed yet, so he can sympathise with that.

“For what is worth, I don’t hold this against you or Penacony as a whole,” he says, trying to push some of that sincerity that used to characterize him back in the day into his voice.

Robin immediately brightens, and her smile is like sun rays – so much more gentle than anything he might represent.

“That’s a relief. I promise that Penacony’s dream is worth giving it a second chance,” she says, and she definitely sees the suspicious glint in his eye, the slight grimace that pulls at his lips, because her smile softens. “And… I’d like to compensate you. For… the pain that nightmare caused you.” Phainon frowns, opens his mouth to refuse her generous offer, but she shakes her head. “I insist. You woke up panicking, and when I tried to get into the dream to pull you out…” Robin cuts herself off, biting her lip. “I didn’t see anything, but I felt… the sheer agony of it. So, please… let me help. I promise I won’t pry.”

Phainon stares at her for a moment, rendered speechless for once. He has met quite a few people during his space travels, but this is the first time he’s met someone so… genuine, so ready to help and doing it upfront. It reminds him of Hyacine, somewhat, that softness and yet firmness, that push to care and heal.

He can’t in good conscience turn away from that kind of kind-hearted care. Not again.

“Then… I accept,” he says, and the words are heavy on his tongue, like a promise.

Robin smiles again, satisfied.

“Then, we’ll meet tomorrow. For now… you should probably try to sleep,” she says, and there’s something understanding in her eyes, her smile turning a bit dry, as if knowing that sleep would be hard for Phainon to come by that night.

He sighs, but nods.

And when Robin leaves the room, he sends a tired glare at the bathtub that now sports a few scorching marks on its borders, before flopping down on the sofa to try to sleep.

—

After Stelle leaves him alone some minutes later, it becomes quite clear that helping out at the Engine of Creation work site won’t really get his mind to stop overthinking about the offer, so Mydei wanders off after notifying Serval, just in case they seek him out later.

He returns to Boulder Town, then, mulling over Stelle’s words again and again. It reminds him of the conundrum he came face to face with back in the day, when he had the Strife Coreflame pretty much thrusted into his hands, when he needed to decide once and for all to end the Dynasty weighing on his shoulders. It is only a similar decision in that it’s mostly tied to the political climate in Amphoreus and also a jump that will launch them to a future different from what they know – but they’re already in that future, aren’t they? Era Nova – the real one – has come and gone and Amphoreus has greeted a new dawn.

And yet, he can’t help but think back to what the people of this small planet have told them during their stay – about the IPC’s pushy methods, their power and influence over the entire cosmos. Maybe it was naive of him, but Mydei thought that, as big and fathomless as the universe seemed, it would be nigh impossible for any party or faction to become so influential, so powerful, at the cost of others. But he shouldn’t be surprised – politics are politics, money is money, and all living beings end up coveting power and wealth, no matter how different their appearances and insides might be.

They need to talk with Aglaea, he stands firm on his decision. There’s no one else – apart from Cerydra, who will also be on the loop about this entire thing – who can navigate these political messes better than her, after years (and now, countless cycles) of experience.

And yet, Mydei finds himself standing in front of the infamous Fight Club. The fist sign that Cipher stole has been returned to its rightful place, the people mingle outside the club and credits change hands as the audience bets on this night’s winner.

Mydei has attended a few fights in the past week, curious of how the people of this small planet approach a fight. What he found is not too dissimilar to the fighting he’s used to, if only aided by different weapons and with a technique he hasn’t seen before. Fists and hand-to-hand is what he sees the most, but also shovels and staffs are permitted – any blunt weapon that doesn’t end in one of the participants dead, he knows.

Fighting has always done wonders for his overthinking mind, he remembers. It’s been a while since he actually fought in a difficult battle - and no, punching giant bugs doesn't really count. Irontomb’s defeat seems distant, now, a cold echo his mind is more than ready to push to the back of his mind, just like the tangled mess of memories from other cycles. And with the rebuilding process and rites he needed to watch over, he hasn’t had much time to keep up with his simple training regime… That, and the fact that there was (is) no Phainon to remind him, drag him off to the training ground – still being rebuilt – and then drag him to the baths after. Quite the opposite, with Phainon literally running away from him.

All in all, he thinks, it would do him good to stretch and practice – just in case. He can’t afford to become rusty. Not when his very duty is to protect.

So, for a moment, he shifts on his feet, before shrugging lightly and venturing inside the building. Only– this time, he signs up to fight, instead of falling back to the audience.

The people notice, of course. Soon, Mydei can see countless groups arguing with each other, talking over credit rolls and pointing very obviously at Mydei, who remains leaning on the wall with his arms crossed, patient and calm as the matches are finalised and announced.

The Fight Club is always alight with loud yells and cheers, and it doesn’t surprise him to see a few shorter heads wandering through the crowd. Hook and the Moles do attend from time to time, to cheer on their favourite contestant– who now appears out of nowhere to punch Mydei lightly on the shoulder, a wide grin on his face.

“Finally! I was wondering when you’d cave and sign up for these!” says Luka, cheerful and full of energy.

“Don’t get used to it,” he answers, not really a grunt, not with how loud the crowd is tonight.

“Nah, don’t worry! Just– save a round for me, okay?” Luka gives him a thumbs-up, before hurrying to the ‘arena’, ready for his first fight of the night.

Mydei only huffs, but he goes through his rounds with ease; it’s a bit unfair, really. These people aren’t used to actual fighting – not like he is. He’s used to the rush of adrenaline dulling his senses and at the same time sharpening them like a perfectly-sharpened blade. He’s used to the chaos of a crowded battlefield, of rushing alone for the enemy's head. Even if Phainon used to cover his back most times after he reached Okhema, he’s covered his own back even more times before that… and after that, he remembers with a pang of something he can’t quite name.

He shakes hands with awestruck opponents, ignores the huffs and curses of the sore losers and, in no time at all, he’s face to face with a grinning Luka, who jumps slightly in place – boxing, remembers Mydei. He’d like to learn, but he isn’t sure he could grasp the basics before they have to leave – and now, the deadline for their leave seems nearer than ever.

Luka is nowhere near Phainon’s level or even most of the soldiers under Mydei’s command, but he’s a decent fighter. If he applied himself, got to meet actual experts at their craft, maybe he could become a magnificent fighter with time.

As it is, the fight only lasts for a couple of minutes, in which Luka does a good job of keeping Mydei focused and even lands a few hits. But, of course, Mydei ends up being the winner with ease, much to the excitement of most of the audience, who cheer and yell and raise their fists to the air, chanting his name.

It’s terribly nostalgic, so much so that Mydei has to blink to shake off the memories clinging to his shoulders. There is no blood running down his arms, there are no soldiers by his side, he isn’t even wearing his gauntlets.

Luka offers him his hand with a satisfied grin and a glint of determination in his eyes – good, let this be the push to lead him forward. Mydei shakes his hand with firmness and a small nod.

“I didn’t expect anything less!” comments Luka, after the Fight Club has emptied a bit and they can actually talk without raising their voices too much. He drinks from his bottle of water before he clicks his tongue, still smiling. “Still, it’s a shame. I’d have liked to fight that friend of yours, too. Shame that he didn’t really swing by here.”

“He didn’t?” asks Mydei, even though it doesn’t really surprise him. He wouldn’t even blame Phainon for wanting to distance himself from violence.

“Nah, he usually disappeared into his hotel room,” answers Luka, not judgemental at all. “Then again, he always looked exhausted so…”

Mydei hums and leans back on the bench they are sitting on, arms crossed.

“If– when we come back to visit, I’ll talk him into giving it a go,” he says, ignoring the very real possibility of Phainon avoiding them for years– or longer, never quite ready to meet them again. He knows Phainon, and so he knows that the idiot will come back to his senses sooner rather than later and they’ll meet again out there in the stars.

“Really? That would be cool!” grins Luka. He gives a few punches to the air. “If he’s anything like you, then he’ll also be a very good fighter.”

“He is,” nods Mydei, with a hint of pride clear in his voice. “He doesn’t usually fight unarmed, though.”

And when he does, it’s not as if he’s fighting hand-to-hand either… Oh, well. It’ll be his problem. Mydei supposes that Phainon still remembers how the two of them roundhoused– back in the day.

He does wonder if they’ll have time to visit Belobog in quite some time, though – connecting with the universe seems terribly confusing and complex, so Aglaea and Cerydra will probably want to have all hands on deck… Which drags him back to the matter he’s been trying to avoid overthinking about.

Luka notices his sudden plummeting mood, because he looks at him with a silent question in his eyes. Mydei shakes his head.

“Do you have any useful information about the IPC?” he asks, but he already knows the answer before Luka opens his mouth – the opinion of the corporation in Belobog isn’t the best, but it’s in the Underworld where it turns into a mix of hostile and mistrustful opinions.

Luka makes an understanding sound at the back of his throat.

“Well, you’ve probably heard all it is to be said about them,” he answers, with a bitter smile. “Though, I have to say, they did end up helping us in the end… Then again, that’s mostly been Bronya’s stubbornness at play.”

Mydei hums, not really surprised. He’s heard it all before, after all.

He can’t help but wonder if Amphoreus will come out of this unharmed, or if they’ll have to dig their feet in the ground and face the IPC’s plans with the same determination they had during the Flame-chase.

They remain silent for a moment, watching and hearing the audience disperse after all the bets have been settled – there have been no surprises today, so the money exchanged is minimal.

Money. Everything is money.

Nothing has changed, and yet, everything has. The scope is so much grander than before.

Mydei wonders if they’ll see credits all around Amphoreus soon.

“Look, I might not know much about all this,” says Luka, voice softer now that there aren’t many people left. “But– I do know that what made it possible for Belobog – Jarilo, really – to stand up against the IPC’s ideas was… the unity of the people. It was because we were all looking to the same future that Bronya could show Topaz that Jarillo would… prosper. Survive.” Luka looks at him with a grin. “And from what you’ve all said about your world… Amphoreus seems like a very united world. You’ll be fine. I’m sure of it.”

Mydei thinks of how Amphoreus united when they were at their darkest hour. He thinks of how many people worked to save their little world, all they sacrificed. They fought, they bled, they relied on each other – at that moment, they weren’t separated by their origins, they were just– Amphoreus. Humans, watching as the world crumbled around them, out of their control, and still they chose to fight until their last breath.

Mydei huffs a small laugh and nods at Luka.

He was right.

They would find their way.

Chapter Text

Phainon meets Robin again the very next morning, when the hotel is mostly empty, if only because its guests are still submerged in the dream.

His back aches slightly from his lengthy nap on the sofa, but he didn’t have any more nightmares, so he counts it as a win. He doesn’t know if that was because he burned away any nightmares that might have haunted him in his sleep or if it was somehow Robin’s doing, but he's grateful for the uninterrupted sleep nonetheless. It has helped calm down the itching under his skin and the tall flames inside his chest that raged on like a constant yelling at the back of his mind.

Feeling somewhat rested, he can finally make sense of what happened the day prior – or, at least, part of it. He feels like he's missing something, a puzzle piece that would tie everything together. The Memokeeper, Robin, Sparkle, Aventurine. He knows most of these people from Dan Heng’s stories, knows that they were involved in the mess in Penacony, but he doesn't know how and why they know each other and whether or not they are on good terms. His guess is that they are at least on neutral terms, but– he can't be sure.

Proceed with caution it is again.

Especially because he's quite sure that Robin already has her suspicions about him and his probable Path – it seems like tearing nightmares apart, setting them ablaze, is not something most people can do.

Robin waves at him as soon as she sees him coming down the stairs that lead to the shared lounge, sitting at the bar where only another pair of guests drink their coffee calmly. When he looks around, he can see a few other groups of people by the sofas, eating their breakfast and speaking in low tones.

“Good morning,” greets Robin with her usual gentle smile. And– it wasn't Phainon's imagination: the air feels calmer around her, like a veil of peace. Harmony. “Coffee?”

“Good morning,” he greets back, smiling at her now that the act doesn't pull at his cheeks painfully anymore – it even resembles his old smiles, if smaller and more tired than before. “And… yes, please.”

Robin’s smile widens slightly and waves at the bartender, letting Phainon explain his preference as she adjusts her dress and hair. Phainon wonders if she's that kind of person who is terribly vain and self-centered, obsessed with her image, but then pushed that idea away as soon as it appeared – Robin doesn't seem like the type. No, instead, he looks around as his coffee is being prepared and takes note of one certain group of people who whisper and point at them, definitely not discreet.

He frowns, a bit confused and worried for a moment that his little show of breaking apart the nightmare the previous night might have given away his identity to Penacony as a whole, but then Robin sighs softly.

“Ignore them. They're probably fans of mine,” she says, and even though there's a note of care and appreciation, she also looks at them with something close to tiredness and apprehension. “I'll make sure this doesn't get to the tabloids or any other news outlets… don't worry.”

Phainon– blinks, caught off-guard. And then he connects the dots.

“You're… famous,” he mutters, not really a question. Robin’s smile is back, amused this time, as she nods.

“Yes. I'm a singer,” she offered and– wait.

“I've heard some of your songs, yes,” he nods, remembering the previous night, the music in the hotel room. Her voice was soft and light, like clouds, like stars. His smile widens, his eyes glow, just like in a distant past. “You sing really well. You have a very pretty voice.”

Robin's eyes shine at that too and a slight flush appears on her cheeks. Her smile turns more genuine, more open.

“I'm glad to hear that,” she says, and then under her breath, “I thought we didn't leave music in the hotel rooms anymore after brother–?”

Phainon accepts his coffee and takes a long sip of it, waiting for it to wake him up completely. He wants to take this chance to ask Robin a few questions about this place, about the people he can't quite understand yet – Sparkle and her clear involvement in this entire mess, most of all. 

Getting personally sought for a bounty is… not uncommon, but probably not the usual, especially when Phainon has been in the business of bounties for only a couple of weeks. And it only gets messier, because Phainon – and his world – doesn't have the best relationship with Memokeepers. At least not a certain group of Memokeepers. Now he regrets not paying more attention to the explanations – or even nailing Cyrene about a conflict that seems to be tied to her. Knowing this… he can't help feeling a bit worried, even though he's sure she's okay. More than okay, probably; she's also an Emanator.

“Can I… ask you some questions?” he asks, a bit hesitant. Robin has offered her help, but he's pretty sure that her help doesn't include answering questions from a random guest that almost burned away their Dreamscape. She still nods, inviting, so he continues. “How do you know Sparkle?” Robin makes an understanding noise as she sips at her coffee, but Phainon hurries to explain. “I just– she doesn't look like the type of person you'd… know? Are you– friends? Allies?”

“Acquaintances, I'd say,” says Robin, and her smile turns a bit rueful. “She was involved in the Charmony Festival’s… mess a while ago. She helped us and the other participants on occasion, so the least I can do is play along with her… let’s call them schemes .”

Phainon hums, finally understanding the situation a bit better. And it fits with what little he’s been able to gleam from Sparkle’s personality and approach to everything. Now, he wonders if Sparkle knew about his relation to the Garden of Recollection, or at least to that certain group, for her to ask him to deal with this Memokeeper. He has the urge to ask all of this directly to Sparkle, but he’s quite sure that she wouldn’t answer him – at least, not honestly.

Lost in thought as he is, their light conversation falls once more into a calm silence. There is still a lot that Phainon doesn’t understand, but for now, knowing that he’s not doomed Amphoreus to another conflict is enough.

“Are you finished?” asks Robin, when Phainon finally leaves his empty cup on the bar. He nods, and he can’t help tensing, somewhat nervous and apprehensive. Robin definitely sees it on his face, because her smile softens even more and gestures for him to follow her up the stairs again, after making a signal to the couple of Family members posted at the door. “Don’t worry. Let’s get back to your room.”

“Won’t people think…?” he asks, shooting a furtive glance back at the group of fans still staring at their backs as they move up to the rooms.

“I’ll handle it later,” she says simply. When she sees his frown, she chuckles. “I do know what I’m doing.”

“Ah– I wasn’t questioning your–” Robin only chuckles again, unbothered, so Phainon lets out a long sigh and even manages a small rueful smile. “Nevermind. I suppose I should trust a superstar to know how to handle her… fans.”

“You should, yes,” says Robin, already at the door to his room. She frowns slightly, looking at the envelope stuck to it, before her eyes lit up in recognition and she turns to him with a dry smile. “I believe this is your payment.”

“So quickly?” he asks, but he reaches out and takes the envelope. The envelope pretty much explodes in confetti as soon as he opens it, making him – and Robin – jump and almost throw away the roll of credits that was hiding inside like a bomb. He takes a deep breath and wills his poor heart to calm down, and when he can finally get his hands to stop shaking, he counts the exact amount of credits Sparkle and him accorded just a couple of days before, coupled with a ‘thank you’ note full of messy drawings of her and a burning sun. “Huh.”

“She can be quite efficient when she wants to,” comments Robin, dry and a bit apologetic.

The room itself hasn’t been touched at all, but why would it be? Phainon locked the door after him, and it’s only been ten or fifteen minutes at most since he stepped out of it for coffee, anyway.

He sends a distrustful glance at the bathtub that turns into a resigned glare when Robin predictably walks over to it. When she turns to him, she watches his face and grimaces slightly, before moving away from it and back to the sofa.

“How can you… help?” he asks, when he’s once again sitting next to her. He looks at her wings, at her halo, at her gloved hands. He can’t help feeling nervous, even though he isn’t a stranger to people watching his memories, seeing his suffering. It’s one of those things that he’s sure he will never be able to quite get over.

Robin hums, taps a finger on her lap.

“I can't fix everything for you, but I can help,” she starts, slow and careful. She searches for the words for a moment. “Think of it this way: I can't guide you to where you want to go. I can't escort you personally. But I can give you a map and some water for the journey and wish you good luck.” She smiles and offers a hand that Phainon looks at with clear apprehension, a weight on his chest. “That’s tuning. I can make it easier for you to find your way to the answer you’ve been looking for, but the rest is up to you.”

“The answer I’ve been looking for?” he repeats, soft, almost a whisper.

“Yes.” Robin looks up at him, right in the eye, and she tilts her head to the side. Suddenly, her smile seems terribly sad, as if she’s seeing someone else. “Tell me, who are you really, Mr. Phainon?”

And Phainon opens his mouth to answer, only to realize that– he doesn’t know anymore.

Phainon, just Phainon. Son of Audata and Hieronymus.

Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.

Kephale.

Khaslana.

Khaos.

Flame Reaver.

Executioner.

Lord Ravager.

Demigod of Worlbearing, Aglaea’s right hand, student of the Grove, student of Anaxagoras, the one who bears the primordial chaos, the sun destined to rise, the one who bears the world until the pale dawn breaks.

There are too many names, too many identities taking space in his tired mind. After millions of cycles of suffering, of bloodshed, of running, of burning– who is left, after this body of his is burnt, after all that’s left are ashes? 

He isn't surprised to realize that he doesn’t know. Not anymore. The name Phainon is the easiest to embrace, the name of his most heroic self, the blank slate with infinite potential – nothing like Khaslana, the one who burned himself over and over again until only ashes remained, the one to stain his hands with the blood of his family.

But aren’t all these names… his?

Robin’s smile widens, inviting and so, so warm, and she offers her hand again.

Gulping down the anxiety climbing up his throat, Phainon takes her hand.

And lets the dream swallow him whole once again.

And yet, this time, the water is warm and heavily scented, just like how he remembers the baths in Okhema.

— 

This time, he wakes up slowly and peacefully.

There’s something painfully familiar about it, the way sleep slips away from his mind like a soft veil of silk, the way the wind caresses his hair, the way long shadows dance behind his eyelids.

When he opens his eyes, he meets an endless field of gold and pastel skies.

For a moment, he can do nothing but look up at an impossibility, rendered mute by the heavy weight of every memory his tired mind keeps hidden away under layers of longing and time.

And then, as if pulled along by invisible threads, he sits up and looks around.

Aedes Elysiae is just as he remembered – and it probably is only his memory, but something in his chest twists painfully nonetheless, a sharp and scalding blade that makes his eyes tear up and breath hitch. And yet, before those tears turn real, he hears the wheat around him shift and a pale hand – with dirt under short nails and full of little scars from working in the fields – appears in front of him.

He follows the hand to the arm and to the shoulder and to the face and blinks.

“Come on, don’t just stay there, sleepy head!” laughs his younger self, grin wide and eyes shining under the permanent dawn.

Phainon accepts the offered hand, feeling more lost than he’s ever felt in years. Little Phainon drags him out of the endless wheat field and to the communal patio where he remembers Cyrene liked to nap and spend time with him, whether it be cheering him on as he practiced with the sword or offering her precious cards to him. In the way, they pass through worn and dusty paths, familiar houses and even his old school, and Phainon wonders if he’d be able to find his way through these paths with his eyes closed, like he could when he was a child.

All the while, Little Phainon rambles on and on about life in Aedes Elysiae. Phainon himself doesn’t really remember any of the anecdotes the child tells him, but some part of his mind probably does – otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to hear them out of his own mouth.

“You surely know much about swordsmanship, right?” says Little Phainon, when they are already in front of the building. From here, Phainon can also see the swing that Cyrene favored, back in the day, now empty. There’s a twist in his chest, in his heart, at that, but Little Phainon tugs on his hand and grins wide, eyes shining. “Teach me!”

And for some reason, Phainon can’t quite bring himself to refuse.

So, he accepts a wooden sword that Little Phainon hands him – one that looks suspiciously like the sword he used to practice with Mydei in Okhema – and sets about showing his younger self the correct stance when wielding a sword, how to place his feet, his arms, his grip. He smiles when Little Phainon tries to copy his own stance and nearly falls on his face when swinging the sword.

“Ugh, this is hard…” groans Little Phainon, knees scraped and sword leaning half-way on the ground, too heavy for him to keep up for long.

“It is. Nobody said that it would be easy,” he says, still smiling. “You’ll learn.”

Little Phainon looks at him, eyes determined once again, and nods.

“I will!” he says, before straightening up and doing another swing – more steady, if messy. “Say, mister– you’ve probably traveled around a lot, right?” And Phainon finds himself nodding, much to Little Phainon’s delight. His answering grin is wide and excited. “Tell me about it!”

And so, Phainon does.

He talks of his travels through Amphoreus: the immense tree of the Grove, its library, Castrum Kremnos’ past glory and echoes of strength, Okhema’s magnificence, Styxia’s ruins, Janusopolis’ towering archways. 

He talks of companions, of heroes, of friends and family, and he can’t help but smile and smile, wider and wider, as he talks of the stupid challenges he always dragged Mydei into.

And then, he veers off and talks of the distant stars, of a small planet encased in snow and ice, of planets made of crystal and endless sands and stormy seas. He talks of rickety bars in the middle of the void, of giant bugs and impossible hotels made from dreams.

“That’s so cool!” gasps his younger self, eyes bright and grin wide, sword almost forgotten – almost, because Little Phainon still clutches it with an iron grip. “I hope I get to see that someday!”

Phainon’s smile softens and he ruffles Little Phainon’s hair.

“Make sure to get strong before then, okay?” he reminds his young self, arching an eyebrow.

Little Phainon puffs out his chest proudly.

“Of course!” he says, before returning to his training with renewed vigor.

Phainon’s heart pulls him away from the child, then. Instead, he takes a look at the cards left abandoned on the table. His eyes find the Deliverer card almost immediately, and he takes it in his hand. His lips curl up into a painful smile that feels bitter and mixed as his eyes find all the little details it hides. It feels terribly heavy, even if it’s not his card anymore. He wonders which one it’d be now.

His eyes find the others – the Ruler, the Scholar, the Traveler, the Priestess… His fingers caress each one, pausing briefly on the Ruler card for a moment, before continuing on and admiring all the faceless silhouettes. His mind dresses these nameless characters in clothes he’s too familiar with, puts features over blank canvases, makes the cards whisper in voices that sometimes visit him in his dreams.

He doesn’t grab any other card, though.

Instead, he leaves the Deliverer card on the table, next to the others, and it feels like letting go of a burden he’s carried for too long.

Chest a bit lighter, he looks at the fruits scattered on the table, the grainfruits, the milk, the grapes. He eats a few of the grapes, looking up at the pale sky over his head – as never-changing as the rest of Amphoreus.

The sound of Little Phainon grumbling and swinging a sword nearly as tall as he is ceases, then, and the next time Phainon lowers his gaze, he finds– again, himself. Only, this time, it’s his adult self, dressed in Aglaea’s fine-crafted clothes, with a familiar sword in hand – not Dawnmaker, it’s still too soon for it.

The other Phainon smiles at him and tilts his head to the side.

“Shall we spar together for a bit?” says the other him, and the tilt of amusement and youthfulness in his voice is telling – this is him already used to Okhema, still struggling to live up to the expectations put on him, but practiced enough to hide his self-doubt and paranoia behind wide smiles and loud laughter.

Phainon’s answer is to call on Dawnmaker as they move to the clearing behind the building. The other him doesn’t really react to it, and for a moment, Phainon wonders if his Cyrene wasn’t killed by this same sword.

Their blades clash, but this time, neither of them goes for the kill.

They dance, steel against steel.

“Is Okhema your home?” asks the other Phainon, and when Phainon frowns at him, confused, the other laughs softly and scratches his head. “It’s just– I’ve been in Okhema for a few years now, and while it’s been nice, I still miss…”

Their fight pauses and the other him looks around at the golden village around them, the red and orange trees over their heads. His eyes glint with nostalgia and longing.

Phainon remains quiet for a moment, but even as he follows his other self’s gaze around the village, his answer has always been clear.

“Okhema is my second home,” he says, and this time, even though there’s a quiet pain in his chest, like small nails in his heart, the words don’t burn his tongue. They are true – they have always been true. Only, this time, he can admit them out loud. “Aedes Elysiae will always be my true home, but Okhema… the Crysos Heirs… will always be my second home, my family.”

Sometimes, when he was in a terribly nostalgic and depressed mood – usually when the fateful anniversary crawled closer – a younger Phainon had wondered how his parents and family would have reacted to his new life. Would they resent the wealth that now surrounded him? Would they be unhappy with the path he’d taken? Would they scoff at the idea of him becoming close with other people, enough to call them family? Those questions tormented him, once upon a time.

Now, as he looks at the never-ending fields of wheat, at the shadows of a past now gone, he’s sure that his blood family would have wanted him to simply be happy.

He remembers his mother, always smiling gently, hands soft as she brushed his hair and her laugh bright as she called him back for dinner. He remembers his father, always with a joke ready, hands guiding as he taught him how to use the tools for the fields, a steady presence at his back when he got into trouble.

Time and tragedy stained their images in his mind – he can still see them, black splotches at the corners, twisting their voices. But– even though he can’t quite remember how they looked as perfectly as before, they are still a part of him. They are still with him.

“So, you still miss home,” says the other Phainon, so soft his voice is carried away by the wind. “You miss both of your homes.”

Phainon smiles, and it’s tired and small and sad, but also hopeful.

“Yes, I do,” he says, and the warmth in his chest is just that– warm. “But I’ll return home, one day.”

The other Phainon huffs out a soft laugh and when Phainon turns to him to resume their spar, he’s gone.

In only takes him a couple of minutes to find his next companion, and he’s not surprised to find the one who called himself Khaslana sitting by the river, arms around his legs and chin on his knees. Silent. Looking at the water with vacant eyes.

Phainon expected this, so he takes a deep breath and walks slowly to him, sitting down by his side. Immediately, he can feel the heat emanating from his still body – and for a short moment, he wonders what cycle this Khaslana is from. How many Coreflames are eating away at him?

But– no. That’s over. This Khaslana is– him.

These are all him.

“Do you regret– no, resent the plan we came up with?” asks Khaslana, voice so tired, so hoarse, so painful. Phainon wonders if his voice sounded like that, when he was still in Amphoreus, after– everything. If it still does. If so, he can understand the worry people have displayed for him all this time.

“It was the only option,” he says, because he’s told himself that for millions of cycles.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Khaslana shrugs, but it looks a bit like how a puppet would move, pulled by its strings. His eyes, distant and exhausted, track the fish that swim underwater like shadows. “Maybe it was the only option. Maybe we just made a bad choice. Maybe it would have been easier to just– let go. Save ourselves and Amphoreus all that suffering.”

Phainon turns his head to the side to frown at this tired self of his, this shadow of a promise.

“You don’t believe that,” he says, shaking his head.

“How would you know?” asks Khaslana, without meeting his gaze.

“Because we’re the same person,” answers Phainon, and his voice softens, because he can already tell where this conversation is going.

“Are we?”

“Yes.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because–” Phainon bites his lip for a moment, lowers his gaze to the water. His reflection is the same he’s come to expect every time he comes face to face with it: tired blue eyes, white hair that was once fluffy and that now frames his pale face in messy waves – it’s gotten longer, he should cut it – and yet, he can still recognize himself. He’s still him, even after cycles of tragedy, after falling over and over again, after watching the dawn and collapsing from relief. He already knows this answer, too. He’s just been too exhausted to actually find the answer he wanted to hear, before. Not anymore. “Because… at every cycle, we all made the same choice.”

“Not in all of them,” points out Khaslana, and Phainon already knows what he means, thinking back to defiant eyes trained on the countless him's, an identical sword pointed at him - futile, their memories would converge, anyway.

So, he shakes his head, adamant.

“Yes, we did.” Phainon turns and finally– finally, Khaslana looks away from the water to meet his eyes, tired and yet fathomless, deep like the void, but with a fire that would never die out.  “We all chose to save Amphoreus. And when that future was too far from our reach– we decided to fight for it, use that anger as fuel to propel us forward. Over and over and over– we never thought of abandoning Amphoreus to its fate. So– maybe there was a better option, maybe it would have been easier to let Irontomb rise, but we still chose this path. We still chose to see it to the end. We still chose to…”

“Burn,” finishes Khaslana, and he takes a deep breath that rattles in his hollow chest. He closes his eyes for a short moment, and the next time he opens them, they are scalding gold, firm like the earth itself. “Then, continue burning endlessly. Until every threat to Amphoreus is turned to ash.”

“A dawn where all stars burn to ash,” whispers Phainon, a silent promise, another one, made to himself.

Khaslana smiles.

And Phainon– hugs him, tight, so tight he wonders how they haven’t both turned to dust.

The sun in their hearts sings, their determination fuses into one – all the promises they’ve– he’s made echo in his chest, tying him to the distant worlds that he now has at the palm of his hand, calling him… home.

Khaslana– his other self disappears, but not really, because he’s him and Phainon is Khaslana and Khaslana is Phainon. They are all him: the child him (free and full of wonder), the adult him (struggling under the expectations of many), the burning him (tired and yet unyielding), the… new him. A him with endless possibilities, even as the chains of fate and a gaze from beyond threaten to choke him – he’s always endured, and he always will. Just as he’s done for too long to count.

He takes a moment to just breathe – and he doesn’t drown. The water remains at his feet, under control.

The swing behind him moves and a familiar hummed tune reaches his ears.

He smiles.

And turns to find Cyrene, singing under her breath as she swings up and down, up and down.

“It’s good to see you again,” he says, even though this is just a dream. It’s always good to see his oldest friend, the one that started it all with him.

Cyrene stops, then, and turns her head to him – she smiles, wide and yet gentle in that strange way of hers.

“I’m glad to see you doing better,” she says, airy and yet, with a note of real worry and relief under her voice. Her smile wobbles a bit. “You scared me there, you know? I didn’t think you’d actually disappear like that. The others were really worried too– you should have said something.”

“They would have stopped me,” he says, with a rueful smile.

“Would they?” pokes Cyrene, tilting her head to the side.

Phainon grimaces and looks away – she’s always way too perceptive.

“I didn’t want to take any chances,” he admits, voice a low mutter. He lowers his gaze to his hands, full of scars. “I was drowning, Cyrene.”

Cyrene remains silent, but she jumps off from the swing and walks to him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder and sitting next to him, just like how Khaslana did moments before.

“I know,” she mutters, and there’s something that sounds like guilt, there. “I’m sorry.”

Phainon startles and looks at her with wide eyes.

“Why?” he asks, lost, eyes seeking her gaze like so many times before. She avoids him, instead watching the fish that swim beneath the surface of the stream, seemingly captivated by them. “Cyrene, this isn’t your fault.”

“Isn’t it?” And her voice shakes slightly. “I was the one who came up with the plan. I–”

“And I was the one who offered to be the host for the Coreflames,” he interrupts her before she can continue. Cyrene looks at him with a frown, jaw clenched tight, so he tries for a smile – it falls a bit short from his past ones, he knows, but it’s better than nothing. “Cyrene, I don’t blame you for anything. You worked very hard too.”

Cyrene stares at him for a moment and then– she sighs, loudly and frustrated. She rubs her eyes with her hands, and then huffs a wet laugh.

“I’m sorry– I was supposed to cheer you up, now that you’ve finally found your path,” she says, a bit wry, a bit annoyed – at herself. “And yet, here I am, crying on you!”

Phainon huffs out a laugh that turns to a startled yelp when she throws her arms around his shoulders and almost makes both of them fall to the stream, like so many times in the distant past.

“Cyrene!” he yelps, clutching the wood under his hands to stop his dangerous tilt forward. 

She only laughs, loud and bright.

“Sorry, sorry! I came here to check up on you and cheer you on, but… it seems like you’ve already figured out some things,” she says, fond and warm. She jumps off from him, then, leaving him stumbling again – he glares at her, unamused, but she just chuckles and skips away, to the table to the side. “Here, I have a gift for you!”

“A gift?” he asks, finally standing up without tumbling into the water like an idiot. He walks to the table, peering curiously at what she shows him, a wide grin on her face. “A… card?”

“Yes!” she chirps. “Actually– it’s a blank card! I saw you leave the Deliverer card back there…” Phainon grimaces slightly, looking away, but Cyrene shakes her head. “No, no, I think it’s a good thing. Only… the cards I used are terribly limited, don’t you think? They box people into too-narrow categories. Surely I can think of better ways to get to the bottom of people’s hearts, right? So, here!”

She grabs his wrist and leaves the blank card in his hand.

He looks over it, the beautiful borders drawn in brilliant gold that remind him of Aglaea’s threads, the golden spikes that remind him of Mydei’s armor, the white flowers that remind him of Tribbie’s accessories and Hyacine’s Courtyard. There’s an obvious blank space in the middle, it’s clearly lacking in details.

“So, I can… fill it in with whatever I want?” he asks, a bit unsure.

“Exactly!” nods Cyrene. “It’s your card, after all.”

Phainon looks at it again and can’t help but feel warm again.

“Thank you, then,” he smiles, and this time, his cheeks don’t hurt quite as much when he pulls on them. 

Cyrene nods, satisfied, hands behind her back.

“Yes, yes, now– I think I’ve already kept you here for long enough,” she mutters to herself, and Phainon frowns at her. That– is this Cyrene actually Robin? But that wouldn’t make sense; Robin promised him that she would stay away from his memories. But then– “I know you’ve been ignoring everyone’s messages– you should read them sometime! They’re all worried about you, silly! Some of them have teamed up with Stelle to find you out here!”

And that– huh?

“Huh?” is all he can manage, mind slamming to a halt with a loud screech. “What do you mean, they’re out here? Out– out of Amphoreus?”

“Yes, of course!” nods Cyrene, and there’s something amused in her eyes, on the brink of laughter. “They followed you out here like headless chickens. The least you could do was answer their messages.”

“I–” Words stick to his throat, so he coughs. He’s pretty sure that he’s managed to make peace with himself, but still, talking with the Crysos Heirs again, after all this time ignoring them– “I… can’t. Not yet, I don’t think.”

Cyrene pouts and places her hands on her hips, exactly like how she used to scold him when they were children and his recklessness and bad ideas got the better of him – and dragged Cyrene down with him.

But, she softens the longer she looks at him and his lowered gaze, hand clutching the card she’s just gifted him. Finally, she lets out a long sigh.

“Fine, fine. But promise me that you’ll get in contact with them soon!” she presses, leaning into him.

“I promise,” he says. He can do that much, he thinks.

“Good!” Cyrene claps her hands and then– 

She grabs him and turns him around so she can push him forward, through the dusty fences and towards… the path that leads away from Aedes Elysiae. A pang of panic and heartache twists his chest, making him clutch the blank card so tightly his hands shake – he isn’t sure he’s ready to walk away from here. Not again.

So, when they get to the border, he digs his heels into the dirt and Cyrene yelps, almost falling down at his sudden resistance.

“Cyrene… I…” He can’t even find the words. What does he even want to say? That he misses her and everyone? That he’s not sure she’s real? That he still has too many doubts in his mind, even now? That he’s not sure when he’ll be able to return? That he isn’t sure he’ll be able to look his new family in the eye?

Cyrene sighs, a bit frustrated.

“You’re always so hard on yourself,” she groans. “I wish Mydei was here, he’s always so good at getting things through your thick skull…”

And a pang of longing twists in his chest this time, sharp and painful. Titans, how he misses–

“Phainon– Khaslana– whatever you want to be called now,” says Cyrene, effectively dragging him away from his longing. She turns him around again, places her hands on his shoulders. “It’s okay if you don’t have everything figured out yet– really, it’s fine. You’ve found a path that could take you there, and even if this is not the correct path, you can always change course.”

“Can I?” he asks, and his next smile is bitter.

Cyrene throws him an unimpressed look.

“You’ve been fighting against fate all this time and you still ask me that?” she says, but there’s a note of amusement in her voice. “Do you need to ask?”

Phainon thinks of fiery rage, of determination, of fire dancing in his hands, of a vow against the very Path he walks and that competitiveness he’s familiar with roaring in his mind – “do you really want to chain me down, make me walk this Path? Then I’ll show you”.

“I suppose not,” he mutters, smile falling into something more subdued.

Cyrene turns him around again and this time– pushes him.

He stumbles, arms flailing in the air for a moment, before he looks back at her with a soft glare.

Cyrene only grins and waves at him, walking backwards.

“Go, now! I’ll see you soon– I hope, otherwise I’ll drag you home myself! And don’t forget about meeting the others soon!” she tells him, her voice more and more distant with each step she takes, until her voice sounds suspiciously echo-like.

Her form turns into a kaleidoscope of pinks and violets and blues, like crystal, like light, like–

Phainon groans and brushes his hair back, pointing his other hand to her accusingly.

“You–! Cyrene, it was actually you! That’s so unfair!” he yells back, but his lips curl up and up, until– he’s grinning, wide, a laugh bubbling up from his throat.

The last thing he hears before he wakes up is Cyrene’s bright laugh.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Phainon wakes up slowly and calmly… which is an oddity for him, now.

He opens his eyes to the dim lights of his hotel room and for a moment he’s disoriented enough to wonder where he is, before he blinks the sleep away and finds Robin’s worried face looking at him from above.

“Are you okay?” she asks, concern dripping from her voice, as she helps him sit up on the sofa with gentle and fussing hands.

His back aches again from the awkward position he’s slept in, but it could be worse, which means that Robin at least made the effort to move him to a more comfortable position when he pretty much collapsed at the mercy of the Harmony singing from her. His mind feels terribly slow, muddled, but also more quiet than it’s been for… maybe centuries. Millenia. He can’t be sure anymore. But now, thinking is easier. He doesn’t stumble on the misplaced memories he has yet to organize – and he finds that he can do that now, where before he was too tired to even try – and he doesn’t accidentally brush against the quiet fury that still smolders inside his chest.

He feels– lighter. More at peace.

He whistles in his mind; the power of the Harmony should never be underestimated.

“Actually… I am,” he says, when Robin keeps staring at him, biting her lip. At his answer, she sighs in deep relief, and he tilts his head to the side. “Why? Is something wrong?”

“No, it’s just– I felt a strange presence getting into your dream,” explains Robin. She sits down, elegant and proper, next to him. “I was afraid it was the Memokeeper again, back to… finish what they started.”

Phainon hums, confused for a moment, but then he remembers pink hair and relieved eyes and playful hands pushing him forward and making him stumble.

“Ah, don’t worry,” he says, and his smile is slightly bigger, now, he feels – more genuine, more… alive. “That was just a friend of mine.”

Robin looks at him, at his small smile and eyes, and then she smiles back, clearly relieved and satisfied with her help. Harmony still clings to her like a fluffy feathery coat, a warm song that talks of unity and peace, almost tangible.

“I’m glad this helped you,” she says, then, soft and honest and pleased.

“It has,” he nods, and it’s surprising, it feels weird, to be able to curl his lips up into a smile that now brings the echoes of warmth to his chest. He doesn’t know about his old smiles that he used time and time again to hide just how afraid he was of the future that loomed over them all, he doesn’t know about laughing or joking, but… Genuine smiles that don’t look half-dead – now, that he can do. “I suppose… I only really needed to confront- myself. And my past.”

(“And everything that came with it,” he doesn’t say.)

“Your melody did seem… very tangled up, when I tried to get you out of that dream,” comments Robin, thoughtful. “Like… a knot, made from various threads, too tangled to weave. Now…” Robin nods at him, smile widening. “Now, it’s much better. It was quite quick, actually – a lot of people usually need more time to figure things out.”

“Well, I did have some help,” says Phainon, and his smile dims a bit at that, too many thoughts now springing to his mind. 

And– he did have some help, after all: from himself. He needed to look himself right in the eye, be honest with himself and accept these parts of him as… his own self. Khaslana, Khaos, Phainon. Even Neikos496… they’re all him. He needed to make peace with– himself. With the decisions he – and all his iterations – made. With his broken fragments. With the names he grabs and embraces and then drops to the ashy ground when they burn his hands.

Throughout all the cycles, there was always some barrier between all of “him”, compartmentalizing – dividing the pain, maybe - but in the end, it just made him more… fragmented. The process of putting all the pieces together to shape himself into a new “him” would be long and arduous, and he isn't naive enough to mistake the sudden high this new lightness brings to his heart as a complete recovery – no, in fact, he knows for a fact that he will fall down again, that he will still struggle. Even now, the darkness of the past whispers at the back of his mind, but pushing it away seems easier. Now, nightmares… will be another issue, but he hopes that this Harmony-infused dream will not give him more trouble, at least for the duration of his stay. 

And until the moment when he can heal– He will continue to call himself ‘Phainon’, he decides then. Even though Khaslana is his real name, it comes with a weight he isn’t sure he’ll be able to shoulder – not now. Maybe one day, he’ll be able to hear someone calling for him by that name and not crumble under its weight, but for now… ‘Phainon’ represents the Crysos Heir that tried to look at the future with hope, even though the path to it would be hard and arduous. And that, he feels, is what he should strive for right now: the next step in this long path of healing.

“I should really thank you, Miss Robin,” he says then, soft and so, so grateful. 

Robin turns to him again, blinks and shakes her head with a smile.

“Oh– no, no, don’t mention it. Think of this as an apology for letting you come to harm two days ago,” she says, and when she sees Phainon lean back with surprise, she chuckles. “Yes, I forgot to tell you. You’ve been sleeping for a day straight.”

“That… explains a lot,” he mutters to himself, rubbing his side. He’s reminded of his time at the Grove, where he could spend hours reading, hunched over a desk or on the floor – with the subsequent crick in the neck and ache in his back as a consequence.

Robin’s eyes glint with amusement as she stands up, adjusts her dress and prepares to leave.

“In any case, I hope you can give the dream another chance,” she says, nodding to the bathtub. Phainon glances at it with a pinched expression, so Robin chuckles again. “Really, I promise that this time, you’ll get to visit Golden Hour with no trouble.”

Phainon glares half-heartedly at the bathtub for another moment, before he sighs, long and hard, and shakes his head.

“I’ll… think about it,” he says, with a half-smile. “Thank you, Miss Robin.”

“Of course,” nods Robin, before walking to the door. She pauses then and turns her head, mouth open to say something, but she thinks better of it and shakes her head. “I wish you a pleasant stay, Mr. Phainon.”

And with that, she’s gone, carrying with her the subtle notes of Harmony and peace.

—

That night, they all congregate in Mydei’s room – which is literally the same as the others, only he doesn’t have dozens of shopping bags strewn around the corners and hiding in the closet.

Trianne has insisted on buying everyone a cup of her new finding and passion: hot chocolate. It only takes Mydei a sip to decide that he likes it, partial as he’s ever been to a more sweet taste. So, here they all are, sipping on their chocolate as Mydei calls Aglaea on his teleslate and leaves it on top of the bed, where it only rings twice before it’s picked up.

“Punctual as always,” comes Aglaea’s voice from the other line, now lacking the usual coldness that covered it like frost before the True Era Nova. She also sounds more tired, but the mere fact of her sounding different from her usual emotionlessness is welcome. That and– he’s missed her. Actually missed her. 

Aglaea has always been the bastion of the Flame-Chase, of the Crysos Heirs, of Okhema and even Amphoreus at large. Her presence meant safety and strong leadership and, after meeting her and working with her for some time, he soon came to respect her and even admire her. His opinion hasn’t changed, even as Amphoreus crumbled and then rose again.

“We know how busy you are, Agy,” says Trianne, lips still stuck to her cup of chocolate. Even then, her smile is wide and her eyes bright as she looks at the teleslate, as if she can see Aglaea millions of ways away from where they are.

“That’s right. We don’t want to take up too much of your time,” nods Castorice, and her smile is small but just as relieved at hearing Aglaea’s voice.

Aglaea sighs, but as tired as she sounds, Mydei can also distinguish a deep sense of peace and pride – and how beautiful it is, to see Amphoreus at large come together to make their newly-born world stand up again proud, ready to reach out to the stars like never before.

“I appreciate it, truly. Now, tell me your plans,” she asks, falling back to business as easily as breathing.

Mydei and Trianne take the weight of passing on the Trailblazers’ explanations and advice, taking the time to address both the good and the bad that come with making contact with such a colossal corporation. Mydei himself tries to appear as neutral as he can, but after years of working together, he’s sure that Aglaea can hear the clear mistrust hiding in his voice.

“I see.” Aglaea remains quiet for a moment, clearly mulling over the new information and subsequent offer. “The members of the Astral Express that still reside in Amphoreus have told me as much, too; that the IPC would be one of the first contacts we’d have with the outside, and that they would offer us many deals.” She pauses again, pointed. “They also advised us to be careful when negotiating with them.”

“That’s the general consensus here, too,” nods Mydei, thinking back to Seele’s sharp eyes and Bronya’s cutting and yet polite words when he asked for their opinion that very afternoon.

“They don’t seem particularly pure-hearted in their offers, that’s for sure,” grumbles Trianne, an uncommon frown on her face.

“Be that as it may, they are not evil, either. Having relations with the IPC will be beneficial for Amphoreus, there is no doubt about that – as long as our relations are limited and carefully studied and controlled.” Aglaea seems to have reached a conclusion, one Mydei will probably not really like, but he can see where she’s coming from, and he accepts begrudgingly that it would be best for Amphoreus to avoid being in such a large corporation’s bad side.

“So… should we accept their offer for a meeting?” asks Hyacine, a bit apprehensive about the entire situation. With good reason, thinks Mydei. If they somehow make a bad impression on this friend of Stelle’s, Amphoreus’ standing and image would take a blow that would be hard to recover from.

“Yes,” comes Aglaea’s answer, firm and clear, just like in the past. Hyacine fidgets on her seat, uncomfortable. Aglaea knows them all too well to brush aside their concerns. “You don’t need to worry. Meet with that Stoneheart, make a good first impression on her – try to be amicable and open-minded to whatever she’s willing to share with you. As for the rest… leave the negotiating and politics to us here.”

“Do we have a fixed date for the first official meeting?” he asks, just in case. 

He knows that Amphoreus is still rebuilding and Aglaea and Cerydra – the two de-facto leaders right now, seeing as Cyrene and technically Phainon have fallen back to recover from their long fight against Irontomb – probably want to finish the process before they reach out to forge new relations with the outside world. A good strategy to avoid being in debt with other factions that might want to interfere in Amphoreus’ affairs and gain the upper hand over it, using their ‘debt’ as leverage, taking more power than they should. Amphoreus is a scarred land, a new world – taking advantage of it and its people will be the widespread idea a lot of the factions reaching out to them will have. Aglaea and Cerydra are smart to see it coming and mitigate its effects on time. 

“Ideally, we’d have Cyrene and Phainon present to act as our… support,” she says, and the way her words curl in amusement is enough for them to imagine her smiling.

“Intimidation tactic, more like,” chuckles Castorice.

“The Nameless have explained the Emanator situation a bit more in depth, so– yes. Intimidation tactic is a good name for it.” Aglaea doesn’t even try to downplay it, and once again, Mydei wonders just how important these Emanators actually are to the rest of the universe. It’s a bit difficult for him to treat them any differently from the idea he had of a demigod or even a Titan, tangible and familiar as the two Emanators are for them.

“What have they said?” asks Hyacine, probably thinking the same as Mydei.

“From what we understand, Emanators seem to be regarded as… emissaries from their respective Aeons. They are symbols of their ideals and power. Though not all Emanators are dangerously powerful, most of them are. No one – and they really highlighted this fact – wants to be on the wrong side of an Emanator,” she explains, pointed, and Mydei finally understands– and worries, because once again, their two friends have been saddled with heavy titles and duties.

Once again, he’s not surprised Phainon buckled under the pressure and uncertainty and weight of his new title as Emanator of Destruction.

(Destruction… somehow, the Path sounds ill-matched to Phainon, but when he stops and thinks about it for some time, he finds– he finds an idea that might work for him. Might being the key word there.

... Mydei hopes Phainon finds it.)

“I suppose it makes sense for you to want to have both of them looming ominously over the negotiation table, then,” comments Hyacine, a wry smile on her face.

“It would be helpful, but not necessary.” Aglaea’s voice softens, now, like her threads. The hidden message is clear: she won’t pressure either of them to become involved. That makes Mydei’s shoulders relax, even though he’s always known that Aglaea wouldn’t drag Phainon – and Cyrene too, now – into anything they aren’t ready to deal with yet, even if that is the universe itself. Okhema has always been a refuge for whoever needs it; even now, it’s no different. “Continue your mission with no hurry. And as for the Stoneheart… leave the date of the meeting to her. An olive branch, if you will. We can leave out the details for later.”

“Understood,” he nods, even though Aglaea can’t really see him. “How is the rebuilding coming along?”

“We are managing,” affirms Aglaea. “The citizens were revitalized after the festival. Okhema’s edges are almost done, the bridge is more than half-way reconstructed. Dawncloud has been left for last – there’s no need for it, now. Most of the population is in Okhema, after all. We’ve been thinking of creating a true Council, where we can arrange and coordinate the efforts to rebuild all of Amphoreus with time – the other city states first, the other villas and villages later. I will leave Castrum Kremnos’ case to you, Mydei, when you return.”

Mydei leans back, a bit caught off-guard… but not really.

“I’m not the Crown Prince anymore, Aglaea,” he says, soft but terribly heavy.

“And yet, the Kremnoans still look to you for guidance,” points out Aglaea, gentle like silk and with the patience of an experienced seamstress, used to sewing for days to complete an elaborate brocade. “In this new Era, we would be remiss to limit ourselves so. We can do whatever we want, now – a prince, a king. A god. A leader.” She pauses, and it feels meaningful and heavy. “You once told me that you would step into the shoes of the Guardian.”

Mydei remembers; his vow as he took on the Lance of Fury, his promise as he felt the weight of Strife on his back, his march into battle, over and over. His duty has never changed, firm like steel, like his will.

Guardian… it sounds better than king, he would give her that. It comes with the promise of protection, of a silhouette at the gates of paradise, firm against their enemies and whatever the universe might throw at them.

Still…

“I’ll think about it,” he says, and it sounds like another promise.

“I will be waiting for good news,” says Aglaea, genuine and calm. “Teacher, I’ll leave the youngsters to you. Make sure we make a good impression on the Corporation.”

Trianne looks up, chocolate making a dark mustache over her wide grin, and she laughs, bright and joyous. 

“Leave it to us, Agy!”

—

Phainon has been staring at his teleslate for the good part of an hour.

He watches as the screen lights up with another notification – this time, an update for his navigation app. Other times, it lights up with a new message from someone – he’s seen Stelle’s icon pop up a couple of times, as well as Trianne’s and Hyacine’s. He never taps on them; instead, he watches as the screen dims, before it returns to black.

He lets out a breath.

A part of him, the part that has always pushed him forward, towards recklessness and action, urges him to just– check their messages. Enter their chat, read the messages, maybe respond to them. He misses them all so much it hurts, he longs to talk to them again, hear their voices, touch them and realize that they are all real.

And yet, the other part of him, the one that’s always overly cautious, the one saddled with self-doubt that now feels more present than ever, the one that still hesitates, pushes him back and stills his finger when it gets too close to the screen, ready to unlock his teleslate.

Those two parts of him war against each other, resulting in Phainon himself laying down on the sofa, immobile and staring at his own reflection on the dark screen.

He feels better, better than he’s felt since Irontomb was dealt with and Amphoreus was saved and– real. There is a lightness that wasn't there before, but that could be an after-effect of the so-called tuning and it could very well wear off with some time. 

The most glaring difference he can notice is that he's finally managed to make peace with all the names he's carried over the cycles and all the baggage they saddle him with in return. It's like– he soon compares it to putting puzzle pieces together, in their respective and correct places, where before they were all scattered or slotted in the wrong place, twisted and bent. Now, when he thinks of himself as Khaslana, or as Phainon, or as himself in his childhood, he doesn't feel the dissonance that disoriented him previously.

And yet– the work is far from done, of that he's sure. The memories from the cycles is a can of worms that he's too scared to open or even touch. The few times he's tried to think back to them, he's been either attacked by memories too dark and violent, or he's been lost and confused over all the contradicting events that twist and mix in his own mind. He can't really make sense of them yet, and he's not sure he will ever be able to – or if he wants to.

Before, even looking at his companions dragged up memories he'd rather keep buried – which is one of the reasons he decided to leave Amphoreus – and even though he's hopeful that, were he to see the Crysos Heirs now, his mind wouldn't jump to the worst moments from the cycles, he's… still not sure what to do about the mess in his mind. Burying and not dwelling on the memories works for now, but he knows that they are just laying in wait, ready to dig their claws on him – they already do, most nights. His confused mind manages to conjure up countless nightmares for him every night, with enough material to make each one unique.

There is also the fact that someone, he can't quite remember who – maybe that winged Nameless that Phainon has only seen once or twice – mentioned that no normal human would be able to remember that many lives without... well, going insane. Maybe it has something to do with him formerly being lines of code, maybe it's related to a suspicion the other members of the Astral Express had about who was the real Lord Ravager when the original factor that attracted Nanook’s gaze was not the Scepter itself – either way, Phainon resolves not to think too much about it. For now.

He is pretty relieved, though. Like a weight has been knocked off his shoulders. He thinks it kind of funny, how much time he's needed to come to the realization that the countless versions of himself are– himself. No matter what, they all made the same choice, they all chose the same path, they all clung to the same hope. And when all is said and done– he remains, just like always.

A burned down candle is still the same candle.

The screen lights up again, this time with a message from Mydei. He only reads something that looks a lot like “fuck you” – and he huffs a laugh at that, a deep ache in his chest – before it’s replaced by another message from Trianne: a photo.

This time, he can’t quite stop himself from peeking at it from the notification board. He doesn’t open the app, he doesn’t unlock his teleslate, but he peeks at the photo she sent him and comes face to face with beautiful auroras in a starry sky and what he recognizes as Belobog’s skyline in the distance.

His heart squeezes painfully.

They really followed him.

Somehow, that almost makes him cry.

He thought– with what he did in all those cycles, the blood he spilled, the twisted and underhanded ways to obtain the Coreflames his broken mind came up with when it became clear that it was all futile and he still marched on to his own Destruction over and over, how the Heirs started trying to stop him at some point, how he shook off their worry and gentle hands and kept going, fueled by his own fury and stubbornness…

He thought they hated him, just as he hated himself.

Because– how could they not?

Now, light years away from them, he looks at his hands, clean of any blood, pale, full of small scars, and finally understands.

He hovers a hand over the screen again, fingers trembling, before–

He lowers his hand with a small sigh.

Not... yet.

Not when he still doesn’t know what to say, not when doubts still screech in his mind, not when he doesn't know if looking at them would end in a cruel fight, not when the thought of returning to Amphoreus makes something twist in his stomach and chest, not–

Not yet. But soon.

Soon, he’ll respond to the myriad of messages they have gifted him. Soon, he’ll find them and then he’ll look them right in the eye and he’ll come clean, he’ll explain everything and probably cry like an idiot in front of them and then they can yell at him all they want and–

He rubs his face tiredly and then immediately jumps when his teleslate suddenly vibrates with an incoming call.

He frowns down at it and the name that pops up on the screen. Sparkle? Why is she calling him? From what he knows, Robin was in charge of handing off the Memokeeper he managed to leave out of commission. He's already been paid for his ‘services’, too.

After a moment of confusion, he picks up cautiously.

“Hey there, Goldie! Let’s meet up in Golden Hour! I have another gift for you!”

Phainon looks at the bathtub again, this time with a grimace, but he closes his eyes and sighs, anyway.

And accepts.

Chapter Text

This time, he gets into the bathtub and falls asleep with no trouble and doesn’t drown.

Instead, the next time Phainon opens his eyes, he’s hit with a cacophony of colors, lights and sounds. He squints and even has to raise a hand to cover his eyes when blinking doesn’t really help much in dimming the… everything of what he supposes is Golden Hour. And he can see why they call it that, when he’s finally able to look around without being overwhelmed by the light and the noises that fall on top of him mercilessly.

Golden Hour is a loud and brilliant city, full of people and attractions that fight against each other to attract his attention – and keep it. He stands there, immobile, as he tries to make sense of everything that he’s seeing, which is hard, seeing as he’s technically in a dream. He sees floating food, he sees clothes that he’s never seen before, he sees how the sky seems to dance above his head and open up into an impossible sight.

For a moment, his mind asks itself if he’s dreaming, before he catches up to the train of thought and has to stifle a laugh – of course, he is actually dreaming.

It reminds him a bit of his reaction to arriving in Okhema, with its colorful streets and loud citizens gossiping on the rooftops and markets, only– much more exaggerated.

Phainon finally lets himself wander through the streets, head always raised up, eyes staring up at all the decorations, all the lights, all the people. He must look like a stupid tourist, but he doesn’t even care. He stops at most window displays, he reads all the menus he sees – and frowns at all the different and mysterious options for food – and even remembers to take quite a few photos that soon turn into at least two dozens of them.

People don’t seem to pay him much mind, busy as they are with their own shopping and other matters, but Phainon catches sight of a few members of what he guesses is the Family, watching over the place. No one approaches him, so Phainon is pretty sure that Robin has already told them about him – or, he’s simply not recognized in the dream. It seems much more stable than his first time crossing over to the Dreamscape, after all.

Maybe he can give this place a chance, after all.

At some point, he remembers to check the hour and make sure that he isn’t late for his appointment with Sparkle. Fortunately, he’s not, but he soon encounters a problem when he realizes that he has no idea where the Clock Dinner restaurant is. He wanders some more and eventually, he follows the sound of music he’s never heard before to a spacious– park?

He squints at the bright signs that present the place as ‘Aideen Park’ and then frowns at the strange machines strewn around the place, as well as the lively band of musicians that play on a stage, surrounded by swaying people that seem a bit more than drunk. Curious, Phainon avoids that mass of people and instead approaches the strange machines with blinking lights and cheerful jingles.

“Aideen tokens?” he reads on one of them, frowning in confusion. 

The man stuck to the machine next to it – who seems to be only standing because he’s clutching at it like his life depends on it – laughs and tilts to him, almost falling in the process.

“You need those… silver coins to try your luck, man…” And the man points to another man that– should probably lay down, maybe sleep it off for a while. Phainon grimaces, but the other man only laughs harder. “Dancy can sell you some, if you’re interested!”

Phainon doesn’t know if he’s interested enough to get close to a man puking his guts out.

He turns to the machine again, looks at the bright promise of a hefty reward if his luck holds out and then shrugs. Oh, well. He’s here on vacation, isn’t he? It’s not like he’s bereft of money – not anymore. He can indulge his curiosity, for once.

He checks the time again, nods at himself, and prepares himself to approach the so-called Dancy. The children – children? – surrounding him cheer and laugh at his expense, and Phainon hesitates for a moment, wondering not for the first time if this is actually a good idea.

Too late, though, because Dancy notices him and straightens out, brushing his mouth with a sleeve and smiling wide at him. His eyes betray him and show his true state, so Phainon remains a careful distance away from him. Just in case.

“Are you looking to buy some Aideen Tokens? Don’t worry, I’m your guy!” says the man, and then he offers a hand: ten silver coins. “For the nice price of 5,000 credits.”

That’s… actually not expensive at all, from what Phainon has seen.

“Deal,” he says, and immediately counts the few credits he has on hand, before trading them for the coins as quickly as he can to avoid coming too close to the other man. 

“I also have some records, if you’re interested–” continues the man, reaching into his jacket with a hand, but Phainon takes a step back with a slightly nervous laugh – that surprises him for a moment, in that he’s sure he wasn’t able to do that mere days before – and waves his hands.

“No, thank you!” he says, before he turns tail and definitely doesn’t run away from the strange group of mocking children – are they really children? In this place? – and the drunk merchant man. He sighs, looks around at the loud crowd and the clear drunkenness of most of them, and rubs his temples with a hand, muttering to himself, “these people are worse than the Okhemans during the Phagousa festivals.”

He soon returns to the strange machines and enters one of the coins in one of them. He watches as the machine chirps cheerfully, lighting up even more and making him squint again, and then the lever blinks, as if inviting him to pull at it.

He does.

And he watches as the images roll and roll and change and– ultimately, each stops in one different image.

Nothing.

Phainon sighs, not really surprised.

And yet, he uses another coin. And another. And gains absolutely nothing to show for it, other than an empathetic tap on the shoulder from the half-coherent man next to him and a message to ‘try again’ from the machine.

Phainon huffs and moves away to the other machine that caught his eye – a gacha-like… game? He’s not sure, but he remembers Stelle muttering to herself about something similar while glaring at her teleslate, back in the day, so he enters the coins and pulls the lever and watches as a metallic ball rolls down to him. He looks around, a bit confused on what to do now, but then he– pokes it. 

And it bursts, making him jump back, feet adjusted into a familiar battle stance. No Dawnmaker, though, and he only manages to stop himself from pulling it out and chopping this machine in half because apparently, his price is what looks like a terribly familiar golden ring, with a glint of a sigil that looks a bit too much like…

When he touches it, frowning and with a sinking feeling in his chest, it suddenly dissolves into a pack of papers that float around him mockingly.

Someone laughs behind him, loud and a bit unhinged. Phainon knows that laugh – he turns around with his ‘price’ in hand and throws Sparkle an unamused look.

“Really?” he asks, if only because he feels like he has to.

(How the hell does she know what that ring, belonging to a certain someone, looks like? How?)

“What a shame, Goldie. It seems your luck is quite… up in flames.” Sparkle’s grin is wide and her eyes glint with clear amusement. He still can’t quite read her, and by this point, he’s pretty sure that he never will.

“I’m not late, am I?” he asks, taking a look at his teleslate. He’s not, so he frowns at Sparkle. “Didn’t we–?”

“Ah, but we’re already here, so it’s fine!” she says, waving a hand. She immediately grabs his arm, ignoring his obvious startle, and drags him off to a food truck to the side. “Here, you can pick! Only– this time I won’t pay for you.”

She huffs, but her annoyance is very clearly an act, so Phainon tries to ignore her weird and slightly unnerving behavior and frowns at the menu.

“Uh… a bottle of Soulglad, please?” he says, curious about the drink he’s seen all over Penacony and, mostly, at Golden Hour. 

“And potato fries sundae for me,” chirps Sparkle.

The child – child? – doesn’t really react to the weird sight they must be. Sparkle doesn’t comment on anything else as their food is prepared, only balancing on her feet and humming under her breath. Not for the first time, Phainon feels incredibly out of his depth because of her presence and way of approaching– everything. He waits impatiently and isn’t really surprised when Sparkle once again grabs his arm after they get their food, dragging him off again.

“Now, then… let’s talk,” she says, grin still wide, but her eyes are knowing and deep. “You have quite a few questions, right?”

“I do,” he nods, cautiously. “And I do hope you can answer them.”

Sparkle only continues grinning.

— 

They leave Jarilo with the knowledge that they probably won’t return in a while.

The new friends they’ve made in this small and snowy place share a nice dinner with them before they go, making them promise to come visit – with Phainon in tow, this time. Mydei meets Seele’s eyes on the other side of the table and she grins, showing her teeth, and offering a fist-bump. He finds himself unable to refuse, and so he meets her half-way, chest feeling warm. 

Even the golden threads of companionship can follow them to other worlds, ready to weave new friendships and bonds.

Hyacine makes sure to take all the photos she wants for safekeeping. Castorice does a final round of shopping, frowning at which souvenirs she should buy for everyone back in Amphoreus. Trianne tries to stuff three thermos full of hot chocolate in her bag, before Stelle tells on her and they all stop her before she makes a mess of her luggage.

Mydei feels like a nagging mother the longer he stands outside their rooms, arms crossed and checking on the time on his teleslate after sending Cipher a very clear message telling her to “not even think about robbing the IPC ship they're trying to negotiate with” – they are running late already, so he knocks on the wall to get everyone’s attention, even the two Nameless’.

“We need to go. Now. We’re late,” he says, pointed, with a sharp glance at Stelle, who has been arguing with Dan Heng for ten minutes about the trash bag she wants to carry with her.

“Alright,” nods Dan Heng, before he shoots a look at Stelle and points to the trash bag with his spear. “That needs to be gone.”

Stelle pouts, but when they finally rush out of the hotel, she leaves said trash bag in its intended place.

They reach the train car in record time thanks to the Anchors, and fortunately, there is no jumping involved to get to the IPC spaceship where the infamous meeting will take place.

With how people talk of the IPC, Mydei expects their spaceship to be similar to the Herta Space Station, dull and boring, only now full of soldiers ready to stab them in the back if they so much as refuse to accept their terms and deals.

And, while the soldier part is half-true, what they find is nothing of the sort.

They are welcomed by a girl with white hair and a tight one-piece suit that glitters like a gemstone under the warm lights of the spaceship.

“Ah, there she is, my dearest investor!” she greets Stelle first, shaking her hand effusively with a wide grin. “And of course, the one who actually knows what he’s doing.”

“It’s nice to see you again, Topaz,” nods Dan Heng, and even though it’s clear that they don’t fully trust each other, the relationship between them seems to be warm enough to even be called friends. That’s– good. Helpful. 

“And you must be… the Amphoreans, right?” She turns to them, eyes glinting with interest, but no hostility or any other sign that would brand her as merciless. Quite the opposite – Mydei can see a warmth in her eyes that he’s not sure other businessmen would have. The businessmen in Amphoreus sure didn’t. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Topaz, one of the Ten Stonehearts. I’ve heard from various people now that Amphoreus has just opened its doors to the wider universe, so it’s an honor to meet you before any other big shots out there.”

She offers them her gloved hand and Mydei, as the probable official spokesperson of their group – because there is no way that Topaz would take Trianne as seriously as her status as oldest demigod would deserve – is the one to shake it. He finds a firm hold; so, not really a fighter. That can play for their advantage– or not.

Topaz makes a point to shake hands with everyone, offering them wide and friendly smiles. Mydei understands why Stelle – the Express, really – pushed them to meet with her before it was too late. Topaz seems like someone that would, at least, hear them out before trying to push deals into their hands.

“Ah! So cute!” Mydei turns to Topaz immediately and– blinks. Topaz is looking at Little Ica in Hyacine’s arms with shining eyes, her smile wide and more genuine than before. “What is– he? She? Name? Species? Can they talk? How old are they? Can I touch them, or will they try to eat my hand whole?”

Hyacine blinks at her with wide eyes for a moment, clearly caught off-guard and surprised by the obvious interest and number of questions Topaz has just thrown at her all of a sudden. But she recovers quickly, smiling gently and letting Ica fly on his own – the little pegasus floats in front of Topaz for a moment, curious, before he finally bumps into her face with a chirp.

“He’s Little Ica, he’s a pegasus. He can’t talk in the usual sense– he usually chirps! He’s… young, for his species, really. And you can definitely pet him, even hug him!” answers Hyacine, used to answering questions – as an assistant, and as a healer.

Topaz pretty much squeals and hugs Ica, mumbling into his fur and almost jumping in place.

Mydei turns to Stelle, noting her suspiciously smug smile and glint in her eyes.

“You had this planned, didn’t you?” he asks under his breath, leaning slightly to the side so he could whisper to her without being terribly obvious – not that Topaz seems to notice, busy as she is with Little Ica.

And then from the hallway comes a white and black blur and suddenly, there’s a… creature that reminds Mydei of the seals in the baths, but not quite, jumping up and down at Topaz’s feet, chirping in a different way from Ica’s.

“I can’t neither confirm nor deny,” whispers Stelle back, but her grin speaks wonders.

When Topaz finally gets a hold of herself and drags quite a few more answers from Hyacine – diet, any special abilities, relations to other creatures? – she turns to them all with shining eyes and then shoots a look at Stelle, knowing and sharp.

And Mydei knows, without a doubt, that this Topaz is not someone to have as an enemy.

“I think we’re going to get along splendidly,” she says, firm, like a promise. She lets Ica go and waves a hand to the warmly-lit hallway. “Now then, let’s go. We have a lot to talk about.”

Mydei crosses a glance with an amused Trianne – who nods at him and gives him a thumbs-up, encouraging – and follows.

Topaz leads them to a spacious room, with a round table and at least a dozen chairs. She sits in one of them, where she already has a holographic tablet ready to use, probably with quite a few notes of her own. She’s come prepared, Mydei can give her that.

He’s not surprised when the Crysos Heirs present sit next to each other, forming a pretty obvious united front, with Stelle and Dan Heng sitting between them and Topaz. Mydei lets out a deep breath, preparing himself for a battle of wits – which he hopes he can battle decently. 

He can admit pretty willingly that a battle of words and hidden interests is not his specialty – that would be Phainon’s, as well as Aglaea’s and Cerydra’s, with their experience dealing with the annoying Council of Elders and followers – but as former Prince and as someone who has been present for a few debates and clashes between Aglaea and Phainon versus the Council, he knows how this goes: it’s always best to act conforming, to never close any doors that could lead to a greater outcome, to be as vague as possible while making your intentions and objectives clear and – most importantly in this case – to not let the other side walk all over you.

So, Mydei leans back and looks at Topaz right in the eye. Topaz meets his gaze, unflinching, and smiles with a glint of interest in her eyes.

A worthy opponent, though not in the way he’s used to.

“I must admit, Miss Himeko has already informed me a bit of what happened to your world,” starts Topaz, lowering her tablet and giving them all her undivided attention. Somehow, her gaze turns heavier, which becomes all the more apparent as she continues. “I talked it over with my colleagues before coming here– Nothing bad,” she says, when Stelle opens her mouth with a frown. “In fact, on behalf of the Strategic Investment Department, as well as in the name of the Emanator Diamond, we thank you all for the immeasurable favor you’ve done to the entire universe.”

And she– lowers her head in clear gratitude.

Immediately, Mydei tastes something bitter. He bites his tongue, crosses his arms.

“That– was not entirely our doing,” he says, careful and pointed, referencing their two comrades that sacrificed everything they were in hopes of finding a happy ending. He doesn’t know how much to say, not when they still don’t know how dangerous it could be to bring more attention to Phainon’s… identity. If nothing else, an Emanator of Remembrance should be easily accepted.

“I know, but you still played a vital part in it all, right?” says Topaz, and her smile is friendlier, more open. The gratitude isn’t faked, he realizes then. “Irontomb is– was a very dangerous threat to the entire cosmos. That you managed to avoid the disaster it was trying to bring about is… well, it’s already helped you put your entire world on the good side of the IPC. They want your favor. And… that brings me to the more pressing matter that we should get out of the way first…”

The way Topaz tilts her head and her smile turns a bit rueful and cautious tells Mydei all that he needs to know. 

Mydei tightens his jaw, hides how he clenches his fists, frowns deeply. He can feel more than see how the other Crysos Heirs react to her words as well. Castorice becomes guarded, eyes icy cold. Hyacine puts Little Ica on her lap, lips pressed into a thin line. Trianne grips the underside of the table with little hands and fights to keep her expression as neutral as she can – and fails, as her nose scrunches up.

“Miss Topaz…” Dan Heng’s voice is cautious and with a note of tension under it that no one misses.

“Topaz, I thought Himeko told you not to bring it up?” asks Stelle, point-blank as always.

Topaz– sighs, long and hard, and rubs her eyes, seemingly more tired than she should. And Mydei leans back again, confused and cautious.

“Oh, how I wish I could brush past that, but news fly,” she explains. When she looks back at them, her smile is brittle and hesitant and maybe even afraid. “Especially the news of a new Lord Ravager that has gone missing somewhere out in the cosmos… and no idea of where his loyalties lie.”

Mydei curses under his breath in Kremnoan.

Chapter Text

Sparkle drags him off to a quieter stretch of Golden Hour. 

There are more restaurants here, but Phainon doesn’t really feel hungry – not usually, anymore. So, he sips at his drink – makes a face at how bubbly it is – and follows as Sparkle skips ahead of him, humming under her breath as she snacks on the strange potato fries. He’s quite sure he’s seen something like that in Belobog, and for a moment, he wonders if one of the worlds took inspiration from the other, before remembering how vast the universe is and shaking his head.

“You can start asking, by the way,” comments Sparkle, coming to a stop by a staircase that leads to a lower level of the pathway. “No one will bat an eye– and if they do, they’re probably too drunk to remember much, anyway.”

Phainon looks at her, at the easy way she sits on the stairs and hums under her breath, snacking on her fries and looking, for all intent and purposes, amused by the groups of drunk people that are trying – and failing – to take a selfie by the corner. Once again, he can’t quite get a read on her, so he resigns himself to going into the conversation completely blind, a thought that only reminds him of the nerve-wracking debates he needed to participate in during the endless Flame-Chase, where every word would be weighted and judged.

It feels like that, now, with Sparkle’s heavy and amused glance that sometimes stabs through him like a blade, before she finds another poor person to stare at – maybe mockingly, maybe just amused.

“Why did you want me to take care of that Memokeeper?” he asks directly, frowning at her.

“Well, that’s easy – because that faction of the Garden of Recollection is your enemy, right?” she shoots back, arching an eyebrow. 

Phainon presses his lips into a thin line. 

He only knows the barebones of that specific matter – and once again, he berates himself in his mind for not asking more questions to Cyrene and the Nameless when he had the chance – but what he does know makes it clear that a certain group of Memokeepers were (still are?) targeting Amphoreus. He doesn’t remember – or maybe he was never told explicitly – why, but seeing as they were apparently already interested in their world before it was made ‘real’, then it couldn’t be anything good.

One thing he’s sure of; seeing how convoluted Amphoreus’ situation was and still is, anyone that might know of it and the threads tangled in it fall into a list of individuals he should be cautious of. And Sparkle has immediately fallen into that category.

“And how do you know that?” he asks, now suspicious.

Sparkle waves a fry in the air, almost like a conductor’s baton.

“Let’s just say… I have a friend,” she says, coupled with a light chuckle. Phainon stares at her – almost glares, really. Sparkle doesn’t hesitate to meet his eye, and her grin widens. “C’mon, don’t be like that. If I wanted to become an enemy of your world, I wouldn’t have pointed you to that Memokeeper, now, would I?”

“You wouldn’t hide information from me, either,” he points out, too.

“That’s not how things work out here, Goldie.” Sparkle wags a finger at him, before she realizes that there’s a dash of cream on her skin and she giggles as she licks it off. It never fails to put Phainon on edge. “You see, the best thing you can do to avoid a nasty fall, is to– make friends! Friends who will laugh at your jokes, who will lend you a hand, who will… oh, I don’t know, not shoot you in the back.”

“Connections, you mean,” he answers, a bit dry, and he can’t help but think back to the Astral Express, to Belobog, to the strange trio he met in the middle of nowhere. To this strange girl that seems to relish in walking on a knife’s edge.

“Exactly! Friends!” Sparkle nods enthusiastically. “You’ve been doing a good job of that, I must say! Why, who would have thought? A creature of Destruction being all friendly like a doggy with other Pathstriders!”

And that– he’s used to being affiliated to the Destruction by now, used to people alluding to his ties - and not even just that, after countless debates with the old Councils, he's become used to people poking at him like an idiot would poke at a violent animal, just to see it bite their hand. So, Phainon doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even let her pointed words get a reaction out of him; what she says does have a part of truth, after all.

“This friend of yours then… who is it?” he asks, and Sparkle huffs out a light laugh at the clear dodge of her poking.

“Why should I tell you?” she asks, grin wide.

Phainon stares into her eyes, and isn’t at all surprised at the clear enjoyment he sees there – the dance of double-meaning words, the banter, the hidden objectives. It reminds him of the always politically-charged environment of Okhema, at least during the Flame-Chase. At least, he’s pretty sure Sparkle wouldn’t lean on the use of poisons and other underhanded methods, if only because what seems to motivate her is… amusement? It reminds him a bit of Cipher, in a more wild way, more out-of-control – which could be… dangerous. 

But also very handy.

“Well, you’ve just told me to make friends,” he points out, pulling at his lips to form a smile that is easier and easier to don as the days pass. He tilts his head to the side, meets Sparkle’s gaze head-on, and offers his hand. “So? Friends?”

Sparkle stares at him for a moment, maybe surprised, maybe just trying to make him uncomfortable. He doesn’t let out, keeps his hand up and eyes locked on her, until–

Sparkle snorts and then falls back with a loud cackle.

Some of the drunk guests turn to look at them with surprise and curiosity, but soon enough return to their mumblings over their teleslates and the blurry photos they probably took.

Sparkle, for her part, continues cackling for a couple of minutes, leaning back against the stairs, boneless, before she rights herself up like a puppet pulled by strings and takes his hand, shaking it exaggeratedly as her shoulders tremble with laughter.

“Okay, Goldie, maybe you’re not as stuck-up as I thought!” she giggles. Her smile now tethers less on the edge and leans more on genuine amusement. “So, sure. Let’s be friends.”

“And friends tell each other things,” he points out again, arching an eyebrow. “Like the name of other friends.”

Sparkle laughs again, and waves her free hand in the air.

“Yes, yes, you don’t need to strong-arm me into answering, I was just joking,” she sighs, but her grin is still there, on her lips, like an ever-present ghost. “In any case, some of your friends know her too, so it’s not like she told me to hide her or anything. She’s called Black Swan. We had dealings in the past, so she contacted me and asked me to act as her intermediary – good pay, too. Memokeepers always know what people want, after all.”

“So, she’s also a Memokeeper,” he says, just to make sure that he heard right. A Memokeeper selling out another? Oh, he definitely should have asked Cyrene more about the ‘small problem’ she mentioned before he left. He can already feel a headache, even in the perfect dream of Penacony.

“Yep. She didn’t want to come to you directly, dunno why. Didn’t ask. I’ve done my part of the deal, though, and I even managed to get a new friend, so really, who’s the winner here?” says Sparkle, now seemingly much more relaxed. 

Phainon hums, thoughtful. Now that his mind is less… chaotic and tired, to put it simply, he’s starting to realize how– big all of this is. When he thinks about the situation, he can’t help feeling a bit on edge and worried; after all, Amphoreus is still a newly-born world, in theory, and yet, they already have millions of eyes on them, waiting... for what? Phainon can’t be sure, but there’s an itch under his skin that urges him to run back to Amphoreus, unload all this new information on Aglaea and Cerydra’s feet, and put his foot down to guarantee Amphoreus’ protection. 

Because he’s learned, now, that his weight as a Lord Ravager – while terribly heavy and a source of wariness and mistrust for other factions – can be used as a double-edged sword in his favor. And it’s not like he’s dancing to Nanook’s whim. He’d rather die.

And yet, he can’t quite bring himself to awaken from the dream, ready his bag again and hurry back to Amphoreus. Not yet. 

The waters that threatened to drown him are now at his ankles, but the thing about the tides is that they rise and fall – and until he can only feel sand beneath his feet, he doesn’t feel like he’d be ready to return. 

“Thinking hard there, Goldie,” chuckles Sparkle. Phainon blinks and frowns at her, but she grins and tilts her head to the side. “Wouldn’t it be better to tell that pink friend of yours about all this drama?”

The Garden of Recollection drama, she probably means. Phainon already knows that Cyrene is aware of it, which is why she’s been so careful with her new power as an Emanator, why she’s sticking close to Amphoreus – and he’s grateful for that, now that he can’t bring himself to act as a guardian yet. Just as they trusted each other to keep the cycles going to stop Irontomb’s birth and then trusted each other again to put a stop to it for once and for all, Phainon now trusts Cyrene to protect Amphoreus and Cyrene probably trusts him to return home at some point.

After all, Amphoreus is missing a few Crysos Heirs, too, and that thought makes something warm spread in his chest, something that feels like sunrays, like a soft embrace, like coming home.

So, Phainon huffs out what could be called a laugh and shakes his head. 

“Cyrene already knows,” he says. Sparkle twists her mouth, not really convinced. “She’ll deal with it.”

“Oh, well. You’ve been warned.” Sparkle shrugs, a bit exaggerated still, and finally stands up, patting down her strange dress. Then she twirls and points a finger at him. “In any case, you, dear new friend, owe me one!”

“Huh?” is the only thing that comes out of his mouth, which makes Sparkle laugh again.

“Oh, sure, Black Swan paid me and I paid you for the Memokeeper, but… these answers aren’t free!” she explains and– ah. Phainon sighs and smiles wryly at her, so Sparkle grins wide and makes a flourish and a bow. “I’ll come to collect later, Goldie!”

“Thank you anyway,” he says, a bit dry, similar to his past disillusioned voice, but when Sparkle skips away and disappears down the long gallery, Phainon sighs and rubs his eyes and mutters, amused, “dear friend.”

—

“Oh, well, that’s easy!” chirps Trianne, and suddenly, all eyes are on her. She grins, white teeth and shining eyes, and she looks the part of a simple cheerful kid, too young to understand the situation and the weight behind Topaz’ words. “Snowy’s allegiance is Amphoreus, of course!”

Mydei blinks– and then tries to hide the small half-smile that threatens to appear on his lips. If they look at it that way, from their own perspective and with the knowledge they have, then the situation is quite simple really: A new Lord Ravager, missing – but it’s Phainon, who loves Amphoreus so much he sacrificed himself over and over again just to give the world a chance at a future. So, of course, his loyalty lays – and will always lay – with Amphoreus.

Now, from the outside perspective, Mydei can admit that the situation is quite… thorny. He hasn’t really investigated the Lord Ravagers much, and he can’t quite say why. Maybe he just has no interest in seeing how much blood stains their hands, maybe he doesn’t want to understand why the universe will look at Phainon with fear and suspicion, maybe– maybe he’s just afraid. Afraid of the power they wield and how it can be turned against Amphoreus, again. Afraid of what it could mean for Phainon. But he knows enough about them to understand that one of them going rouge and becoming a new variable that very few people will be able to stop could be considered, well– troubling. Worrying.

“And… what would that mean for the rest of the cosmos?” asks Topaz, with a smile that, were it not as practiced as it seems to be, would have come across as extremely pinched.

It’s relieving, thinks Mydei. He – and the rest of the Crysos Heirs – went into this meeting with caution and the idea that the IPC and any other faction that might be interested in business with them would have the upper hand. It’s not as if their positions have been reversed, but the fact that the IPC’s approach seems to be herring more on the side of caution and heavy feet is promising. They haven’t come into their negotiation with guns blazing, pressuring them into compliance and abusive deals – yet. And as long as Amphoreus remains under the care and attention of two seemingly powerful and important Emanators – which it will – they will remain as tame as they can.

Mydei can use that to their advantage.

“It would mean that, as long as Amphoreus is safe and in good condition, everything will be cordial between us,” he says, and he lets his words hang between them for a moment, heavy and sharp, like an unsheathed sword. He arches an eyebrow. “Easy to understand, yes?”

Topaz meets his eye head-on, and he has to commend her for her bravery and firmness, because any other soldier would have already caved under his heavy gaze. He shouldn’t underestimate her, he feels like, as accommodating and understanding as she seems to be. That the IPC is cautious and suspicious of Phainon and Cyrene is useful, but not the definitive answer to their troubles.

“Easy to understand, yes,” says Topaz, after a short pause. She nods, looks at her tablet and hums. “In fact… we would like to go a step further: we would be quite honored to offer our hand to both of them for collaboration, particularly to the Lord Ravager… if he’s amenable to it.”

Mydei frowns and leans back.

“I’m afraid we can’t speak for him. As you said, he’s currently… out of our reach,” he says carefully. 

He doesn’t say the other reason that makes him hesitate – the very real possibility of foul play, of a trap. Cerydra has already cautioned them of any suspicious advances that any faction could potentially make; dishonest promises of alliance, false support, help with strings attached. This is not the real negotiation, not yet, but it is the foundation of one – and Mydei needs to be as careful as he can.

“Oh, yes. Don’t worry about that, the answer to that can wait. It would be best for you to bring it up to him, though. When you eventually find him,” she says, definitely not discreet. Mydei almost scoffs. She’s not really hiding her intentions at all, and she knows it, by the way her smile turns sharp and even amused.

“We’ll see,” he leaves it at that, nodding slightly to Topaz. Not a redundant ‘no’, but not a ‘yes’ either. That’s as much as he can offer – and Topaz returns the nod, satisfied. For now.

“So, with that out of the way… let’s focus on more general matters.” Topaz raises her tablet again, pen at the ready to take notes and looks up at them. “What is Amphoreus’ goal now that it’s opened its door to the cosmos?”

And Aglaea has already sent him the barebones of what they’ve planned back in Amphoreus with the still-new Council, based on the advice from the more experienced Astral Express members, so he doesn’t really need to think much.

“Free trade, mostly. Contact with the outside, relations with other worlds,” he lists off, ticking off from his mental list. He tilts his head to the side in quiet acquiescence. “I’m afraid we aren’t very experienced with interstellar networking, but we hope to find our way and get to collaborate with other worlds in no time.”

“Perfectly attainable, I must say,” nods Topaz, satisfied with the direction of his (their) goals. “The IPC does act as a sort of ‘bridge’ between worlds most of the time, so I wouldn’t worry about it. We can talk specifics when we inevitably meet at a larger table, but for now, rest assured that we will do everything within our power to introduce you to like-minded worlds so you can work together for a greater tomorrow.”

‘For a greater tomorrow’, huh? Familiar words that now carry a bittersweet flavor to them.

“As for dates and timelines… It’s still hard to say. Amphoreus is going through a harrowing rebuilding process, and until we’ve managed about half of it, we don’t expect to welcome any visitors – least of all tourists,” points out Mydei, thinking back to Aglaea and Cerydra’s stubborn opinion of not depending on outside forces for their rebuilding.

“Don’t worry about it. I know you’re close with the Astral Express, so you can always ask them to intermediate and we can schedule a proper meeting – or various, seeing as we have much ground to cover,” says Topaz, with a friendly smile. “And if you ever need more materials or any help during the rebuilding process, don’t hesitate to call, of course! After all, the IPC is technically working under Qlipoth to get him more materials for THEIR wall, so it’s not like we’re short on those.”

Right. Qlipoth. Preservation? The names of most Aeons mix in his mind, so Mydei is quite ready to admit that he can’t quite remember what each one represents or stands for, much less what relation THEY have with their factions.

And yet– there it is. The offer of help, with a million strings attached innocently. A perfectly laid trap, ready for the prey to fall. Topaz has thrown it into the mix almost carelessly, probably to watch their reaction.

“We’ll keep that in mind,” he says, which only makes Topaz’ smile widen, unsurprised, as she notes everything down on her tablet.

After that, they leave the more official matters aside and get into a more informal talk – Topaz leaves her tablet aside and the strange creature that she calls Numby jumps onto her lap. He watches, confused, as Topaz offers a golden coin to Numby and the creature gobbles it up in less than a second – and he somehow feels relieved that he’s not wearing his usual armor, as much as he wanted to wear it initially, if only for the moral support and the intimidation factor it provided him.

It turns out that Topaz and Hyacine get along splendidly, talking about Numby and Little Ica and the chimeras they have left behind in Amphoreus and the myriad of other creatures that Topaz apparently fosters and takes care of and then Castorice mentions her dragon-sister Pollux and– and Mydei knows, without the shadow of a doubt, that Topaz would be one of the IPC representatives that will visit Amphoreus when it’s time for them to knock heads and negotiate. The passion she exhibits when asking about the little chimeras is proof enough. Mydei wonders if this was somehow planned by the Nameless, and when he looks at Stelle and Dan Heng, both tilt their heads, a satisfied and smug glint in their eyes.

Topaz doesn’t seem all that surprised when she learns that Trianne is, actually, pretty much the oldest of the group.

“You could have acted as the spokesperson, really,” she says with a seemingly open smile. “I promise I don’t judge. Actually– most people that have seen their fair share of strange things in the cosmos don’t judge. You can be sure of that.”

Just as they agreed, even after finishing their more ‘informal’ meeting, their little group still remains on the IPC ship, and when Topaz mentions going to Pier Point together so she can touch base with a colleague that the Nameless are familiar with and who travels more than her – and thus is more likely to have seen Phainon anywhere – they all accept the offer pretty easily. It's not like they have any new leads, after all. Topaz is perfectly jovial about the whole thing, but by the exasperated look in her eye when talking about her ‘colleague’, Mydei isn’t sure they should want to meet this ‘Aventurine’, so he asks Stelle that much after they part ways with Topaz.

To no one’s surprise, she shrugs.

“Eh, Aventurine is a fifty-fifty chance made a person,” she says cryptically. Mydei stares at her, unimpressed. She sighs, crosses her arms on her chest. “You’re no fun. He’s alright, as long as he isn’t trying to kill you.”

“Which he won’t,” amends Dan Heng quickly when it becomes clear that Stelle would leave it at that.

Mydei arches an eyebrow at both of them and then crosses an amused glance with the rest of the Crysos Heirs, but ends up shaking his head.

“By the way, that went… better than we expected,” nods Stelle, with a wide grin. She shares a complicit glance with Dan Heng and then turns to Mydei, her grin turning more teasing. “I didn’t expect you to be such a good diplomat, Your Highness.”

Mydei looks at her again, unimpressed.

“I was the Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos and I led the Kremnoan detachment for years,” he says, voice dry. “Of course I know how to negotiate and play the part of a diplomat, I’ve done it– before.”

And he almost says 'countless times', when his mind helpfully reminds him of the millions of cycles they all went through. Stelle definitely catches it, because her smile softens and becomes more subdued.

“In any case, as long as you have at least one of the Stonehearts on your corner, you’ll probably leave the negotiations in a good position,” says Dan Heng, probably sensing the change in the air.

“Agy and Cery and of course us will figure it out!” chirps Trianne, and it’s that simple thing, that simple reminder that they aren’t fighting this strange and complicated war alone, that makes Mydei finally relax his tense shoulders and let out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding.

So, he breathes in, breathes out. And doesn’t drown.

Chapter Text

Now that he knows that he won’t end up in a nightmare as soon as he submerges into the dream, Phainon spends a few more days snooping through the other ‘Moments’. 

He spends probably too long at the Moment of Sol, where the Penacony Grand Museum, Primal Waking Library and Paperfold University College are located, as well as at the Moment of Oasis, where he spends more than an hour with his feet in the water, contemplating the perpetual dusk over the sea. He even manages to get a guided tour around the Grand Theater where the whole Charmony Festival mess happened – and it’s curious how the guide twists and turns the real story, making it seem less monumental and dangerous than it really was. The group of tourists by his side gasp and cover their mouths with wide eyes anyway, and he tries to hide a laugh as one of them sways when they get to the ‘climax’ of the conflict.

All in all, Penacony turns out to be quite a nice experience in the end, contrary to the start of his stay. However, time ticks away, and he should soon leave this grand hotel of dreams to arrive in time for the Luminary Wardance. He needs to take into account the time he will probably take to find his way to the Xianzhou Luofu, after all, and seeing as how it’s actually a spaceship, that could be… troublesome.

He does have some time left, though, and so he mulls over an idea that came to him while walking through Golden Hour and that refuses to leave him alone.

The thing is that, now that he’s apparently made peace with himself, his longing for his home has become all the more poignant – so much so, that it’s more and more difficult for him to stop his finger from pressing the notifications of messages that keep coming.

He misses the Crysos Heirs, that’s a fact. He misses their easy relationship from before, he misses the routine – and he remembers how many times he dragged Mydei to the baths or tangled him into one of his ‘challenges’ and his heart aches –, the bond that stood strong in his heart all these cycles, and knowing now that they don’t hate him, don’t avoid him – quite the opposite, in fact: they followed him – it only makes thinking about them in a more candid light all the easier. 

And so, while peeking at the store windows in Golden Hour, he had the idea to… buy them gifts.

He has the money, after all. It’s not like he overspends, careful as he’s always been with his money, even in Okhema – a leftover from his more humble upbringing that has never left him – and the few bounties he’s taken have swollen his wallet considerably, so he can probably afford to buy decent gifts for everyone.

He makes up his mind the very next day and submerges himself in the dream once again, reminded once again of Okhema’s baths – he can almost hear Mydei’s grumbles of complaints right next to him.

And as he stands in the middle of the Moment of Dusk, he feels – completely overwhelmed.

There’re just so many stores.

He gulps down his uneasiness and moves to the side, taking note of all the colorful signs and billboards and the people that walk down the streets quickly, as if they know where they are headed at every moment, confident on what they want to buy.

Phainon sighs. He doesn’t have any ideas for gifts – not when he doesn’t even know what to expect from a land made of dreams, where everything is possible. What are the limits he needs to keep in mind when thinking of possible gifts? Are there any? He looks into a store and sees numerous birds made of paper flying through the place as if they were alive, he looks into another and sees a literal cloud floating over a woman’s head, and he isn’t sure if all of this can even exist outside this dream.

As he’s squinting at a poster detailing a self-heating cup that changes into fifty different colors, a heavy hand suddenly falls on his shoulder. He startles and turns around, eyes flashing gold for a brief moment, but then he recognizes the cowboy hat, the eye-catching red hair that throws him into a loop until he sees that it’s too long and belongs to a man too tall to be Tribbie. And he sighs, feeling the tension curling his shoulders bleed out of him.

“Please, don’t do that,” he mutters, throwing a look at Boothill, who at least has the grace to smile ruefully at him and wave a hand.

“Sorry, sorry. Fudge, I should have remembered that you’re as jumpy as a red grasshopper,” he says easily, and then his smile turns into a grin, amused and slightly relieved. “We were here to check up on ya, actually. The Knight was worried – I told ‘im you would be fine, but eh.”

“It is good to see you in better spirits, sun-kissed friend,” nods Argenti, getting closer and offering his hand with a flourish once again. “I am glad that this land of dreams could soothe your nightmares.”

“That obvious, huh?” says Phainon with a dry smile, not really surprised.

Boothill laughs loudly, attracting the attention of half the street.

“Yeah, no kiddin’! You looked half dead!” comes Boothill’s direct and honest answer, and Phainon can’t quite stop himself from grimacing.

Argenti sends an unimpressed glance at the cowboy, almost annoyed.

“Friend, that was incredibly rude,” hisses the knight, but Phainon shakes his head when Boothill turns to him, grin falling slowly from his face.

“No, no. Don’t worry. It’s the truth, after all.” He shrugs, a bit helpless, a bit resigned. “And I did feel a bit like a ghost, all things considered.”

Boothill whistles low, a new glint in his eyes that Phainon can’t quite read. His eyes don’t really put him on edge now – after all, they lack Lygus’ coldness, the silent neutrality that shattered in the end, the inhumanity of it all. They are warm, finds Phainon, and that’s enough.

“You really went through some sheep, huh?” mutters Boothill, a strange heaviness to his voice. It isn’t the usual anger hidden behind blades that Phainon is already familiar with, but something that feels more like– maybe kinship.

“And came out of it all the stronger and brighter, like a star– like the sun,” says Argenti with a nod and a raised hand to the sky, like an offering. 

Boothill arches an eyebrow at the knight, but he doesn’t really disagree with him, and Phainon can almost see his face flush at that. Instead, he shakes his head. He doesn’t really want to dwell on the past too much – not anymore.

“What’s done is done. That’s over,” he says, more like a promise for himself. And then he pauses, and considers his situation and new company and hums. “Say… are you familiar with this place?”

“With the stores? Oh, sure we are,” groans Boothill, rolling his head exaggeratedly as he points a finger at his companion. “This guy here likes going shopping. I don’t know where he gets the money, but he always buys enough to make any IPC grunt faint.”

And Phainon– grins. Actually grins, which only pulls slightly at his cheeks. It’s not that painful anymore, if slightly weird after so long without actually feeling this lightness in his chest, this relief and excitement burst out of him through his smile – it reminds him of the spark he felt (still feels?) when his gaze found Mydei and his mind came up with any stupid challenge that would put their rivalry to the test, push those expectations away from the front of their thoughts, if only for just a moment. Now, it only makes him feel warm.

Boothill looks at him with trepidation as Phainon leans forward and meets Argenti’s gaze.

“Say, would you mind helping me with some gifts?” he asks, and when Argenti’s eyes glint, he knows he’s roped these two cosmic travelers to his new self-imposed mission. A mission that feels weightless on his shoulders, light in his chest, so different from past promises.

“Of course, you must only inform us of what you seek and I promise I will advise you on the search for the most beautiful gifts this world of dreams has to offer,” nods Argenti with another flourish and a determined glint in his eyes.

Boothill groans next to them, rolling his eyes and rubbing his face.

“Fudge, there’s two of them now.”

—

Their stay at the IPC ship reminds him of the Herta Space Station, though with less overwhelmed and depressed researchers wandering the halls. 

Instead, Mydei sees countless guards and agents, all with the same nondescript uniforms, all hurrying down the halls when they aren’t at their posts. A part of him can’t quite shake off past habits, so he watches and takes note of their weapons, the high-tech armor that covers them, their shifts. He hopes this information isn’t needed in the future, but he can’t quite shake off the paranoia that has burrowed in his chest after learning of this corporation’s greed and blurry lines when it comes to their ideals.

He’s just left the girls at their room, watching a movie, too restless to keep still for that long. He wanders the halls, even considers calling Aglaea to ask about how things are progressing in Amphoreus, considers slipping into the ‘personnel only’ section of the spacious ship – but in the end, he visits the cafeteria and gets his usual grapefruit drink.

He wanders, after that. There’s no more people to help here, and for a moment, he sits down at a random quiet sitting room with a wide TV and various sofas and glares down at his phone – or, more specifically, at Phainon’s contact. The other has, as always, not responded to what messages they have sent him during all these days. A frustrated part of Mydei wonders if he ever will or if he will ignore them for the rest of their now-real lives– but he shouldn’t be that cruel, not with him.

He does wonder how he’s faring. They haven’t managed to get any more information or leads about him, not since they arrived at Belobog. It’s as if Phainon has fallen off the grid – which he technically has, but now even more so, because not even the Nameless, with their endless contacts, seem to have any idea of where he could have gone. Once again, it’s frustrating, but not really surprising.

Mydei sighs and rubs his eyes, feeling the familiar weight of longing and worry settle down on his shoulders like the armor he now usually leaves at his room.

His fingers move of their own accord, typing in that Titans-forsaken chat once again, like the hopeless fool he must be, seeing as he’s pretty much talking to a wall.

Just as he sends the second part, the door opens and in comes Dan Heng, looking down at a tablet with his brow furrowed, but not looking particularly worried – no, he mostly looks considering and intrigued. Mydei nods at him when Dan Heng raises his head but instead of continuing on his way, Dan Heng changes course and gets closer to him, sitting down on the sofa next to him.

“Is something wrong?” he asks, just in case. Dan Heng does have a pretty good poker face, after all – better than Stelle’s, at least.

“Not… really. Just– here. Read this article.” Dan Heng hands his tablet off to him and Mydei arches an eyebrow, but obliges, looking down at the bold letters staring at him from the screen.

‘New anonymous bounty-hunter takes out dangerous minion of Destruction: the fall of cyborg Unabomber, Theodore Kaczynski, and the liberation of the planet Krytol.’

‘A minion of Destruction’... taken out by an anonymous bounty-hunter. Mydei frowns deeply, feeling something nagging at the back of his mind – suspicion, but he squashes the little spark of hope that accompanies it before it can grow into something dangerous, something that could end up as a terrible disappointment.

He looks up at Dan Heng and sees the same glint in his eye, suspicion and yet caution.

“What are the chances?” asks Mydei, mostly sarcastic, but a second opinion wouldn’t be unwelcome, anyway.

Dan Heng tilts his head to the side, thoughtful for a moment, before he sighs, long and hard, and leans back on the sofa, taking the tablet back from Mydei and peering down at the screen again.

“... Pretty low,” he admits, a bit rueful, mostly just tired. But when he looks up at Mydei again, his eyes hold the very hope Mydei is fearful to embrace. “But– we’ve worked with less.” Mydei huffs out something that could be called a laugh. Dan Heng visibly hesitates for a moment, clearing his throat, but in the end, he barrels on. “We’ve been looking for more leads so we can leave soon.”

Mydei turns to him, meets his eyes and– sighs.

“Are we that obvious?” he asks, because they must be – him being the worst offender.

He’s seen Hyacine staying until late in the night-cycle of the ship, reading all that she can find in the IPC's extensive database about medicine and any alchemy-related research, probably in Professor Anaxagoras’ behalf. He’s seen Trianne talking with Topaz quite a few times now, face set into a more serious expression, her phone in hand, unlocked and in the chat she shares with her other selves. Even Castorice stays close to them, lips thin and eyes focused as she takes notes of the matters they discuss, just like she did back in the day, when she offered her help to Aglaea.

They have all fallen back into their ‘duties’ to Amphoreus, looking out into the problems that the future might bring them and taking the steps necessary to avert them before it’s too late – even though there is no need. Even though they still have time to approach it all with the calm and detail it deserves.

There was no time in the Flame-Chase journey. Somewhere down the line, the hurry and urgency of it all seeped into their bones and now it’s too late to shake it off.

Mydei himself has been texting Aglaea, asking after his people, after the rebuilding process, any dates they can forward to Topaz for their inevitable meeting, any matters they should treat before they can get to the negotiations. Aglaea probably knows that he’s only doing it out of worry and a deep sense of urgency that he’s sure she hasn’t been able to get rid of, either, but she doesn’t mention it.

Dan Heng and Stelle have noticed, of course. Hard not to, when they’ve been terribly obvious about it. It probably reminds them of how they behaved during the Flame-Chase, when every decision, every second, could mean victory or defeat, life or death. It’s probably not a welcome and comforting sight, he guesses.

Dan Heng’s smile is a bit pinched and rueful.

“A bit, yeah,” he admits easily. “But we understand. We should have thought about it before, really.”

“This isn’t bad,” shakes his head Mydei, now a bit lost, because Dan Heng’s words sound a bit too much like an apology. “You’ve done us a favor, actually. Getting into the IPC’s good graces is good for us.”

“But it wasn’t the purpose of this trip,” points out Dan Heng, arching his eyebrows.

Mydei– pauses.

“It… wasn’t, no,” he admits too, a bit too soft. Then he scoffs, shaking his head. “But it’s not like we can make much headway with tracking down Phainon with no leads.”

“That’s true, but… you know, Stelle and March and I… we talked a bit before we left Amphoreus,” starts Dan Heng, voice fond when mentioning his companions. “We all decided that, even if this trip was technically a ‘Phainon search party’, we should do our best to make it a trip you wouldn’t regret– wouldn’t forget, as March pointed out. We wanted to show you all kinds of sights, show you how vast and amazing this universe is…” Dan Heng’s smile turns a bit bitter and self-deprecating. “But… I think we failed on that front, huh?”

Mydei grimaces slightly. He thinks back to the gorgeous sight of being surrounded by countless starts, to the distant planets they could see from the tall windows of the Station, to the snowy plains of a resilient planet, to a city so different to theirs it left them speechless.

“I wouldn’t call it a ‘failure’,” he says.

“Well, maybe not a failure then. But this trip could have been – should have been – more enjoyable for you,” points out Dan Heng.

Mydei– takes a deep breath and leans back. As much as Dan Heng tried to put the blame on them, Mydei doesn’t see it that way at all. They have been nothing but helpful, from their immeasurable aid in breaking the chains of fate that tied Amphoreus, to giving them a ticket to the cosmos so they could search for their wayward friend.

“I don’t think the blame lies with you,” he says, a heavy weight in his chest. He grimaces, wonders how open he wants to be– and then shakes his head. This is Dan Heng. If there’s anyone that could understand him, Dan Heng would be the one. “I… feel like I can’t quite let myself enjoy this trip as much as I want to, not without…”

He trails off, but Dan Heng makes a small “ah” sound in understanding.

“You two… are really close,” he comments, a knowing glint in his eye that Mydei didn’t expect.

“Yeah, we were,” he nods, a smile that pulls a bit too much on his lips, gaze moving to the splattering of stars that can be seen outside the wide windows of the room.

“‘Were’?” asks Dan Heng, frowning slightly in confusion– and maybe worry.

Mydei takes a deep breath and lets it out in a long sigh. The longing for simpler times is familiar and not really surprising, nor is the heaviness of his heart or the uncertainty muddling his mind.

“So many things have changed,” he admits with a mumble, eyes distant. “We’ve all changed. In the past, Phainon and I were close. Very close. We toed the line, most of the time, but we both knew what was at stake. What we needed to do. What our roles were.” He shakes his head. “We couldn’t afford to take that last step. Not then. And now… It feels even more impossible. I don’t even know if Phainon is still the same– maybe it’s stupid, but a part of me is afraid that all those memories… I don’t know, drowned out the Phainon I knew.”

Dan Heng hums, understanding. He pauses, probably organizing his thoughts, and a part of Mydei wants to stand up and hurry away from here, forget this conversation ever happened, bury all these thoughts and feelings back at the deepest hole his mind can conjure. But– back then, talking always seemed to help. Whether it be spilling his doubts to Krateros, Hephaestion, Ptolemy– even Phainon or Tribbie or one time Chartonus, helped calm the storm in his mind and heart, made him see the trees for the forest and the forest for the trees.

“From… personal experience, memories do play an important role in carving out someone’s personality,” starts Dan Heng, words careful and terribly heavy, in a way that Mydei suspects they hide a hard and harsh past. “But… they aren’t definitive. What matters is the core– the soul. The being. And that… remains eternal.” Dan Heng looks at him and there’s something ancient in his eyes that makes Mydei feel seen. “Phainon will always be Phainon– of that, you can be sure.”

And that– makes something that has been strangling him for days finally unwind and finally lets him… breathe.

He takes a deep breath, lets it out.

Phainon will always be Phainon, no matter what name he goes by, no matter what he goes through – that idiot is stubborn as a mule, set in his ways and determined to follow his own path. His core remains eternal.

And Mydei will always be Mydei, no matter how many times he ‘dies’, no matter how long he’s away from home.

“I just wish he was here so we could talk about it like adults.” He huffs a laugh.

Dan Heng finally smiles, leaving the heaviness of his gaze aside.

“We’ll find him soon enough,” he promises, and he nods to the tablet which still shows the suspicious article. “If nothing else, we can come up with a bounty he couldn’t refuse and see if the bait works.”

Mydei blinks, surprised, and then he lets out a loud laugh.

“And I thought you were the one with common sense,” he says, a wide grin on his face.

Dan Heng only stares at him, too neutral and blank to be anything but intentional.

“That would be Himeko and Mr. Yang,” he says, terribly honest and serious.

Mydei shakes his head, but his smile doesn’t disappear – no, it only grows as he skims through the article, noting the ties to the Destruction, how the planet the cyborg kept hostage is now in the harrowing process of getting back on its feet, free.

A Deliverer will always be a Deliverer.

Chapter Text

Argenti turns out to be an expert in all the stores around the Moment of Dusk, so he drags them around as he explains each and every one and the products they sell.

It turns out that Penacony’s stores are… numerous and with so many strange products that, by the time they take a break at a plaza where fountains shoot up SoulGlad to the air, Phainon’s mind is spinning.

“Are you alright, sun-kissed friend?” asks Argenti, looking at him with clear concern.

“Yeah, you don’t look too good, man,” comes Boothill’s voice, also worried, and now there’s a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“There’re just… so many things…” he admits, almost breathless. He lets himself sit down on one of the glittering benches and hides his face in his hands, groaning. “I don’t know what to buy them.”

Argenti hums, looking around them at the crowded plaza, as Boothill plops down on Phainon’s side with a long sigh – it’s pretty clear that the other man isn’t the most avid fan of shopping, especially not while being regaled with Argenti’s over-the-top explanations. While Phainon was too busy gaping and being overwhelmed with the dozens of possibilities and ideas thrown at him, Boothill followed them like a ghost, grumbling under his breath and ready to snap at the hurried people that passed by their side and sometimes even elbowed them out of the way. Phainon is quite relieved that Boothill didn’t actually point his gun at anyone – not that he didn’t try at least ten times, only to be stopped by Argenti’s strong grip on his arm.

“Perhaps… you should tell us about your companions so we can gain insight on what they might appreciate,” offers Argenti with a slight smile. “For instance, you mentioned one of your companions when we passed by a few boutiques. Is she a connoisseur of fashion?”

At that, Phainon remembers the glittering boutiques they have indeed passed; delicate dresses, flowy skirts, elegant blouses – it reminds him of Aglaea’s private workshop, walls always painted with her golden threads, but also full of clothes that were never finished, only discarded.

“She is a seamstress, actually,” he says, mostly a mumble. He blinks, and tilts his head. He does remember one particular dress that Aglaea always seemed to struggle with in a lot of the cycles. “Do you know any boutiques that sell… headdresses?”

‘I don’t have anything that might put the final touch on this ensemble,’ he remembers Aglaea telling Tribbie at some point, hands restless as she brushed the flowy skirt of a gold and navy dress.

Argenti’s eyes glint and suddenly, he’s dragging them through streets again, Boothill grumbling under his breath, until they finally stop in an expensive-looking boutique and Argenti marches on like a knight on a mission – which he is, Phainon supposes.

Soon, Phainon is shown countless headdresses – some bigger, some more exaggerated, some forming impossible shapes his mind can’t comprehend and some with so many colors he can’t even name them all. He’s… overwhelmed again.

“I don’t even know if she still has that dress,” he mumbles to himself, frowning at a headdress that looks to be the same tone of navy as the dress that might or might not even exist now.

“What dress?” ask both Argenti and the passionate storekeeper that has spent the fifteen minutes running around fetching numerous headdresses to show them. They both turn to Phainon now, eyes wide and almost wild.

Phainon is suddenly reminded of Aglaea’s reaction to his fashion sense in the past and he can’t help but laugh nervously.

“Ah, well, there’s this dress that she–” he started, but he’s soon interrupted by Argenti grabbing his shoulders and the storekeeper stumbling away to find a notebook.

“Describe it to us,” they say, and it’s almost uncanny how in-sinc they are when it comes to fashion, so Phainon gulps and describes the dress in as much detail as he can, which is hard, seeing as he’s probably seen various iterations of it in various cycles and his memories still blur together, even now.

“This one!” gasp Argenti and the storekeeper twenty minutes later.

Phainon, who has been crumbled on Boothill’s permanent perch – an expensive-looking sofa – jumps up and then… gapes at the beautiful headdress the man offers him like it’s a delicate gem worth millions of credits. And it could very well be, with how many minuscule crystals cascade down a side, the navy silk that wraps around the base like the night sky, the golden leaves embroidered on the top.

“This one,” he whispers, grabbing the headdress almost fearfully – he’s a being of Destruction, but there’s something incredibly delicate in his hands now, something very dear and– very expensive. “I’ll take this one.”

He gets his hands on a special bag that lets him store dozens of objects that would follow him into reality – a bag too small to fit whatever he will keep buying, but Argenti and Boothill both assure him that it works – and puts the box that contains the headdress inside, so carefully slow Boothill rolls his eyes and storms out of the store before he's done.

“Now then, tell us more about your friends.” Argenti smiles at him, eyes glinting with satisfaction.

And Phainon– does.

For a moment, he’s afraid that the memories he’s managed to push away – those echoes of blood and fire and ash and death and repeat, repeat, repeat – would lunge at him as soon as he came close to them, seeking the faces of his friends, his family, trying to remember their hobbies, their passions, their smiles, their wishes. 

And– they still do, sometimes. 

He mentions Hyacine’s passion for healing and his mind helpfully reminds him of how she tried to heal him when he was already a lost cause that could only stab her in the back as an answer to her kind-hearted offer. He mentions Cipher’s talent as ‘treasure hunting’ and gets reminded of a burning village and a pair of furious blue eyes. He explains Castorice’s curse and can almost feel her brittle hands trying to keep him in a beautiful field of flowers. He talks of Tribbie, Trinnon and Trianne’s interest in rockets and songs and sees her fall and fall, delicate dolls on the ground. He explains Cyrene’s curiosity and interest in divination and cards and then those very same cards are suddenly stained in her blood. He talks of Mydei’s interest in food and cooking and the grapefruit he likes so much turns into golden blood running down his hands and sword–

And yet, he pushes those unwelcomed memories away again and again, replacing them with their real faces, their smiles, their shining eyes as they shared their little passions and wishes and hobbies and beliefs with him, over and over – he completes the puzzle of what makes them with the pieces he feels are most important, leaving the dark and tragic pieces to fall through the cracks.

And Argenti – and Boothill, though more uncomfortable in such a crowded place – guide him from store to store, pointing out ideas and possibilities.

They even call Aventurine once, brushing over the fact that he’s technically returning to Pier Point for a meeting with Topaz, seeking advice from him.

“Why are you asking me?” he asks, confused and caught off-guard for once.

“You have an eye for aesthetics," nods Argenti, terribly serious.

“You have money,” is Boothill’s answer, deadpan.

“You’re a businessman, you probably have experience with gifts,” explains Phainon, arching an eyebrow at his companions. Sometimes, he wonders what they are even doing together.

Aventurine remains silent for a moment, before he sighs.

“That’s fair,” he admits, resigned. “So? What do you need help with?”

They visit a florist and Phainon spends a good chunk of their stay watching as a plant the size of himself tries to eat the wall, staring at a bouquet of flowers that change colors constantly like a moving rainbow, trying to see the top of a plant so tall it literally needs a hole in the ceiling to keep it from breaking through it.

The storekeeper tries to sell him a carnivorous plant that’s as tall as his leg and whose big mouth could very well eat his head. He panics for a moment – even as Boothill looks at the offered plant with clear interest and a too-sharp smirk, mouth opening to accept it – and then sees a nondescript group of little and simple plants that look easy enough to take care of, placed in colorful and probably handmade flowerpots.

“These are fine!” he says with a nervous smile on his face, grabbing them and hugging them to his chest.

Both the storekeeper and Boothill deflate with clear disappointment.

(And so, Phainon exits the store with a few simple plants for Castorice, who will definitely appreciate taking care of plants and flowers that won’t wither as soon as she touches them.

Boothill cackles madly at the carnivorous plant in his arms.

Argenti sniffs at the roses he’s gotten his hands on with a smile.)

They find a polaroid camera that reminds Phainon of the one his friends from beyond the sky carried with them wherever they went at the start of their adventure, when everything seemed so much simpler. He takes it, thinking back to Hyacine and her carefully curated photo albums, and buys it without thinking twice, coupled with a beautiful paper album decorated with clouds and rainbows and glittering pages.

While wandering through the aisles, he sees Boothill eyeing a big box with a pair of– he isn’t sure what they are, so he squints and reads the explanation on the back.

“I saw something like this when I visited Edo Star… not for me, though, and it got kind of annoying, but hey. From what you’ve told us, those three would like it. Probably,” explains Boothill, and then he takes out his teleslate to show Phainon.

Soon, his ears are attacked by a couple of very clearly drunk young men belting what should be an emotional song in front of a screen, with the lyrics at the bottom of it, and what Phainon figures are the so-called microphones in their hands.

“A karaoke, huh?” he mutters to himself. He looks at the box – which promises millions of songs to choose from, coupled with new downloadable content in the future – and remembers a group of triplets singing to him, back when he was just a scared young boy in the middle of a big city, with too many expectations riding on his shoulders.

His lips twitch into a smile and he nods, mind made up.

“Be careful, think it through now. You might regret it later,” says Boothill, pointing at him with a finger and nodding to the video of out-of-tune singing.

“Don’t worry, I don’t think I’ll regret it,” he says with a small huff of laughter.

The Tribios usually know how to sing well, after all.

While waiting for their turn to pay, he sees the most hideous scarecrow stuffed toy he’s ever seen – he takes it, no hesitation. The face is off-centre, the eyes stare at him in a way that’s almost hunting, it has an arm that’s longer than the other, and the shirt acting as its body has a few threads loose. It reminds him of–

Argenti grimaces at the doll, but he doesn’t really mention how unsightly it is.

Boothill does.

“That’s ugly as sheep,” he comments, not really mocking, just– a fact.

“It is,” smiles Phainon, a nostalgic shine to his eyes. Suddenly, he can hear the wheat swaying around him, brushing his cheeks and arms as he runs through it, laughing. Someone follows him, a flash of pink. His smile widens. “It’s perfect.”

Boothill shares a glance with Argenti, unimpressed.

“If you say so,” he relents, anyway.

They visit a bookstore and Phainon immediately gets his hands on the last self-writing notebook. He watches with fascination as the floating pen writes whatever Boothill grumbles, a myriad of censored curse words that the storekeeper erases with a too-high-pitched nervous laugh. Yes, it would be Professor Anaxa’s best gift, he thinks with an amused smile.

And then, before they can pay for it– he pauses and stares at the thick – very thick – book of recipes that almost breaks the table it’s on in half with its sheer weight. He takes it with no trouble, ignores the storekeeper’s wide eyes, and peers at the pages, finding numerous recipes from all over the cosmos. A lot of them require ingredients he’s never seen before, but that’s the fun of it, he feels like.

He takes it for a certain blond Kremnoan, reminded of the delicious food he prepared for them sometimes, back at the Marmoreal Palace – when Phainon didn’t annoy him enough to get him to leave his pride as a chef aside to serve him a burned crisp as revenge. He huffs a laugh at that, wonders if Mydei would share his amusement at the inside joke, and ignores the storekeeper’s surprised eyes.

“Should I… wrap this up? Is it a gift?” asks the poor man, voice almost a whisper.

“Ah, yes, please,” he says, blissfully unaware of the cruel fate he’s just doomed the worker to.

He does feel a bit bad when he finally sees the man struggling to even lift the book and ends up helping him with a rueful smile as Boothill cackles in the background and gets elbowed in the gut by Argenti’s armored arm.

“Are you sure your… friend will like this book?” asks the man, breathless, taking Phainon’s offered credits with shaky hands.

“Don’t worry. The weight is just a bonus – he’ll love it,” he says, and the storekeeper realizes that he’s completely serious, because he gapes at him. Phainon smiles, takes the recipe book and self-writing notebook, and waves goodbye. “Thank you.”

The storekeeper stares after them.

It’s when they are looking through jewelry for Cipher – they choose a little cat-paw-shapped medallion with enough storage to hide… something, probably her lock-picking tools, knowing her – that Phainon hums, thoughtful.

“I should buy some gifts for Stelle, Dan Heng and March…” he mumbles.

“Oh, I can help with that,” says Boothill, a glint in his eyes, grin a bit too wide.

Phainon expects Boothill’s ideas to lean more into mischief or an inside joke he doesn’t know, but he points at a special lamp for Dan Heng – that can project the sea of a planet of its user’s choosing – and an assortment of sweets for March that would last her at least a week and then–

“What’s special about this bird?” asks Phainon, frowning at the nondescript bird plushy in his hands. Sure, it’s cute, with its origami wings and little wobbling feathers on the top of its head, but he doesn’t know why Boothill insists so much on this specific plushy being Stelle’s gift. “Is she… a fan? Does she love them?”

Phainon feels like he would know if that was the case. Stelle doesn’t do anything half-way, after all. If she really loved these little guys, he feels like she would make it everyone’s problem – an origami bird teleslate-case, origami bird wallpaper, origami bird… everything.

“Trust me, she’ll cry from happiness,” says Boothill, but the glint in his eyes is anything but innocent.

Phainon looks at Argenti for guidance, but the knight simply shrugs with a resigned sigh. When Boothill wanders off, he approaches Argenti.

“She doesn’t… hate them, does she?” he asks, just in case.

“I wouldn’t say ‘hate’ them,” explains Argenti with another sigh. He pats his shoulder. “It’s an amusing gift, I’ll give him that. These birds were a… constant companion for Stelle during her stay in this dream.”

Phainon blinks, confused, but ends up buying the bird anyway. He just hopes Stelle doesn’t try to murder him – again.

“Is that all?” asks Boothill, pretty much lying on a bench, hat covering his face. “If it’s not– well. That’s all for me.”

“Don’t worry, I have something for everyone,” says Phainon with a small huff of laughter. He looks at his bag full of gifts with a soft smile and a glint of longing in his eyes. His heart sings, satisfied, and finally excited to see his friends once again… if it wasn't for the deep dread that still clings to his back with icy claws. And yet, he still has something to do… He lifts his head and meets Argenti’s gaze. “Thank you so much for helping me with this. With how big this place is, I don’t think I would’ve been able to find all of these alone.”

“It was a pleasure aiding you in such an important mission,” nods Argenti, a hand on his chest. Boothill groans. “If I may… what will you do now, sun-kissed friend?”

Phainon’s smile is still small, but when he looks up at the dusk sky of this moment anchored in dreams, he can feel that same call for adventure, that excitement to see more and more and more of this world – this universe. He already has what he came here to find – more, even, with a bag full of gifts and a mind that is more mended and at peace by the day.

“I think… it’s time for me to take another step,” he says, simply. Argenti nods, understanding.

“I wish you good luck then, friend,” he says, and it feels heavy, but also so very genuine and caring. “I hope your long journey ends in a happy reunion, and that you can look back with no regret.”

Phainon’s smile widens – of course Argenti could feel the turmoil in his heart, during that first meeting they had, fighting against those giant bugs. He doesn’t know much about this mysterious knight, but what he does know makes it clear that he’s a good person.

“Thank you for all your help, Sir Argenti,” he says, nodding in respect.

“May we meet again in the stars, Sir Phainon.” Argenti’s smile turns softer as he offers his hand. “Let us fight together in the future.”

Phainon grabs his hand.

“Of course.”

—

Pier Point is a world of what Stelle calls skyscrapers and tall towers that speak of advanced technology and wealth and power. Even now that they’ve landed on the planet (planet?), Mydei can still see small spots of light orbiting this world, satellites and other spaceships, a constant stream of movement that leaves all the Crysos Heirs gaping and overwhelmed – so much so that they remain close together to avoid getting lost or being dragged away by the flow of people moving hurriedly from side to side.

And when Mydei manages to look past the constant movement in the skies, he can finally manage to distinguish– he thought it to be an aurora, like those he saw in the northern part of Amphoreus, near Aidonia, but when he squints, he can see the glittering mass that seems a bit too solid to be called a weather condition.

“Ah, that would be Qlipoth’s wall,” explains Topaz, following his gaze. Her voice is unbothered, as if it’s a common sight for her – and it probably is. As it is, it still takes a minute for Mydei and his companions to actually see and understand what they are seeing.

“That’s… real?” asks Castorice, voice soft, eyes wide.

“Very real. THEY’ve been working on it for… a long time,” says Topaz, and a part of Mydei wonders how that ‘long time’ compares to Amphoreus’ existence and all its cycles.

“Each Amber Era is technically every time Qlipoth has swung THEIR hammer,” explains Dan Heng as they follow Topaz through hurried staff and into a transportation not too dissimilar to a miniature spaceship that floats off the ground and soon shoots off to the tall tower in the middle of the city.

“How many…?” asks Hyacine, and then she trails off, eyes wide as the streets pass by them at rapid speed.

“2,159 AE,” answers Dan Heng.

Mydei looks up at the sky again, but the golden glow of the immense wall is difficult to see from behind the tinted glass of the vehicle. He’s reminded of their own Titans and the power and mystery that shrouded them in the past, before they were teared down with Irontomb. And yet– a wall that could protect the entire cosmos. It feels immeasurable.

Topaz leads them into the IPC headquarters and Stelle gapes up at the tall ceiling of the entrance and the countless screens with millions of numbers and symbols Mydei doesn’t recognize. Dan Heng, always more composed, can’t stop himself from faltering for a moment, before he continues on.

“This is… somehow, more than what we’ve seen by now,” mutters Castorice, and the tremble in her voice makes it clear as day how overwhelmed she is.

Mydei can understand– he’s feeling much the same way. It feels like looking out to the vast stars once again, knowing that each speck of light could be another world just like theirs or just a sun that could have been able to swallow the Dawn Device that protected them for centuries whole.

“Ah, there you are,” comes Topaz’ voice, slightly echo-y in the wide room, and the group slowly manages to look away from– everything else, and focus on the man that walks towards them with a smile that seems fake, but only once you actually notice that it is.

“Well, well, I couldn’t say no to a visit from the Astral Express… though, I see that you’re not all together.” The man nods to them, tipping his eye-catching hat. “But I do see some new friends… Care to introduce us? It’s the best start for any business, after all.”

Topaz sighs and rolls her eyes, but she gestures to them and introduces them efficiently, slowly leading them all to the side, to a narrow hallway that hopefully leads somewhere more private – and quieter, because Mydei’s head is already aching with all the sounds and visual noise in this room.

Aventurine is the man’s name. He doesn’t take off his glasses when they finally enter a private meeting room that’s fortunately empty, though he does take off his hat. Mydei– doesn’t know what to make of him. His first thought was that he’s eye-catching, like a peacock, like a rich asshole, but the more he looks, the more he sees obvious traps set and ready for fools to fall for: the golden sheen that glitters off Aventurine’s coat, like a shield, the very careful way he moves.

“So, you’ve already laid out the groundwork, I see,” comments Aventurine, as Topaz explains the fruits of their various meetings. His voice is light and airy and even mischievous, and Topaz rolls her eyes again and points a finger at him.

“No, no– this project is mine.” She frowns deeply and crosses her arms. Aventurine’s grin widens.

“Oh, but isn’t this new world such an important asset?” he asks, and Mydei bristles slightly at that, just as Trianne frowns and Castorice straightens out, hands clasped in front of her, waiting and alert. “It would be safer to go together. Just like in Penacony.”

“And look how that one went…” sighs Topaz, bitter.

“I seem to recall Penacony being a success, dear Topaz,” shoots back Aventurine, terribly smug.

“An unnecessary risk, more like,” points out Topaz, a bit sharp. “You’ve already broken your Cornerstone once– and we don’t need another mess with Emanators.”

“Emanators?” asks Aventurine, arching an eyebrow. Then he pauses, frowns deeply – and takes off his glasses. “Wait, run that by me. What Emanators? Plural?”

“Haven’t you been debriefed?” asks Topaz, slightly surprised.

“I’ve been… away. You know that,” he says, a bit pointed, clearly hiding something.

Mydei crosses a glance with Stelle, who shrugs and remains leaning against the table, munching on an energy bar. Dan Heng is too focused on the interesting exchange to actually pay the Crysos Heirs much attention, a hand under his chin, eyes sharp.

“Then you should ask around for more details. As for the Emanators… well, you’ve already survived a direct hit from an Emanator of Nihility, even if it was in Penacony's dream – Amphoreus has two of them: an Emanator of Remembrance and an Emanator of Destruction. So… I expect you not to–”

“Hold on, wait. Back up. Emanator of Destruction?” asks Aventurine, a bit frazzled, eyes moving from one side to another, distant, as if he was connecting the dots–

Mydei takes a step forward with his jaw clenched tight, and it sounds echoing in this empty room, like a stomp, like a crack.

Topaz closes her mouth and stares, surprised.

His companions don’t seem shocked, though.

“You know who we’re talking about,” he says, accusing, staring right into those two-toned eyes that seem too aware, too knowing. “The Emanator of Destruction– you’ve met him. You’ve met Phainon.”

Something glints in Aventurine’s eyes at the name and so Mydei knows with certainty that this man has crossed paths with Phainon – how long ago that was, he can’t be sure. But–

“Okay, Golden Boy,” says Stelle, and she slams her hands on the table, grin sharp and dangerous as she glares at Aventurine. “Start talking. You owe us one from Penacony, after all.”

Aventurine looks at them with a mix of surprise, realization that came too late and finally– resignation. He rubs his eyes, folds his glasses and lets them drop to the table with a dull ‘thud’, and then sits down heavily on one of the seats. His gaze is steady as he looks at each of them, appraising and sharp like a knife.

“And I always pay up my debts.” And his voice is as heavy as the golden wall over their heads.

Chapter Text

Robin comes to see him off at the main hall of the hotel, where Phainon will hide in one of the spaceships that come and go, before going off on his own once they exit Penacony proper – this way, he can hopefully avoid any mass panic when he unfurls his wings and shoots away into the cosmos, the route to the current anchor point of the Xianzhou Luofu ready in his navigation app.

She smiles, relieved, and hugs him tight. He blinks, lost, for a moment, before he regains his wits and hugs her back.

“I’m glad you’re doing better now,” she says, when they finally step away from each other. Her eyes glint with relief and satisfaction. “I didn’t know if my power would help you at all, but… I’m glad.”

“Thank you, Robin,” he says, and it says a lot about his progress that he can now smile again, even if his smiles are still not quite as bright as they used to be. “Really. I don’t know if I’d have been able to make peace with myself like this if…”

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” says Robin, waving a hand. Her hands, restless, adjust her halo over her head and she clears her throat, nervous and hesitant, so Phainon waits patiently for her to continue. “I just– wanted to ask for a favor, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Of course,” nods Phainon, and he tilts his head to the side. “What would it be? I can’t make any promises for anything outlandish, but…”

“No, no, it’s nothing big, just–” Robin takes a deep breath, steels herself, and then looks up at him, meeting his eyes with a determined gaze. “If you ever see my brother – a hallovian like me, grey hair, golden eyes, likes to play the piano, his halo is… right here, behind his head, he’s a bit stuck up but he’s a good person – can you…?” 

She bites her lip. There are a lot of words left unsaid, floating in the air between them, but Phainon feels like he understands. And, to be quite honest, he’s quite sure that he’s seen this brother of hers…

“Is he traveling with the Astral Express, by any chance?” he asks, voice soft so it can be drowned out by the crowd around them.

Robin’s eyes widen and she nods quickly, fists clenched by her side.

“Yes! He is– have you seen him?” she asks, and her voice now lacks some of that harmonious echo, that calm and composure that cloaked her before, replaced instead with something hers, personal and true.

“The Astral Express saved my world,” he admits, smile soft. Robin gapes slightly, surprised. Phainon huffs out a laugh that feels a bit self-conscious. “In fact… it has come to my attention that they might come here at some point, following my trail. I don’t know if your brother…”

“My brother won’t touch Penacony,” says Robin, and her smile is sad and longing, but she looks relieved at the same time. Her hands clasp at her chest, as if she’s trying to keep her heart from flying away in search of her family. “But… It would be nice to see the members of the Astral Express again. They helped us a lot too.”

“They tend to do that, huh?” says Phainon, a wistful sigh escaping his lips. He smiles again and nods at Robin. “I’ll come visit. The dream… isn’t as bad as I thought.”

“Don’t hesitate to come back,” nods Robin, inviting as always. “The dream will always welcome you.”

Phainon’s smile twitched, amused, and then he scurries off to hide in one of the spaceships. Robin watches from the side, a glint of mischief in her eyes. Their eyes meet and then she smiles innocently and makes a show of turning around, a hand coming up to fuss with one of her wings.

Phainon hopes she can reunite with her brother some day. 

He remembers the other hallovian, after all. He remembers how he hung back, almost hesitant to be seen with the rest of the Nameless, quiet and yet with kindness in his eyes so deep it must have been painful.

When Phainon meets him again, he’ll tell him that Robin is okay.

The spaceship shoots away from the planet of festivities, leaving behind the deep dream and the paradise it provides.

And when the Memoria becomes sparser, enough for Phainon not to drown in it, get lost in it, he jumps off the spaceship and unfurls his wings and takes out his teleslate to follow the route to the Xianzhou Luofu.

One more stop and then– who knows, maybe he can at least meet with the ragtag group that has followed him around for long enough? He feels a bit guilty about dragging them all into such a goose chase, after all.

He wonders who even decided to follow him into the cosmos. He expects Stelle, as everyone has mentioned her at some point. Maybe Dan Heng, too, as the designated caretaker.

As for the Crysos Heirs… His heart aches, because he already knows who came up with the idea of following him in the first place.

Mydei.

He always chased him, when the world crashed on him like a merciless sword, when the expectations and uncertainty and the prophecies became too heavy to carry. He always came, he always offered a spar, a bath, the chance to ramble, advice and the hard truth that he needed to hear, a new restaurant that he hoped Phainon could afford with his meagre savings, and if not, he could lend him some money with interest.

What does Mydei think of the universe beyond the stars, he wonders. Was he as overwhelmed as Phainon when he first ventured outside? Is he excited at the prospect of seeing countless worlds, so different from theirs? Is he worried about Amphoreus’ future? Does he miss home?

His fingers twitch around his teleslate, restless, his being calling for him to answer those messages he’s been ignoring, call him, ask for his coordinates and launch himself like a shooting star to where he is– they are.

Who else followed him? Aglaea? Probably not, not with Amphoreus still struggling. Castorice? Maybe. Anaxa? Somehow, it feels unlikely. Hyacine? Probably.

His teleslate vibrates in his hand and he startles, almost dropping it – not that it would get far, seeing as he’s in the void of space. He squints at the name of the caller, angling the teleslate away from a nearby sun that reflects on the surface of the screen.

“Aventurine?” he says into the teleslate, confused. “Why are you calling me? Is everything alright–?”

“Are you still in Penacony?” interrupts Aventurine, hurried and a bit breathless.

“No.” Phainon frowns, a heavy weight on his chest. “Why? Did something–?”

“Ah, that’s good,” sighs Aventurine, clearly relieved. Before Phainon can think of asking him anything, he continues. “I just told the Nameless and their friends that you were there. I don’t know if you wanted them to find you, so I kept it vague. You’re welcome.”

“Wha– wait, the Nameless. And their friends?” Phainon’s brain works on overdrive, connecting dots. “They’re going to Penacony?”

“Yes, they were in quite the hurry,” muses Aventurine, unbothered now that he’s made sure that– what? Phainon didn’t reunite with them?

Somehow, that thought stings more than before.

He bites his tongue, looks back at the direction he just came from. He can’t even see Penacony’s radiance from here – he’s not even sure he’s in Asdana anymore.

For a moment, he thinks of going back, abandon his new destination and tear the ticket to pieces and watch them float in the void. But then, he remembers what he’s decided: one more stop. One more experience. One more chance to distance himself from his past, before he barrels back into it head-on and faces it properly.

His heart aches. It’s so much harder to turn away from the place where he knows his family is – but he does.

“Thanks for not telling them,” he says into his teleslate, soft, almost a whisper.

“No problem,” comes Aventurine’s light response. There’s a pause, in which Phainon hears Aventurine shift, take a breath– “This is none of my business, but– well, they looked pretty worried. For you. Not– anything you might do, just… you.” Another pause, heavier this time. “We’re not friends by any means, but… you should cherish people like that. Don’t lose them. Meet with them soon.”

Phainon’s heart squeezes painfully in his chest and he has to take a few deep breaths. His eyes are misty, even though there is no wind to irritate them, no humidity; only the constant hum of dozens of suns around him.

“I will,” he promises into his teleslate, firm like the Worldbearing Titan.

Aventurine hums and hangs up.

Phainon doesn’t let himself linger anymore – he shoots forward, burning and burning, leaving behind a trail of gold.

—

The Xianzhou Luofu is difficult to ignore – it’s a gigantic spaceship, with swirling decorations and a deep green surface, floating in the middle of the void, near a blue-tinted sun.

Phainon remains in the distance for a moment. After all, this is no planet, no matter how gigantic of a ship it is – he can’t exactly let the gravity of it pull on him until it drags him to the surface. No, there should be another way to get on it. How do the other spaceships do it?

He hangs back, tries to reign in his fiery energy, just in case, and observes as a group of spaceships – maybe merchants? – stop in front of a glowing circle to the side of the Xianzhou ship, before they are seemingly granted access and they enter through the side.

He probably won’t be able to do that, he thinks. He bites his lip and actually hesitates for a moment. Maybe this stop is a bad idea? Sparkle and her mysterious friend included the ticket to this ‘Wardance’ in their deal, but Phainon doesn’t know if he would be welcome, actually. Would Sparkle have told him if that was the case? Phainon only needs to think on it for a second, before he decides that Sparkle would probably do the opposite – if he got into trouble, the only thing she would do was laugh at his expense, if she even managed to learn of it.

He takes the ticket out, frowns at it for a moment and then– well, he knows that the Astral Express also has contacts here, and has helped these people in the past. Dan Heng didn’t get into too much detail about it, though, and Phainon remembers being loath to press the issue, no matter how curious he was about it. Dan Heng’s eyes had been heavy, he remembers.

If worse comes to worst, he can always… call them? Break his silence, if only to avoid being– what? Killed by an alliance of expert warriors?

The more he thinks on it, the worse of an idea it becomes, so Phainon sighs, stuffs the ticket into his bag again and then– flies to a single merchant spaceship slowly making its way to the Xianzhou ship. He sticks to the side of the ship like an overgrown nymph, grumbling under his breath and trying to convince himself that what he’s doing is not the stupidest idea he’s had ever since he left Amphoreus more than two months ago.

The spaceship waits for the Luofu to grant it access. Phainon clutches the side of the ship with a white-knuckled grip and tries to stifle the need to run away and forget about this entire thing, before it’s too late.

A small part of him argues that it would be best to wait some more, maybe even get in contact with the Nameless and the Crysos Heirs, maybe drag Mydei with him – he would definitely appreciate this kind of event-

The spaceship is granted access and enters the Luofu.

Too late.

Phainon gulps and finally lets go of the ship, following it closely as it heads directly to what appears to be a hangar next to a multicolored labyrinth of containers and crates. It reminds him of the old ports of Styxia, where countless vessels visited with their numerous products before… Well.

It’s too late now to back down, so he takes a deep breath, pushes his anxiety down and lands on a secluded part of the port.

As soon as his feet touch the ground and he returns to his more human appearance, he hears the clear sound of steps behind him – too many to be a coincidence, too close to him to be anything other than–

“Halt!” The voice is young, and when Phainon turns, he meets the amber eyes of a young man. A young man that is pointing a sword at him, a deep frown on his face, and with a small battalion of soldiers at his back. His eyes are firm and determined. “Don’t move! And don’t even think of starting a fight!”

Fuck.

Phainon tries not to let his panic show on his face, and maybe his now-common neutral expression born out mental exhaustion plays to his advantage, because the young man only steadies his hold on his sword when their eyes meet.

Inside, though, he’s pretty much yelling at himself.

This has been such a big mistake. He’s such an idiot. Millions of cycles, countless battles, centuries and millenia of navigating Amphoreus’ political struggles and conflicts while trying to figure out how to deal with the Scepter chaining them all down and breathing down their necks… while also having his mind collapsing slowly under the strain, and yet– he makes such a big and stupid mistake.

Fuck. Fuck. What can he do now? Fighting them off would be another mistake – he knows that they aren’t enemies, not really. If anything, these people probably fight the Anti-Matter Legion too, right? And oh, that makes so much sense. Of course they would think him a threat – a direct threat, even. And he just– waltzed in here, like an enemy trying to infiltrate their stronghold to blow it up from the inside.

Stupid. So stupid.

For now, he gulps down the panic roaring in his chest and raises his hands in a clear show of surrender.

Neither the young boy pointing a sword at his chest reacts, nor the soldiers at his back retract their spears.

Oh, this is bad.

He thinks of trying to talk them down, trying to explain himself – but what is there to explain, when he has clearly embraced Destruction at this point? Not in the usual way, that’s true, but what difference does it make here?

His fingers twitch, and the boy shoots a pointed glance at him.

“I said don’t move.” Even as young as he clearly is, the boy knows what he’s doing. He’s also pretty high up in the hierarchy of this place, seeing as the soldiers stand at attention when he makes a gesture. “You’re coming with me. Quietly. And you won’t do anything foolish like attack us. Am I understood?”

Phainon doesn’t have any other choice, does he? He tries to think of any other option, but unsurprisingly, he comes up empty-handed.

As one of the soldiers steps forward, probably to arrest him properly, Phainon takes a step back and tries to muster up a smile that he hopes doesn’t wobble as much as he thinks it does. The soldiers tense up, weapons now ready to use.

“Can I just… make a call?” he asks, and something in his obviously-nervous voice seems to make the young boy pause, because his frown turns a bit puzzled.

The young boy makes another gesture and the soldiers relax slightly.

“To whom?” asks the young boy, suspicious, but not hostile.

Phainon’s answering smile is resigned and tired.

—

Mydei gapes up at the nonexistent ceiling over their heads.

The other Crysos Heirs do the same. Castorice even has to sit down heavily on one of the sofas strewn around the main hall of the hotel before her legs give up.

It’s perfectly understandable, thinks Mydei, squinting at the distant stars and the never-ending floors full of doors and the gigantic clock and the bustling port where spaceships arrive and leave constantly and orderly like a well-oiled machine.

Penacony, the land of dreams, welcomes them with its overwhelming size and glittering decorations. And they still haven’t even seen the famous dream, where everything is possible – not false advertising, as Stelle has helpfully confirmed, along with a long tirade about a messy festival and reviving Aeons and other grievances that Mydei doesn't want to understand. Said Nameless crosses her arms next to them, lips pressed into an annoyed line.

“Honestly, who is Phainon now? Mr. Worldwide?” she grumbles, looking around them.

“Robin should be here by now. We need to find her,” says Dan Heng, much more neutral, looking around at the people flowing around them like a stream.

“Dale,” says Stelle, and then she stands on her tiptoes, before she rushes off, straight to a girl wearing a beautiful dress that could have been one of Aglaea’s masterpieces back in the day and who has what appear to be wings on both sides of her head. 

Mydei doesn’t question it. No anymore.

Instead, he leaves the Nameless to it, looking around and getting overwhelmed once again. He thought Pier Point would be the pinnacle of showing wealth – with its towering buildings that reach the skies and the advanced technology in every office they stepped into – but this place rivals it easily.

He needs quite a few minutes to snap out of it – enough for Stelle and Dan Heng to move to a quieter corner to talk to the mysterious girl that might be Robin – but when he does, he looks around and sees– of course, no Phainon. He and his companions are already resigned to follow a trail that has gone cold too fast to find the culprit. Still, it would have been nice to be proven wrong at least once.

“Seeing as we’ll probably stay here for some time,” says Stelle later, when they’re already at a spacious lounge, sitting at one of the circular sofas in one of the corners. “Who wants to visit the dream?”

The Crysos Heirs all share suspicious and doubtful glances. Mydei sees the same apprehension he feels in Hyacine and Castorice’s eyes and the same hesitation in Trianne’s. Even the most adventurous fragment of Tribios holds herself back from a dream that might dredge up the past they are all so determined to leave in the past. And if Phainon has indeed stayed here and maybe even submerged himself in the dream, Mydei wonders how he was able to do so, when the mere idea makes his skin crawl.

Then again, maybe Phainon has always been the bravest of them all.

“It’s not that bad, really,” tries to cheer them up Stelle.

“There are different ‘Moments’ you can visit,” nods Dan Heng by her side, pushing them to explore and try new things for once. And that’s– surprising, but maybe not so much, now that Mydei knows what their true goal was originally. “There is a bit of everything for everyone.”

Dan Heng offers them a pamphlet with a summary of said ‘Moments’ and what can be found on each of them and Stelle takes it from him, showing it to them and pointing at the attractions. Mydei frowns and crosses his arms, not fully convinced, no matter how interesting a resort sounds.

“Yeah! Like– there’s the Golden Hour and the Moment of Dusk and–” And then she pauses, looks to the distance, to the higher floor where the rooms are located, and she frowns deeply. “Is that… Sparkle?” She frowns harder, even squints, and then she gasps – offended? – and Mydei turns just in time to see a short girl wearing red and with two twin-tails blow a mocking kiss to Stelle, who curses under her breath and throws the pamphlet to Dan Heng before hurrying after the girl. “Wait! You–!”

Dan Heng sighs and rubs his eyes as Stelle rushes off, but she doesn’t really get far before her teleslate rings and she has to stop and take it out, cursing loudly and garnering countless glances from the other guests relaxing around the room – though, they aren’t really relaxing anymore, not with how Stelle curses and hisses as she finally takes out her teleslate and answers the call without even looking at the caller.

And when she hears the voice on the other side of the call, she– freezes.

Hyacine leans forward, her usual concern clear in her eyes. Trianne and Castorice, who were eyeing the pamphlet Dan Heng offered them, now blink and look up, confused and curious.

Mydei frowns, because Stelle doesn’t freeze without good reason – she’s incredibly flexible and specializes in going with the flow, with no plan, no ideas, head empty. For her to actually freeze up and–

“You’re where?” she literally screeches into her teleslate, panic bleeding into her voice, mixed with anger and frustration. Mydei’s poor heart makes a backflip, maybe two, maybe three and suddenly– he can’t breathe, eyes locked on Stelle’s arched back as she gestures in the air with her hands and arms and shakes her head. “You motherfu–! Months without a word from you and suddenly you call me because–?! No, no, shut up! Who are you with? Is it a boy with a sword? Blond? Short? Pass me to him, right now, or I swear to whatever Aeon gives enough of a fuck to listen to me yelling, Phainon, I will–!”

Phainon.

She’s– she’s talking to–

There’s a hand clasped on his arm, tight, so tight it hurts, and when he turns his head, eyes wide and heart beating too fast in his chest, he meets Castorice’s tearing eyes, sees Hyacine’s wobbly smile, sees Trianne’s wide grin before she jumps down from the sofa and she rushes to Stelle’s side where she’s still yelling into her teleslate, talking too fast – or maybe not, but it feels like it when Mydei can’t even bring himself to understand the words she strings together.

He’s already heard enough.

Phainon.

Phainon is–

Probably in trouble.

But he’s– they’re–

Castorice is hugging him now, shoulders trembling with the relieved laugh that spills past her lips like pure and fresh water that washes away all the worry and frustration that has accompanied them all for months.

Phainon is now in their reach and Mydei won’t let him get away. Not anymore.

So, when Stelle finally rushes to their side, teleslate gripped in her hand and frown deep but eyes shining with relief and happiness, Mydei stands up, firm like the guardian he is, Castorice starts gathering their things, Hyacine types furiously in their shared groupchat and Trianne laughs and laughs, a lightness to her voice that wasn’t there before.

“I’ll talk to Robin,” says Dan Heng, something in his voice that Mydei doesn’t have time to recognize, before the Nameless hurries away.

Stelle looks Mydei right in the eye for a long moment, terribly serious, and then–

She grins, wide and wild and with her eyes glowing with fiery determination.

“We found him,” she says, and it feels heavy, but so light at the same time. Freeing. A promise. 

Mydei meets her eye and answers with his own grin, just as wild, just as determined.

“We found him.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Phainon’s ears still ring from Stelle’s yelling as Yanqing escorts him to the Seat of Divine Foresight, firm and still suspicious, even after Stelle spent at least twenty minutes reassuring him that Phainon is an ally and definitely trustworthy. His heart still beats wildly from the sudden panic and reckless decision he’s made getting back in touch with the Nameless and the Crysos Heirs that accompany them, but he can’t bring himself to regret it, not when he’s been oscillating between the two options for days now.

He’s still nervous, though. No matter how much better he feels about the mess that is his present situation, the biggest and heaviest doubt has always been facing the Crysos Heirs, his second family, the people he cherishes and the ones he’s hurt the most.

Knowing that they have been willing to follow him into the vast cosmos is relieving and encouraging, but the doubts and worry still cling to his shoulders with icy claws that leave deep cuts on his burnt skin.

He keeps his teleslate and bag clutched in his hand as Yanqing leads him into a wide office. He only looks around once, taking note of the countless weapons displayed in every wall, before his gaze is drawn to the man in the middle of it all– and is seen in return.

The white-haired man waits patiently in front of his desk, hands behind his back, smiling slightly, but his gaze is sharp as a blade, hiding a deep intelligence easy to miss if one is foolish enough to fall for the veil of seeming drowsiness enveloping him. 

Phainon immediately knows that this man is dangerous, but also a leader, and the fact that he’s willing to talk and hear Phainon out instead of striking him down first gives him hope of resolving this mess peacefully. If nothing else, Phainon can just– leave. Promise not to return, even though being at odds with such a obviously powerful faction in the entire universe is… troublesome, especially since – if he’s guessing correctly from their reaction to him and the Destruction he wields – they could very well be allies.

Yanqing stands at attention in front of the man, back straight and eyes firm, and the man nods at him with a small smile and gestures for the young boy to step aside. Yanqing hesitates for only a moment, but then he does leave them their space. Immediately, the man offers Phainon a hand and a wider smile.

“Dan Heng actually threw me some clues about you a while ago. Just in case our paths crossed at some point,” comments the man, and there’s a hidden note of amusement in his voice and eyes. When Phainon shakes his hand, his hold is hardened and firm like steel; the hands of a seasoned warrior. The man’s smile widens, a glint in his eye – he’s definitely seen the same signs in Phainon. “I must say, I’m glad our fateful encounter didn’t end in blows – it would be such a shame. I am General Jing Yuan.”

“Phainon,” nods Phainon, and he hesitates for a moment, before he smiles ruefully. “I… suppose you know who or what I am already, huh?”

Jing Yuan returns his hand to his back and hums, turning slightly to step to the side, where they can talk without having the eyes of everyone inside the office on them, watching their every move – Phainon is grateful for that, feeling his shoulders relax slightly when he has no more eyes digging into his back and finds no hostility in the General’s eyes.

“I do,” nods Jing Yuan, easily enough. “You’re not exactly discreet, at least to our sensors– but that can also be because the Xianzhou has been tangled into a long fight against the Destruction, following a… well, let’s call it a brush with one of your colleagues.”

Phainon can’t help frowning deeply at that, slightly offended – this man has no idea about his stand on the whole thing, doesn’t know who his blade is pointed at.

“I wouldn’t call them ‘colleagues’, actually,” he corrects, a bit pinched and too emotionless to be really relaxed. Jing Yuan only arches an eyebrow at him with clear interest.

“Oh? I guessed something similar, seeing as the Astral Express seems to be on good terms with you – I doubt they would treat your common Lord Ravager as a friend,” he comments, airy and easy-going, and yet with a heaviness Phainon doesn’t miss behind his words.

“It’s… a long story, but I promise that I don’t mean the Xianzhou Alliance any harm.” He tries to pour as much sincerity as he can into his voice, the same firmness that bleed from his lips back when he was still called the Deliverer of Amphoreus, when he had countless eyes looking at him with hope and heavy expectations. It’s hard for him to tap into that earnest voice now, tired to the bone as he still feels, but he hopes that the General can see the very real honesty in his eyes as their gazes meet. “And, if you’re fighting Destruction, then… Forgive my forwardness, General, but I would go as far as to say that we could even be allies.”

Jing Yuan watches him for a moment, and Phainon tries to stand as straight as he can, firm, under his heavy gaze that looks as old as Phainon technically is. Curiosity and interest shine in the glint of those golden eyes, before the General crosses his arms and hums again.

“Interesting,” he mumbles, mostly to himself. But then, he tilts his head to the side and he’s smiling again, more relaxed this time, though not without a hint of suspicion still – it’s enough for Phainon, who lets out a discreet sigh of relief. “We can talk alliances and what-not later. From what I know, you have a small group of skyfarers after you.” He definitely sees the shift in Phainon’s expression, from relieved to tense again, and Jing Yuan’s smile widens. “They should be here soon, so you can wait for them here. In the meantime, let me deal with the stir your appearance has caused – and who knows, maybe I can get you to attend the Wardance after everything is said and done.”

Phainon blinks, thrown off-guard, but then his mind catches up and he nods in respect.

“Ah, I would be… really grateful,” he says, and almost hits himself, because he used to be much more eloquent before. Where has his silver tongue gone? Maybe once he gets his footing in this infinite cosmos and gets the hang of the hidden politics that tie everything in the world with thin threads, he’ll be able to navigate all these complicated messes with more grace. He hopes.

Jing Yuan nods at him and steps away to talk to Yanqing and a woman with– ears? And a tail? Those are not cat features, though, more fox-like. He ignores their conversation, related to their administrative matters as it probably is, but he does catch a stray comment from the fox-eared woman, who only glances at him for a moment, before she gets back on track with her superior.

“He has a mark on his neck, just like– Fugue,” she says, quiet, a considering mutter. “Is it…?”

“A mark of the Destruction,” nods the General, but Phainon can’t quite recognize the emotions in his voice and turned away as he is, he can’t see his expression either. Still, it feels terribly heavy.

“Should we let him stay here? When the Anti-Matter Legion is so close–?” shoots Yanqing, fiery and frowning deeply, and they all move away before Phainon manages to catch any other word of their conversation.

Not that he’s interested, anyway. The situation feels even more real now that General Jing Yuan has mentioned it to him outloud. 

He’s going to reunite with the Crysos Heirs. He’s going to force himself to look them in the eye finally, meet their questions with honesty and he– he will definitely not run away. Not again. 

Not even if they hate him. Not even if they fear him. Not even if they only followed him all the way out here to tell him to get lost and to never return to Amphoreus.

(But why would they do that–?)

He plops himself down on an empty bench, lets his bag fall next to his feet, and burrows his face in his hands with a breath, putting his elbows on his knees, even as his leg bounces nervously moments later and he has to lean back to stare at the tall ceiling of the office.

Why is he overthinking it this much? Hasn’t he made peace with… as much as he’s been able to? With his new Path that he’s starting to learn how to navigate, with the millions of lifetimes he has to embrace, with every decision that he’s taken, with what those choices meant for him and the others–?

But do they really hate him? They didn’t give that impression while he stayed in Amphoreus after the True Era Nova, but then again, he made his best to avoid them at all times, acting instead like a hermit, a ghost. He– he ran away from the very beginning, like a coward, like a criminal too fearful of his judgement, of his sentence. Of his own memories that made it a point to remind him of the countless ways they all died.

(A part of him feels that he’s being a bit too hard on himself. The voice sounds a lot like Cyrene, actually.)

His hands still clutch his teleslate. He looks at it with a slight frown. The screen lits up with a meaningless notification from one of the news outlets he follows to keep up with current events to avoid getting into trouble – for all the good it did.

His finger twitches. Isn’t it too late now? Checking the messages out now would only tip him over to one side, depending on what they contain. Would they make him run away again, exile himself forever from his home? Or would they soothe the ache in his chest, the anxiety eating away at his mind?

“Oh, for Titans’ sake,” he grumbles, and finally– 

Unlocks his teleslate and taps into the chat app.

He sees messages from the new friends he’s made in his travels – Argenti, Seele, Boothill, Hook, even Aventurine and Robin.

He ignores them for now, but they make his lips twitch – if nothing else, if this reunion goes as badly as his mind likes to remind him it could, he still has contacts out in the cosmos.

(Even though they are nothing compared to–)

His eyes rove over the Crysos Heirs chats.

He hesitates for a moment, fingers hovering awkwardly in the air, before he takes a deep breath and finally– taps into Tribbie’s chat.

Something unwinds from his chest. He doesn’t know what it is, but it makes him turn back and tap into Hyacine’s chat and then Castorice’s and then Aglaea’s–

And then he blinks, because even Cipher and Professor Anaxa sent him messages–

And even Hylisens and Cerydra and March 7th took the time to send him a couple of messages assuring him that he’s still welcomed and to listen to the rest of the Heirs and–

His hands shake when he finally gets to the last chat: Mydei.

He takes a deep breath and taps into it.

And he comes face to face with countless messages, from the very beginning. First full of curses and insults and deep frustration and Phainon flinches for a moment, but then Mydei’s messages soften and soon he reads about their stay at the Herta Space Station, how much of a boring mess it was, then about their visit to Belobog and how much he liked the museum – he even called Phainon a nerd, and Phainon can’t help but huff out a laugh that sounds a bit too wet to be called something other than a half-sob.

He reads them all, paying attention to every little detail Mydei offers him, clutching every word like someone would hold a glass cup, delicate and so, so careful.

His chest feels warm, so warm, so full. He can hear Mydei’s voice reading the messages, telling him about Trianne’s dangerous interest in coffee and then hot chocolate, Castorice and Hyacine’s countless photos of every little thing they encounter, Stelle’s antics, Dan Heng’s educational comments of the places they visit.

(He misses him. He misses him so much it hurts. He misses them, he–)

It hits him then, as he scrolls down the long messages Mydei’s left him like guiding lights in the night: the Crysos Heirs don’t hate him. They don’t fear him. They don’t resent him.

They still love him, even after everything he’s done, what he’s become.

The waves lapping at his feet calm, the iciness biting at his ankles turns into the soft and aromatic water of the Hero’s Baths.

He feels ready to pass out from relief, so much so that his mind feels floaty, too light and weightless to be tethered to his body. He could cry, he thinks, even though he’s not sure he’s capable of it anymore.

He clutches his teleslate in shaky hands and leans his forehead against it, letting out a trembling breath. He relishes in the feeling for a moment, embracing the relief and letting the newly warmed water that once threatened to drown him flow around him like the tides, but not dragging him with them.

And when the door to the office opens with a slam, followed by loud and hurried steps getting closer and closer to him, he looks up with probably teary eyes and a stifled gasp, stands on unsteady feet and finally, after more than two months of running away–

Looks the hurried and breathless Crysos Heirs that stand in front of him right in the eye.

And he doesn’t drown.

—

Phainon has changed – that is Mydei's first thought as soon as he lays eyes on him after months of no contact.

Not too much, not even close to that winged form of his that has always made Mydei’s heart twist with both worry and excitement for a challenging fight, but the differences in Phainon are obvious to Mydei.

His hair is longer, for one. Still white, still messy, but longer. It hides his eyebrows, threatens to hide his still-blue eyes.

His face is thinner, more weathered. Mydei can’t stop the spike of worry that pierces his heart, but if he looks carefully, he’s quite sure that it has nothing to do with any illness or malnutrition. No, it’s just– Phainon just looks older. Burdened. But at the same time, steadier, more sure of himself.

The clothes he’s wearing could be in better condition, he thinks, and then his lips twitch when he thinks of what Aglaea would say about the ratty cloak covering Phainon’s shoulders and hiding part of his usual coat that is now showing clear signs of wear and tear.

They all stay at an impasse for a long moment – staring at each other, as if unsure of where they stand with the other side, unwilling to cut through the dense air separating them. The silence slowly turns tense, awkward, full of unsaid questions and feelings, and even Stelle – always impulsive and direct as she is – hangs back with thin lips and clenched fists, and with too many things to say and probably yell.

But in the end, it's Trianne the one who rushes over to Phainon with a wide relieved smile and hugs his legs, making Phainon stumble for a moment.

“Snowy! We missed you so much!” she says, voice wobbly, and it's that simple action, that reaching out and reunion, that finally breaks the awkwardness and hesitation that covered them all up like a heavy cloak.

Phainon looks down and gives Trianne a small smile as he ruffles her hair, and Mydei is suddenly struck by the thought that– he doesn't look like a ghost anymore. Phainon is in front of him, tangible, moving and looking at them, meeting their eyes, and he's seeing them in turn. His shoulders are still tense, there's still some hesitation in the way he moves, but– he's Phainon.

“I heard you had quite the long journey,” comments Phainon, voice soft, and his smile turns a bit rueful.

“I wonder whose fault that was,” shoots back Mydei, pointed, with an arched eyebrow and arms crossed on his chest. 

He immediately feels Hyacine’s sharp glance on his back, her frown, and Castorice does shake her head too, but none of them seem surprised.

Phainon's shoulders drop with a soft sigh, a bit defeated. When he looks up at them again, his gaze is heavy with exhaustion and a myriad of emotions, too numerous to name.

“I know. I'm… sorry.” Phainon sighs again, runs a hand through his longer hair. “I'm sorry, I just–”

“You don't need to explain,” comes Hyacine's soft voice. She takes a step forward, hands clasped on her chest, as if she's fighting the urge to follow Trianne’s example and throw herself at Phainon to give him a hug. “We understand.”

That makes Phainon relax more; Mydei can see the change in his posture, the tension that remained bleeds out of his shoulders like water. It must be relieving - to be trusted, to not have to tear open the wounds that are still trying valiantly to heal.

And yet, there are still echoes of doubts in Phainon’s blue eyes, and Mydei understands that well. He's known this man for countless lifetimes, knows the heaviness of his hesitation and self-doubt.

“Why did you follow me?” asks Phainon, as predictable as always.

“Because we were worried about you…?” answers Trianne, but it ends up sounding a bit too much like a question. She also knows Phainon and his difficulty to accept true and well-meaning honesty and care, and so, Mydei watches her grab Phainon’s hands and squeeze them tightly, as if trying to get his head out of his usual murky thoughts – that have probably turned worse, after countless cycles of trauma.

Phainon looks to be warring with himself now. He clearly wants to say something, ask something, but he can't quite bring himself to do it. Mydei knows him well enough by now to guess where his mind is headed, the doubts plaguing his mind and tainting his sight with cruelty that doesn't exist.

“HKS, get this into your thick head now, because I won't explain it to you again: we don't hate you. We don't fear you. We don't blame you.” He says, firm like the ground under their feet, like the vows he's taken over and over again to protect, to fight, like the lance of fury that he used in the past.

“But–” And yet, Phainon frowns at them, as if he can't quite believe them, probably because he can't look away from the fact himself. Always stuck in the past, the blood staining his hands – but Mydei can't blame him, not when he can understand, not when he can relate.

And yet, they can't dig a hole full of past mistakes and tragedies and let themselves drown in it like fools. He won't let them.

“No. We're not doing this.” He waits until Phainon is looking straight at him – finally meeting his eyes instead of avoiding him even in this simple way, escaping his touch – and he meets his gaze and tries to pour all his conviction and firmness into his voice. “Listen to me, to us – without you, we wouldn't have this new tomorrow. It is because you endured all that torture that we can be here now, together, safe, with a promising future to look forward to.”

There is a short silence between them, their gazes searching the other’s eyes, trying to figure each other out once again, return to a (seemingly) softer past, mend the familiar bond that was snapped in half – or was it? They all fall in place like puzzle pieces, experienced hands remembering where each piece belonged to and replacing them with careful touches.

Then, Phainon sighs and huffs what could be called a laugh.

“I should've guessed,” he says, and it’s fond, full of love and longing, and Trianne beams up at him and squeezes his hands again.

“You should have, yes,” nods Mydei, and then tilts his head to the side, because there’s something he has to nail into Phainon’s thick head before it’s too late. “Do you truly think of us as unfair and cruel?”

(Have the millions of cycles at not-really-opposing sides from each other truly made a dent on their trust, on their bond?)

“No.” Phainon shakes his head vehemently, but then he pauses and sighs again. His eyes are as old as time, now, and it makes something twist in Mydei’s chest. “But can you really blame me?”

Mydei frowns at him, at his dropped shoulders, his tired gaze, the sun mark peeking behind his cloak, his scarred hands that are still clutched in Trianne’s smaller ones.

And then he sighs, because he would never blame a desperate man clinging to futile hope for losing his mind and yet still being able to act out of love and compassion.

“No, I can't,” he says, soft, feeling warmth pool in his chest like the new sun shining over Amphoreus. I wouldn't, he doesn't say.

Their gazes meet and, like always, a silent understanding passes between them. Mydei tilts his head in a half-nod and Phainon’s lips twitch up, not quite a smile, but close enough.

Silence falls over them like a veil again, but the tension is now broken, and some of them even smile and move closer, looking around for any abandoned chairs and seats. Trianne drags one chair over after making Phainon sit down on the small bench where he was seated mere moments ago, Castorice and Hyacine point at a cluster of chairs close by and Stelle even rushes off to the other side of the office to shoulder a pair.

“I’ll go get us some tea,” says Dan Heng, then, a bit hurried, before he disappears behind a column.

Mydei huffs a bit, but predictably... he sits down next to Phainon, and it’s so familiar, so relieving, to feel the heat of his body – which seems to run hotter, now, apparently – next to his, like the reassuring presence he’s always been, both on the battlefield and out of it. Their thighs and shoulders touch, and maybe they shouldn’t be this obvious, maybe Mydei shouldn’t expect Phainon to reciprocate this soon after reuniting and before talking things through first – but Phainon doesn’t move away from him. In fact, Phainon leans on him a bit, even as Trianne holds all his attention hostage as she rambles about her new interest in hot drinks.

Soon enough, their little group is back together, seated in a messy circle of chairs. Mydei looks around and doesn’t see any signs of Stelle or Dan Heng, and for a moment he frowns, confused, before he catches Dan Heng’s coat flapping away down the stairs, his firm hand dragging Stelle away. He huffs an amused laugh at that and can’t help feeling grateful for Dan Heng’s foresight and understanding. When he tilts his head, his gaze meets Phainon’s, also amused, and their smiles widen.

“I read your messages today,” admits Phainon, when everyone is already comfortable. There’s a note of shame in his voice, self-consciousness. He fidgets with his worn sleeve and lowers his gaze. “Sorry for ignoring you.”

“Why did you?” asks Castorice, voice too soft to be accusing. “Did we… pressure you too much? I’m sorry–”

“No, no, the fault wasn’t yours. To be quite honest, it was no one’s fault,” explains Phainon, and his eyes jump up to reassure Castorice – not with a smile, and Mydei wishes he could feel relieved about the fact that Phainon doesn’t use fake smiles to hide his self-doubt and pain anymore, but he knows that it’s mostly because Phainon is too tired and drained to actually try. “I… for a time, I thought you guys… hated me. Feared me.” Trianne pouts at him, Hyacine sends A Look at him, and Phainon’s lips twitch again, amused and relieved in equal measure, but it soon falls a bit, replaced with emptiness. “At first, I couldn't even look at you without seeing– well. Everytime I thought about you, I got reminded of what I did.” And Mydei presses himself to Phainon's side more firmly as an answer, so he feels Phainon sigh, before he forces himself to look up at them again. “And also I just– if I read the messages, I would waver on my decision. And I really needed to get away from it all for a while. Take the time to clear my head. It has helped me a lot, actually.”

“Yes, we can see it clear as day,” nods Hyacine, and her smile is relieved and bright. She finally lets her hands fly to grab Phainon’s arm and her smile widens. “I’m happy for you.”

“Do you… want to go back to Amphoreus?” asks Castorice, a bit cautious, as if approaching a fleeing animal.

From where they are both pressed against each other, Mydei can feel Phainon tense slightly and lower his head again, thoughtful. He keeps still, a pillar for Phainon to lean onto, warm protection over him. He hopes it helps.

“I do want to go back, just… not now,” he admits, a bit embarrassed and hesitant, as if he thinks they will disagree and drag him back to Amphoreus anyway. Mydei scoffs, offended.

“Then continue your wandering, Phainon,” he says, and he almost lets slip the old nickname, but– something tells him that it wouldn’t be welcome. Not anymore. After all, Phainon has never been fond of the title and the weight it carried in the first place, and knowing what little he knows now, Mydei can admit that the title will definitely not bring happy memories to the man slumped by his side.

“Yes, we’ll all wait for you!” nods Trianne, grin wide.

“Of course, as long as you take tons of photos to show us.” Hyacine’s smile glows with her eyes.

“You do need more material to complete your space-travels album, after all,” nods Castorice, as if it was the most serious and urgent matter they need to deal with.

Phainon looks at each of them with a glint of surprise in his eyes, but also so much warmth that Mydei wonders how they haven't all just burst up into flames. It feels like touching the sun and being touched in return and yet– it’s welcoming, it’s soothing, it feels like he will never feel cold in winter ever again, not even while visiting a planet like Jarilo-VI.

“You… really don’t mind?” asks Phainon, soft and a bit husky, but just as hopeful as always.

Trianne hums, taps a finger to her lip as her eyes fly up to the ceiling.

“I mean, we do have to deal with the negotiations with the IPC and others, but we can manage,” she comments, light and airy, as if it wasn’t that important. And all things considered, Mydei thinks, they have already gone through hell. Political and economic negotiations are easy in comparison, if not tedious and incredibly boring.

“Ah, right…” blinks Phainon, recognition in his gaze, and Mydei remembers that he met that Stoneheart, Aventurine, somewhere out there in the cosmos. He’s curious about how their paths could come to intersect, but he keeps the questions to himself for now. “I suppose I could…”

“There’s still time, don’t worry,” says Hyacine, shaking her head slightly. She looks at Mydei, seeing as he’s technically the one who has been planning everything with Aglaea and Cerydra behind the scenes. “Right? The real negotiations won’t start until after the rebuilding is mostly done, after all.”

“And that will take a while yet,” nods Mydei. He turns to Phainon, meets his gaze once again, and he does his best to make it clear that Phainon can do whatever the hell he wants. “So, you can roam all you like.”

They have never really needed words to understand each other, so Phainon soon nods with clear relief, shoulders visibly lighter and a small smile curling his lips.

“Just tell us when you plan on coming back, so we can throw you a welcome pa–!” nods Trianne, grin wide and eyes shining with excitement, and Hyacine reaches out with a startled wince to cut her off.

It’s too late, though, and Mydei feels Phainon’s body shake slightly with silent laughter as Hyacine and Castorice try to bury the secret welcoming party under fake planning and half-baked lies that anyone could see through. As the girls argue with each other over whether said party could be done now that the ‘surprise’ is out of the picture, Mydei leans more heavily on Phainon to get his attention and it’s only when those blue eyes are back on him that he turns fully to Phainon.

“We would never disagree with what you decide to do, now that you’ve decided to be selfish for once,” he says, a bit dry, but with as much honesty as he can pour into his voice.

Phainon’s eyes widen, surprised and caught off-guard. The idiot probably didn’t even realize that he has - for once in all the years that Mydei has known him, in every cycle - actually chosen for himself, for his own good, instead of the well-being of others. Maybe it’s because of that fact that Mydei and the rest of the Crysos Heirs couldn’t bring themselves to blame Phainon too much from the very beginning, couldn't put too much pressure on him, couldn't resent him and his decision to run away and escape the past that drowned him.

Going away to try to heal was Phainon’s choice. He decided to be free for once, break the chains that kept him down, like a prisoner, in his own home. Phainon made a desperate choice, once again – but this time, he chose freedom instead of imprisonment. 

Mydei can admire that, can feel proud of that, because when Phainon freed himself and they all followed him into the vast cosmos beyond their sky, he also set them all free as well. It is because of this decision of his that their little ragtag group has gotten to see the distant stars, has seen worlds that have walked similar paths to theirs, and has met people that share that same drive to step forward and survive and grab hold of that new tomorrow.

Phainon’s eyes soften, then, and Mydei wonders – not for the first time – how a being of Destruction can be so warm and caring and full of love.

“Thank you,” mutters Phainon, and his hand finds Mydei’s on their lap and he clutches it tightly, too afraid of losing it, of breaking apart. “Thank you, for following me.”

“HKS,” Mydei grumbles, but his voice is fond, and his chest feels warm. “I would follow you into the depths of the Netherrealm if I had to.”

“I would rather you didn’t,” huffs Phainon, but his lips twitch up once again– and this time they stay up.

“I would – there’s no way you could get out of there alone. You would get lost. You need an expert,” says Mydei, and he feels himself falling back on old habits, old banter, his heart so light it could float out and away from his ribs any second.

For a moment, he wonders if Phainon is too drained mentally and not quite comfortable enough with them yet to banter like old times, but then Phainon huffs and turns his head with a crooked smile and a glint in his eyes.

“And you are the expert? Oh, we’d be doomed, then,” he says, amusement clear in his voice.

Mydei tries to step on his foot, but Phainon sidesteps and gives it a try himself.

Mydei doesn’t let him, though, and soon, they’re both locked in a silent battle of stomps and kicks. They hiss curses under their breath when they almost overturn the bench they are still sharing, once and then twice, and Phainon has to slam a hand on the wall to keep them stable. Mydei takes advantage of his short distraction and finally manages to step on Phainon’s foot. Mydei hides a grin, but he turns his nose up with pride and satisfaction, and Phainon turns to him with wide eyes and mouth already open to–

“Cheater!” he hisses, offended.

Mydei barks a laugh for the first time in months and it’s freeing, it’s like soaring through the sky and winning a dozen battles and–

“Children,” sighs Trianne, shaking her head from side to side, hands on her waist.

And Mydei has never felt lighter.

There is still a lot they need to talk about, there are still so many words left unsaid between them, but now, reunited once again, able to meet Phainon’s gaze and be looked back in return, able to hear his companions laughing freely around him, he finally feels like he's back home.

Chapter Text

Dan Heng and Stelle reappear some time later, when their little group is already talking animatedly with each other about their own adventures in the cosmos.

Phainon learns about the apparently boring Herta Space Station, where Trianne discovered coffee and was banned from it shortly after, where Hyacine and Castorice got so bored they started researching the plants they found around the spaceship and counting how many researchers wore glasses and other accessories, and where Mydei spent a good portion of his time punching giant bugs.

“Giant bugs?” asks Phainon, a sudden memory surging to the front of his mind. “Dark, similar to nymphs but much, much uglier?”

“Exactly,” nods Mydei, and his eyes glint in that way that Phainon is still so familiar with. “Did you fight them too?”

“Yes, I found some on a wrecked spaceship.” And even as he says it, he already knows–

“How many did you kill?” asks Mydei, pointed, with an arched eyebrow.

“I wasn’t killing them alone,” grimaces Phainon, already knowing that Mydei probably beat more of them than him – he had days to deal with them, after all.

“Chicken, how many?” presses Mydei, amusement clear in his eyes, though you wouldn’t know it from how serious his expression is.

Phainon learns about their stay at Belobog, where Trianne fell in love at first sight with hot chocolate, where Mydei found Cipher stealing random things before running off on her own, where Mydei followed on his advice to Bronya – much to his relief, seeing as he had wanted to do more on that front but felt a bit pressed for time in the end – and where they all apparently helped with the Engine of Creation.

“You saw it too?” asks Castorice, interested.

“Ah, I usually only took care of the Fragmentum,” says Phainon, thinking back to the one-man hunt he went on to find all the Fragmentum portals he could find before he left. At that, and knowing that he probably dealt with many more Fragmentum monsters than the others, he turns to Mydei with a crooked grin. “So, how many Fragmentum monsters did you kill?”

Mydei sends him an unimpressed stare.

Phainon also learns of their dealings with the IPC and Pier Point and their very short visit to Penacony and can’t help but feel a bit guilty about cutting their visit short, about calling them before they could even give a try to the dream – with no Memokeepers to mess around with their minds this time. 

They all seem a bit nervous about the fact that he battled a Memokeeper in a dream – or a nightmare – but he soon reassures them that he’s okay and that he dealt with them before they could do anything more nefarious.

“I should talk to Cyrene about it, though,” he says, thumbing absent-mindedly the unlocking bottom of his teleslate. Now that he’s not ignoring any messages, a simple text to her would suffice, right? Maybe later.

Phainon himself tells them an abridged version of his own adventures, with less existential crises and less self-doubt and less detail on his struggles with coming to terms with the Destruction he now commands and wields and less mentions of his bounty hunting. He does tell them about Argenti, Aventurine and Boothill, especially when he inevitably gets to his almost-disastrous shopping trip in Penacony.

“You got us gifts?!” gasps Trianne, and she jumps off from her chair, jumping to him and staring at him with big wide eyes and a wide smile. “Gimme, gimme!”

“Not yet,” says Phainon, smile crooked and a bit mischievous as he pushes his bag further back under the bench he's sitting on with his foot. “It would be quite unfair if you got your gifts before the others, right? That would be favoritism.”

Trianne deflates like a balloon. Hyacine pats her on the back with an amused smile as Trianne grumbles about ‘cruel Snowys’ and plops down on her chair with her arms crossed. 

It is then that Dan Heng and Stelle return, obviously with no tea and no extra chairs. No one comments on it, especially when the both of them guide them out of the – suspiciously empty – office and down labyrinthic streets that Phainon can now admire with no more panic and apprehension of being arrested.

“We’ve talked with Jing Yuan,” tells them Dan Heng some time later, when they are all already in the hotel they will be staying at. “You can stay here all you want… and attend the Wardance, if you’re interested.”

Phainon immediately looks at Mydei, expectant like so many times in the past – and that makes his heart sing, something he didn’t even remember it being capable of – and waiting for his answer. He only has a ticket, but it does mention the option of bringing a plus one - only for viewing, though, but that... is strangely relieving. But who better to go with than another seasoned warrior and a dear…? Well, Phainon supposes they still have a lot to talk about, relating to that certain matter.

“I’ll go,” nods Mydei, predictably. And even then, Phainon can’t quite stop the relieved smile that curls his lips.

“We'll give you a tour of the Luofu tomorrow,” nods Stelle, a wide grin on her face. She turns to look at Dan Heng and he sighs, nodding slightly, which only makes Stelle grin even wider. “We'll show you all the best tourist spots.”

It surprises Phainon to realize that he's actually excited for tomorrow for once. As they all part ways and head to their respective rooms, Phainon almost feels as if he's in a dream – but he already knows how dreams feel like, and the door is definitely real when he opens it and the bed is soft and real under his body when he plops himself on it with a tired groan.

He's floating on a cloud of relief and fondness. He's back with his friends, his family, and… they don't hate him. They truly don't hate him, fear him. They haven't turned their backs on him – they don't see their own deaths at Phainon's hand, not like he did himself every time he looked at them. They accept him back and they reach out to him just like always, just like in the past, when he needed to slap their hands away over and over again and keep walking to his own doom, dragging them down with him. 

He isn't attacked by twisted memories related to those dark moments anymore – even though he can feel their heavy presence behind him, like an icy ghost, ready to drag him under the waves again – and he doesn't feel blood running down his hands, doesn't see golden blood slipping off his blade. 

He'll be okay, he thinks. With them by his side, he'll manage to push those dark memories further and further away from the forefront of his mind, down into a deep hole, left forgotten.

Phainon stares at the dark ceiling of his room for a moment, reveling in the warm feeling in his chest, the feeling of home. He still can't quite believe it, but if there's anything he knows for sure about his companions, it's that they will do their best to nail it into his head, for as long as it takes. And that makes a smile appear on his face, small and tender and hopeful.

He manages to sleep for most of the night before a blurry nightmare he doesn't even remember minutes later wakes him up. He can see the Luofu’s dawn – unnatural as it is – peek from his window, so he gives up on more sleep and prepares himself for a day of company and new sights.

This simple process fills him with giddiness, makes him go back to his childhood, when he dreamed of adventuring and touring the world. Even if the road to this point was full of tragedy and pain, he's still fulfilling those dreams somehow. He's seeing the world beyond the stars – with his dear friends, no less.

It only takes him a half hour to freshen up and get dressed in clothes that haven't suffered the worst of his space adventures – because he knows about Hyacine's interest in photography and he's not about to taint her precious stash with his messy appearance, especially knowing for a fact that Hyacine would show these photos to those who stayed back in Amphoreus. Aglaea might break the barrier of sound to find him, were she to see him wearing the tattered cloak he stuffs in his bag with a self-conscious half-smile.

He's going down to look for breakfast when his teleslate pings and this time he doesn't need to think much about peeking at his chats and finding Boothill’s messages.

His mouth twitches with a smile as he pockets his teleslate.

The hotel is a labyrinth of hallways and confusing signs, but Phainon finally finds the lounge where breakfast is served. He approaches the long table, curious, but then his interest turns into confusion when all he can see are traditional Xianzhou dishes he doesn’t recognize – and thus, doesn’t know what they taste like.

He hovers over them for a moment, an empty plate in hand, eyes roaming over the countless options and feeling more and more lost the longer he looks. And then a presence slips to his side, quiet and familiar and so strange now that the other man isn’t wearing his usual golden armor. The red of his clothes is still the same, though, so he doesn’t startle at his sudden appearance and just turns his head to the side.

“Any idea what these taste like?” he asks, hopeful, but Mydei shakes his head, eyes also taking note of the countless dishes laid out in front of them with interest.

“No idea,” he answers, completely at ease. “Let’s try some.”

And so, they both slip into their old easy company, pointing the more promising dishes to each other and filling their plates with steamed buns and vegetables and fruit and rice. Phainon does recognize the offered teas, but Mydei scrunches his nose at the lack of juice. 

By the time they commandeer an entire long table for themselves, their plates are full of food of every color in the rainbow. Phainon notices a few other guests sending curious glances at them, but he ignores them in favor of trying all this food with Mydei and comparing it to what he knows, trying to deduce how the dishes are made, and soon, they’re both immersed in a lengthy argument about the traditional dishes of the Xianzhou Luofu and how similar or different they are to Amphoreus’.

It hits Phainon a while later, when they’re already eating away at their third refilled plates, how little their relationship has changed. Talking with Mydei is as easy as ever, being around him is as natural as breathing, and when they both count how many buns they have eaten each and compare the number to the other’s, the smile that appears on Phainon’s face appears on his lips without him noticing.

Their hands brush sometimes when reaching for something on the other’s plate, their legs are pressed together, and even when they stand up to collect more food, they go as a unit, heads pressed together as they discuss what dishes they should try now.

It’s easy to let himself get swept away by the flow, to fall back on old habits, to smile and wave when the girls finally appear moments later at the door and they search around the full room for them.

“Why do you have so much food?” asks Hyacine, looking at the small tower of plates left abandoned to the side and the new options on the table.

“We just wanted to try as many dishes as we could,” explains Phainon simply, and his smile turns amused. “Want to help us finish all this?”

Trianne laughs at them, but she sits by their side and Mydei doesn’t waste time pointing her to the more sweet options they’ve tried. Castorice and Hyacine cross a glance and chuckle, but they also sit down next to them. Little Ica even plops down on the table and looks around with glinting eyes and clear interest.

“If you insist,” says Castorice, and she looks at the food around them with curiosity, before her hands move to take a few of the buns.

Breakfast turns out to take longer than they expected, but they are in front of the hotel soon enough, just in time to meet up with Dan Heng – nursing a cup of coffee in his hand – and Stelle – who’s munching on a bag of pastries. She offers them a few, but they all look away and refuse, still with breakfast at their throats.

And thus begins the first touristic tour Phainon has gone on, led by Stelle – with comments from Dan Heng, though he remains mostly quiet, lagging behind the group, clearly lost in thought more than once – and accompanied by the Crysos Heirs. It’s strange to move as a group now, after so long of operating mostly alone, but not unwelcome. Quite the opposite, really; it’s incredibly calming and pleasant to visit all these beautiful sights with his companions.

Phainon talks with Castorice, pointing out interesting landmarks – the Ambrosial Arbor is massive and it reminds them of the three from the Grove, but it also makes their hair stand on end for some reason – and commenting on their otherworldliness, noting how different everything is to Amphoreus. 

He points out photographic spots to Hyacine and even gets roped into posing for quite a few of her photos. Trianne tries – and fails – to tame his hair, making him kneel in front of her and running her small hands through his hair under his amused gaze, and she tsks when adjusting his cape over his shoulder more than once.

He tries to get Trianne to stop running off on her own as soon as she sees something interesting and in the end caves and buys her a few trinkets and sweets. The tight hug she gives him as payment is enough, he thinks, feeling warmth finally nest itself in his chest, different to the fiery rage of old – and it doesn’t leave at any point during the day.

He also asks any questions that pass through his mind to Stelle, taking advantage of finally having a guide who actually knows these places personally. It’s a bit disappointing that she usually doesn’t have any answers for the more history-related questions he throws at her, but he understands that she’s just a traveler passing through. He glances at Dan Heng’s figure that follows them like a ghost, but when he finds the other looking out to the distance with unfocused eyes, he decides to leave him in peace.

Most of the time, though, he stays by Mydei’s side. Just like always in the past, Mydei is like a firm pillar of strength, a calming presence by his side. Being this close again, he feels at peace, knowing that there’s someone watching his back, helping him keep an eye on the other Crysos Heirs, ready to jump in if something goes wrong. 

It’s– it makes something twist in his chest, but he’s not sure it’s a bad thing. Their eyes meet sometimes, and every time Phainon fails to find anything remotely similar to hate or fear or resentment in them, his heart does this weird jump and he can feel his hands itching to reach out. Maybe make sure that Mydei is actually real? Make sure that he isn’t wielding his sword? No. That makes him taste ash on his tongue.

Stelle drags them into Aurum Alley to eat a late lunch, and Phainon watches the countless stalls of street food, the colorful stores, the distant silhouettes of the places they have already visited.

“Want to see who can eat more spicy food?” he asks Mydei while they eye the menu from one of the stalls.

“You sure you can take it?” Mydei arches an eyebrow, pointed.

“I endured having billions of Coreflames in me,” he says, before he can think better of it – he stumbles on his words for a moment, but Mydei’s eyebrow only climbs higher and he doesn’t react more than that, much to Phainon’s relief. He tries for a grin that falls a bit short from his older ones, but the glint of challenge in his eyes is real. “I think I can eat some spicy food, easy.”

“We’ll see,” says Mydei, and of course, it’s on.

They order a few plates of skewers to start with, and the other Crysos Heirs and Nameless look at them with no surprise as they nod at each other and start eating. One plate. Two plates. Phainon’s tongue is tingling and almost falling numb by now and his eyes are tearing up so bad he can only make out blobs of color around him, but– this is nothing to him, he’s endured worse, this is child’s play compared to having billions of–

Another plate. And another. He’s getting full by now, but he doesn’t see Mydei slowing down either, so he pushes on, even as his mouth screams for water and he dreads the next time he needs to visit a bathroom.

“I don’t think this is healthy anymore…” mutters Hyacine, and when Phainon rubs his eyes – careful to avoid smearing spice on his eyes like an idiot – to wipe the tears away, he catches her unimpressed gaze.

“Nonsense,” comes Mydei’s hoarse voice from the other side of the table.

“Yeah, don’t give up! I still have credits left, I want to see where this goes!” comes Stelle’s cheery voice, a hand raised to show a stack of credits ready to use.

Dan Heng sighs next to her and rubs his eyes.

“Don’t enable them,” he whispers to Stelle, but his companion only ignores him and waves the waitress to their table once again.

Phainon almost gives up then and there, as Stelle orders more plates of spicy skewers, but– where’s the fun in that? He meets Mydei’s eyes from across the table, sees the same determination being mirrored in them, and pointedly bites off the last of his skewer.

And then the waitress refuses to give them more skewers.

“What?” yelps Stelle, her hand with the offered credits lowering slowly to the table.

“We have other customers, too, you know? And they also like these skewers,” points out the waitress, hands on her hips. Phainon lowers his head slightly when the waitress’ eyes rove over them, unimpressed. “We don’t serve these just so other people can make a competition out of them.”

“Sorry…” he mutters, a bit embarrassed. 

It reminds him a bit of how Aglaea used to scold them, back in the day, whenever Phainon dragged Mydei into one of his competitions – it feels far away now, but the memory and the feelings that accompany it is warm, carrying with it the sound of Chimeras playing and the feeling of grass under his hands and the light of the Dawn on his skin.

His tongue still stings, so he reaches for the water bottle– only to meet air.

“Looking for this?” says a familiar voice–

He blinks, surprised.

“Cipher?” he mutters, but it’s quite obvious that it’s her indeed, what with said demigod sitting on one of the unoccupied chairs, playing with the water bottle, grinning wide, eyes glinting with amusement.

“Good to see you, Deliverer boy,” she greets, and even though her voice is always veiled with amusement and sometimes even mockery, he can find some hidden warmth under the surface. “I hope your stops were more fun than this group’s – man, that was disappointing.”

“We literally followed his trail, Cipher,” comes Stelle’s pointed comment, arching an eyebrow. “But– wait, what do you mean disappointing? What did you do–?”

“But he probably went to more places than us, right?” asks Cipher, just as pointed, as she turns to him lazily. “So?”

“What do you mean ‘us’, you weren’t included–” continues Stelle, pushing back on her chair.

“I mean, I did visit more places than you, that’s true.” Phainon tilts his head to the side, frowns, and then he huffs a half-laugh. “I met someone who would like you, actually.”

“Who?” ask both Cipher and Stelle, one interested, one alarmed. Dan Heng sends them a Look, suspicious, but unwilling to get involved.

“I can give you her contact,” he says, ignoring how Stelle immediately jumps off her chair to loom over him with crossed arms and sharp eyes.

“I think I know who you’re talking about– don’t you dare,” she threatens, and she places a heavy hand on his shoulder. He looks up at her, completely innocent, even as he takes out his teleslate. “How do you even know her?”

“We’ve met,” he says, vague, and it clearly annoys Stelle, because she scrunches up her nose and grimaces. Phainon huffs out another half-laugh and finds Sparkle’s number and sends it to Cipher. “Don’t worry. We’re friends.”

“Friends? With Sparkle?” asks Stelle, more suspicious than annoyed by now. She blinks. “How?”

“Things happen,” shrugs Phainon, and he hopes she leaves it at that. He might feel better now that he’s cleared the air with the Crysos Heirs, but he still doesn’t really feel like explaining the mess related to Penacony and the Memokeeper that tried to fight him in his dreams – and lost. That reminds him… “I should probably text Cyrene…”

He goes to do just that as the others start talking with Cipher and Stelle moves away to point an accusing finger at her, asking her for anything that she might have stolen and trying to get her to return it. He hears the name of the General thrown to the air, as well as other names he doesn’t recognize but that sound to be from the Luofu. Cipher raises her hands innocently, but with a sharp grin on her face.

“I only swung by the Wardance as they organized stuff– it’s not my fault they left this out with no supervision…” is saying Cipher, and it hits Phainon–

“When’s the Wardance?” he asks, hurried, even as his fingers still on his teleslate mid-message.

“This afternoon– oh,” says Stelle and she looks at Phainon and Mydei, a nervous smile on her face. “I’m sure you can still get to see it from the beginning now if you run a bit…”

Dan Heng sighs and rubs his face.

“Stelle…” he groans, and Stelle turns to him and glares.

“Hey! You could have remembered too!” she accuses, and Dan Heng sends an unimpressed glance at her, lips pressed into a thin line.

Phainon– stands up, sends his text – half of which is probably difficult to understand or total gibberish, he’s not sure – and grabs Mydei’s wrist, tugging on it to get him to stand up, effectively making the man cough out water all over his empty plate.

“Phainon, what the fuck–?” coughs Mydei, but Phainon doesn’t let him finish, dragging him along as he starts speeding down the street, already readying his wings to launch them into the air and hopefully find the ship where the Wardance is taking place.

“We’ll meet up later!” he yells back to the group, even though he’s not sure they will meet up before the next day.

“Have fun, you two!” yells Hyacine, waving at them with a wide smile.

“Try not to get in trouble!” yells Trianne, eyes glinting with amusement.

“With this guy? Not a chance!” yells back Mydei, seemingly annoyed, but when Phainon tugs on his hand and he unfurls his wings, he doesn’t struggle as they soar into the sky of the Luofu and shoot forward.

He can only hope that the authorities of the Luofu don’t mind him flying all over the place.

Chapter Text

They are only flying for all of two minutes, but Mydei feels that he’s had enough of it for a lifetime.

He clings to Phainon's shoulders and bites his tongue to keep himself from muttering curses and threats aimed at Phainon if he ever thinks of loosening his grip around Mydei's torso as they fly up and up.

They land on the outside of the Wardance ship and Mydei has to lean on the wall for a moment to catch his breath and get his sight to stop spinning. Phainon hovers around him nervously, hands held awkwardly in the air as he figures out if touching Mydei would help or make things worse.

“Sorry, I should have asked first… you okay? Not a fan of flying?” rambles Phainon, and when Mydei finally opens his eyes and centers himself, he sees the crooked smile on his face and the very obvious worry in his eyes.

“Don’t do that again,” he says, and Phainon huffs out a half-laugh that gets cut off as Mydei grabs his wrist and drags him into the ship. It feels like retribution, and it tastes sweet on his tongue, as Phainon hurriedly makes his wings and halo disappear before they can slam against the door – and probably make a dent on the wall.

They wander around the ship for a moment, a bit lost, before the staff take pity on them and ask for their ticket. They point them to the bleachers, telling them that the event would start shortly, and they follow the flow of people. Even surrounded by countless people that seem to relish in standing still in the middle of a crowded hallway, Mydei feels the sharp eyes of guards on their backs. And so, he turns, meets each and every one of their gazes and raises his chin – not a challenge, but an acknowledgement of their attention. And a warning.

By the time they manage to find their way to the bleachers and to their seats, the opening ceremony is already under way. They both gape up like idiots as the Xianzhou Luofu makes a show of their evident military might, with cannons shooting to the sky, their soldiers saluting and readying their weapons, the fighting arena reassembling itself to give the spectators the most detailed sight possible of the fights that will take place.

This is the might of the famed Hunt, thinks Mydei, eyes sharp as he looks at the neat lines of soldiers, arms crossed on his chest. All of this reminds him of his homeland, in some way – even the clear references to forts and battle ships (or starskiffs, as they call them here). 

During their tourist tour, Stelle – and later on Dan Heng – made it a point to explain in detail the conflict between the Hunt and the Abundance (and technically now the Destruction as well) to their little group.

“You should learn all of these boring politics as soon as possible,” says Stelle, before butchering the names of three out of four Xianzhou Generals and forgetting the name of the respected marshal. Her grin was unapologetic. “I never said I was good with them, I just said you should learn about them.”

The more Mydei learns about the Xianzhou Alliance, the more he feels like they should probably try to be allies, not because of their obvious power and influence – which would help immensely, especially with the IPC’s probable pressure – but because they seem pretty similar in the way they steer their worlds. And well– Mydei sends a glance at Phainon, who’s watching the second fight of the day with sharp eyes and clear curiosity in the way he leans forward on his seat. There’s a new burden on his shoulders now, a burden they would all do well not to forget. Would the Xianzhou agree to an alliance with them, if Phainon is also involved?

And more importantly, as Mydei keeps thinking, eyes absentmindedly following the fights in front of them, he wonders if this is the Path he should take. Is his Path really the Hunt? He knows for a fact that the other Crysos Heirs are also struggling to find their own way in this vast universe, with its countless factions and Aeons that await respect and obedience to their doctrines. Mydei, now face to face with the might of the Hunt, wonders if this is what he wants to follow.

Would this be the best Path to protect Amphoreus? Would this Path give him enough power to stand up to the threats they will inevitably encounter?

(And he compares it to the dynasty he ended countless times with his own hands and he wonders if the Hunt is doomed to end the same way. How much reality was there in that simulation? How many of its extrapolations were and are and will turn out to be true?)

“Would you want to compete here some day?” asks Phainon, then, and Mydei blinks, returning to the present. 

The last fight of the first set is done, leaving behind a scratched up arena, and so, a good part of the audience stands up to stretch their legs and probably get some food to snack on as the second set is prepared. Mydei can admit easily that he’s only paid attention to a couple of fights, before his mind wandered off into heavier matters. He wonders if Phainon has paid more attention than him, but if there’s anyone that can out-overthink him, that would be Phainon.

In any case, it’s not like he knows how to answer his question. 

“Would you?” he shoots back instead.

Phainon meets his gaze for a moment, before he looks out to the bright sky over their heads with a low hum.

“Mm, I think I’d like to, but…” he trails off and his smile twists into that bitter and rueful smile that is becoming far too common on his lips these days. “I don’t think they’d be comfortable with letting a Lord Ravager fight it out here.”

Mydei hums, but he doesn’t argue the point; why would he? Phainon is right. He remembers how the white-haired General sought out the Nameless as soon as they arrived on the Luofu, relaxing immediately as soon as Stelle and Dan Hend assured him that, yes, the Lord Ravager currently hiding in his office is indeed a friend of theirs and that, yes, he wouldn’t destroy the Luofu from the inside and kill everyone in a thousand kilometers radius.

Still… Phainon deserves better than that, so he tilts his head and frowns at the structure around them, tapping a finger on his lap.

“We could always follow their example and organize something similar in Amphoreus,” he comments, light and easy, even as Phainon turns to him with wide eyes. “Oh, the Kremnoans would love it, they would be the firsts to sign up for it.”

Phainon stares at him for a moment, caught off-guard, but then he huffs out a laugh that sounds more like a laugh than whatever he’s been doing lately.

They’re both more attentive to the fights going on down in the arena after that, leaning forward and wincing when one of the parties gets injured and cheering – mostly Phainon – when they still stand up and continue fighting, not giving up. They see people from all over, and soon enough, Mydei starts searching the names of the numerous worlds on his teleslate out of curiosity, showing the images to Phainon when he finds a strange planet made of storms or a neverending sea – and sometimes, Phainon’s eyes even light up with recognition and he tells Mydei that he’s passed by those planets at some point during his travels.

They sit through the second and third sets and watch as the fighters jump tiers again and again, until the entire ship is holding their breath during the final, where two seasoned fighters from different worlds clash swords for the last time– and when all is said and done, both of the fighters nod at each other and cross arms as a sign of respect.

“Are you hungry?” asks Phainon, when they are already waiting in line to return to the main area of the Luofu with the rest of the spectators.

“Mm, not really,” says Mydei; he doesn’t really want to admit that their generous breakfast and all the spicy skewers they had for lunch have left him satiated for a long time. “You?”

“No, I don’t need to eat that much anymore,” admits Phainon, a bit absentminded, as his eyes rove over the people crammed into the hall. His eyes obviously find someone he recognizes, but Phainon only nods to whoever it is, before he looks down at Mydei again, voice softening. “I think it’s time to talk, right?”

Ah, so he’s brought it up before Mydei could. Good. That means they’re mostly on the same page – at least on this matter. Mydei knows better than to hope that this conversation will be easy, especially with Phainon, but he hopes that all this traveling, this reunion on good terms, this offered hand that Mydei has left between them, will be acknowledged and– accepted.

“We can return to the hotel, then,” he says, easily enough, and Phainon nods, a glint of the usual determination in his eyes – and Mydei’s lips twitch.

The trip back to the hotel is a bit overcrowded, thanks to all the people that had the same idea as them, but they reach it with no trouble and they hole themselves in Mydei’s room, closing the door behind them. In the past, Mydei would have done this very thing to avoid Phainon running away from him – because wrangling Phainon to be actually honest about his wants and desires is as hard as convincing a Dromas to fly – and get him to talk about... well, them. 

Whatever there was, and is, between them– has always been.

Mydei’s memories about the cycles are fragmented and chaotic, so much so that the only things he remembers of the first cycles are bits and pieces. The last cycles are always easier to recall, but even then, the facts and events mix together until he can’t be sure of what happened in each cycle in the first place. But– they are all him, they are all Mydei. And they are all Phainon, even if there were once two, and then one again. He suspects that this is much harder for Phainon, who clearly remembers most of the cycles in great detail – at least, the important aspects and happenings, which could be summarized as: their countless doomfalls.

Phainon sits down in the middle of Mydei’s bed now, cross-legged, head lowered and coat left abandoned on a chair. He looks normal, like this. As if nothing has changed from their days roaming around Okhema, training together, having lunch together, bathing together, saving the world together. But it has, and that’s the fact they need to accept and – hopefully – work around.

So, Mydei sits down on his bed too and takes a deep breath.

“We should talk about… us,” says Mydei, and after countless talks with Phainon about this very matter in countless lifetimes, he already knows to make his voice softer. “And where we want to go from here.”

“A lot has changed, huh?” says Phainon, voice also soft, but also tired, so tired it hurts. And Mydei has to still his hand before he can touch Phainon– not yet.

“A lot has changed, yes,” he admits, because it will do them no favors to lie and act like they are both the same people that bid goodbye to each other over and over again, before it all crashed down around them and made it impossible to reunite – until now. So, Mydei takes a breath and asks, “what do you want now, Phainon?”

“From you, or in general?” asks Phainon, as complicated as always. Master debater, indeed. Too bad that Mydei is already used to his tactics.

“From me… and in general,” he says, pointed, and Phainon raises his head only to smile ruefully at him for a moment, before he leans back on his hands and looks at the window. From this room they can see the gate to the Luofu, bright like a sun.

“Would you punch me if I said that I don’t know?” admits Phainon, and that in itself is already more than Mydei expected. 

Even in the - admittedly few - cycles where they decided to give these budding feelings a chance, Phainon always let Mydei dictate their pace, letting him lead the both of them to a shared future. Mydei has learned after all this time that it was mostly Phainon’s self-doubt nagging at his mind, stilling his hand. The sword of Mydei being the Crown Prince of Kremnos hung over their heads. The heavy weight of their roles in the Flame-Chase journey made it difficult for them to aspire for anything more, something deeper. The very real possibility of losing each other at some point before the end dug its claws on their backs. Phainon, as the Deliverer, always hesitated to speak his mind in these matters, and it often fell to Mydei to pry his wants and preferences out of his mouth - and even then, was Mydei any better? Restraint, doubts, the weight of a crumbling people and shattered culture, all of it made it so Mydei himself stilled his hand, over and over again, keeping both of them too far apart from each other, reticent and pained, unable to breach the distance between them.

He knows that he’s not the best with words, that he falls on ‘awkward’ a lot of the time when he doesn’t have the mantle of leadership to hide under, but he’s always known himself – and that has to be enough. Words come later, and a lot of the time, Phainon doesn’t even need many of those to understand where he’s coming from. And when he does need Mydei’s direct words to get it into his thick skull, then Mydei will ramble for hours if it’s what it takes.

But… things have changed, and maybe, just maybe, they have changed for the better? There is no more Flame-Chase journey, there are no more prophecies, there is no more Prince of Kremnos, there is no more Deliverer – sure, their situations are still complicated and could turn dangerous, but there is hope now. The new tomorrow is here to stay.

And Mydei would hate to let this chance slip through his fingers. Not again.

“I would never punch you for that. Not when I don’t know the answer to that question either,” he admits, and he bites his lip for a moment when Phainon turns to him, eyes seeming almost gold from the light entering through the window. “I only know that I don’t want to lose you.”

At that, Phainon predictably looks down.

The silence between them is heavy, but not quite tense. Mydei is waiting for it. He’s sure Phainon will mention it, rip it off his chest and lay it all on the bed between them, bloody and pained. And–

“You… even after all I did to you, you still…” mutters Phainon, so predictable it almost brings a smile to Mydei’s lips. 

“What exactly did you do to me?” he asks, soft, and yet steady, because that is what they need – when one of them stumbles, the other is right there to cover their back. “Save me?”

“Kill you, Mydei. Over and over again.” Phainon takes a deep breath, and it sounds as if he's drowning in his own feelings, his memories, and not for the first time, Mydei wonders and worries about what living through millions of cycles means for a single person. His hand moves before he can think better of it, closing around Phainon's wrist and feeling the slight tremors running through his body. “You entrusted your back to me and I– I stabbed you in the back over and over again. And even when I didn’t, I was still responsible for your death in one way or another, indirectly or–”

“You weren’t always responsible for my death, Phainon. You weren’t Lygus.” At that, Phainon flinches violently, and Mydei takes the chance to tug on his wrist and make Phainon look him in the eye. He finds a stormy sea, there. Wave after wave of memories, of pain. And he understands why Phainon ran away from them in the first place – drowning in memories. Too bad that Mydei isn't willing to let him get swept away by these waves. He won't let him– won't let them drown. “You’ve said it yourself, Phainon. I entrusted my back to you. That was my choice. I chose to challenge you, test your will, every time. And I would do it again and again and again – I have done so, again and again and again.”

“But–” tries Phainon, but Mydei barrels through, breaking through the murky waters that lap at their necks. Just like in the past, he swims, fights against the current, and drags Phainon with him back to the surface.

“And every single time, you granted me an honorable death–” Phainon flinches again, jaw clenched tight. “A duel, fair and square. A death by your sword is an honor, even if I didn’t remember it by the latest cycles. And most of all– it was necessary.” He pauses, takes a deep breath that rattles in his chest. “I need you to understand this, Phainon. You don’t need to apologize or seek my forgiveness on this. I already forgave you a long time ago. I was just waiting for you to forgive yourself.”

Something changes there, a realization, an understanding. The tides recede, slow and tentative, but Mydei breathes and squeezes the wrist in his hand and holds Phainon's gaze until they can both return to the shore, guided by each other.

Phainon swallows and takes a deep breath too; it trembles, but his gaze seems more present, less lost in the throngs of time and memory.

“I’m… getting there,” he says, and it makes something twist in Mydei’s chest, to hear how hoarse his voice is – it reminds him of the Flame Reaver’s husky and breathy drawl. And it hurts, to finally connect the dots and tie that dying husk to the Phainon he’s always known, to the Phainon in front of him.

“I can see that. We can all see that. And I’m… glad.” Mydei struggles for a moment, but then he sighs and changes his hold to Phainon’s hand. It’s hot, a higher temperature than his usual, but not scalding. Not anymore. “I’ll remind you as much as I need to, for you to understand and accept it.”

“You sure?” asks Phainon, small and hesitant but full of hope, and it always kills Mydei to see Phainon move away from him, from them, letting the shadows in his mind drive him away from his most cherished people.

So, he tugs on his hand so they are face to face, and he hopes that Phainon can see the fiery determination in his eyes.

“I’ve never been more sure in my life,” he says, and it sounds like a promise.

Phainon takes a deep breath and then breathes out, letting his shoulders finally drop and relax.

(And he doesn’t drown anymore.)

Phainon nods, a new glint of determination in his eyes, twin to Mydei’s. A promise, heavy and yet light, hangs between them, like a knot that would never separate them. Their foreheads touch, and Mydei finally lets the anxiety that has accompanied him for months of chasing ghosts– unwind from his chest.

They remain silent for a moment, both drinking in the moment, reminiscing on what was lost and what was regained. And then, Phainon sighs and his eyes close.

“Still, we’ve both changed a lot,” he admits, and Mydei hums his assent. “I think… It’d be best to start again… slow. No rushing. Just…”

“Get to know each other again,” nods Mydei, and his other hand moves to the back of Phainon’s head. He’s grateful that he’s not wearing his gauntlets; otherwise, they would have probably gotten tangled on Phainon’s hair, like so many times in the past. “Find our rhythm again.”

“Yes,” nods Phainon against Mydei’s forehead. They finally – and reluctantly – separate and Phainon smiles, a glint of something that looks a lot like hope in his eyes. “After all… we have time now.”

“We have all the time in the world,” nods Mydei again, and it still feels surreal, to say those words and know that they are true. “We’ll figure it out.”

“Together,” says Phainon, sappy idiot that he is.

“Together,” and yet, Mydei always meets him halfway anyway. He pauses, then, and hums. They have already discussed this with the other Heirs, but Phainon has always liked bouncing ideas off Mydei until he makes up his mind, anyway. “What are your plans now, then? Keep traveling? You mentioned bounty hunting, right?”

Phainon hums again, this time more relaxed, but no less thoughtful. He fidgets with a thread on his sleeve, worn as it is.

“I think I'll keep traveling, yeah,” he says in the end. The next time he looks out the window, his eyes glint with a new light, a new feeling, that Mydei has only seen a handful of times – childish curiosity, passion, excitement. “Traveling, seeing what lies beyond the sky– it has helped me a lot. I want…”

“You want?” encourages Mydei, when Phainon trails off, eyes distant. Phainon flushes slightly.

“I want to see more of this universe,” he admits, and it makes something warm spread through Mydei’s chest, to see Phainon being this open with his wants – finally. “And after that… I want to go home.”

“Then continue onwards,” he nods, and then he grins slightly, amused. “Keep traveling and find more allies for Amphoreus. And bring that Anti-Matter Legion to its knees.”

“Oh, I will,” says Phainon, and it sounds like a promise. Mydei can even hear the low rumbling of age-old rage and his blood sings in answer – he wouldn't be opposed to following that same path himself, but he knows his priorities lie in other places. Phainon seems to read his mind, because he leans forward, his permanent rage buried under curiosity for now, until it came the time to unsheathe it again to use as a deathly weapon. “And you? What will you do now?”

Mydei sighs, looking through the window for a moment too. He can see the people of the Luofu moving through the streets, talking with each other, shopping, running, taking walks– living. He misses Amphoreus, he thinks. He’s missed it for a while now.

“I think my place is in Amphoreus, right now,” he says, thinking back to the people he’s left behind, all the things left to do, all the things that will happen from this point forward. “A lot will change in a short amount of time. And… as the Guardian of Amphoreus, I should be there.”

To help, to protect. To carry on his duty. He doesn’t say any of this, but Phainon hears the unsaid words nonetheless and he understands, from the way his smile widens and his eyes soften. 

“You’ve always been a great guardian, after all,” comments Phainon, voice much lighter than before, but not mocking – no, it sounds proud. And yet, it makes Mydei’s tongue taste bitter.

“Have I?” he asks, and his voice sounds a bit too resentful, because Phainon’s smile falls and he leans forward, catching Mydei’s hand in his hold this time. “I feel like I hardly did anything worthwhile during the Recurrences.”

Phainon immediately straightens up in offense, lips thinning into a pale line. His hand grips Mydei’s tightly for a moment, before he catches himself.

“That’s not true,” he says, vehemently. He’s always taken great offense at anyone badmouthing Mydei, even though Mydei himself usually ignores any attempts at getting a rise out of him with lies and baits intent on getting him to tick. And now, of course, he takes offense at Mydei himself. “Amphoreus always had more time because you battled the Black Tide.”

“What difference did that make in the end?” he asks, pointed. “Amphoreus reset every time.”

“More time for Amphoreus meant more time for me to get the Coreflames, remember?” points out Phainon, and at that– Mydei closes his mouth. Phainon is now smiling at him with smugness, a glint in his eye. “I don’t remember in what cycles it happened, but I know that, were you not holding back the Black Tide, I would have lost a few Coreflames to the Black Tide at some point – to Irontomb.” Phainon squeezes his hand again and sends him a pointed look. “Plus, you shouldn't discredit the lives you saved in past cycles– or the ones you couldn’t. Those cycles still happened, the sacrifices still meant something. Believe me, forgetting that is a fruitless path that only leads to a darker hole.” Phainon's smile is wry, tired, old. Mydei closes his mouth with a soft ‘click’ at that, feeling a bit inadequate. “Pot, kettle. You can’t complain about me feeling guilty and then do the same–”

“Then let’s make a deal,” he interrupts, before Phainon can start one of his tirades. “To not overthink things that shouldn’t matter anymore.”

Phainon sends a suspicious glance at him, but when Mydei offers a handshake, he takes it with a huff of laughter.

The next silence between them is relaxed and easy, like so many others in the past, when they hung out on the rooftops of Okhema after their usual light-hearted spars, watching the Dawn on Kephale’s back. Light embraces them like it did back then, different but just as welcoming.

“Are you hungry?” asks Mydei, even though he knows that neither of them could be after eating their way through more than half of the restaurant’s skewers.

“Not really,” comes Phainon’s predictable answer, coupled with an amused smile. “I’m craving a good nap, though.”

And Mydei knows Phainon’s signs too well to refuse the invitation – a nice and calm afternoon together on the bed, finally close after the end of the world is already long behind them.

They spend probably too long searching for anything to watch on Mydei’s teleslate, arguing over the stupid and low-quality movies that Phainon suggests between huffs of laughter and Mydei’s interest in the Luofu’s recipes and then their weapon forgery traditions.

He’s quite ready to admit that they both fall asleep before they can get to a consensus on it, a random video playing on the background. But all Mydei can hear is – finally – Phainon’s soft breathing against his neck, the weight of an arm over his waist and the warmth of a familiar body next to his.

—

(“Are they still inside?” asks Trianne, pressing an ear to the hotel room door and frowning deeply.

“Should we…?” Castorice trails off, hands a bit restless as she fidgets with her teleslate – the few messages she’s sent to a certain pair of Crysos Heirs remain unanswered.

“Let’s just…” Hyacine presses her ear to the door too, and when she doesn’t hear anything, she frowns. “Are they…?”

Trianne huffs and then reaches out with a hand – and the door opens under her fingers, unable to resist the pull of Janus’ blessing, even this far away from Amphoreus and with no Titan to direct said blessing. Castorice reaches out with a hand, but it hovers in the air uselessly as she waits for a reply from inside the room. 

It never comes.

And so, all three demigods peek into the room carefully, leaving the door mostly closed. There’s the faintest sound from the bed – a video, probably, volume low. Their eyes move to it and then they all hide huffs of laughter and wide grins, already retreating out of the room, now assured of its guests’ well-being.

Phainon and Mydei sleep on, unaware, Phainon twisted into a weird posture with an arm and a leg over Mydei’s body and Mydei himself with his head tilted in a way that would definitely give him a crick in his neck the next time he woke, mouth half-open. Mydei’s teleslate stays abandoned on his lap, playing a video about ghosts and heliobi, explained by a red-haired girl. 

“I’m glad they’ve figured things out,” comments Trianne, nodding to herself.

“Yes, though we should let them tell us the good news themselves,” says Hyacine, an amused smile on her lips.

Castorice only sends a sticker to Aglaea, hiding a relieved smile.)