Chapter 1: I
Chapter Text
The forest was steeped in a damp, sullen quiet, the kind that pressed in from all sides and made even the smallest sound seem intrusive. Overhead, the sky was a shroud of iron-grey clouds swollen and heavy with the promise of rain, sagging so low that the branches seemed to strain under their weight. The air smelled faintly of moss and rotting leaves, the earthy sharpness and horrid smell clinging to the back of Phainon’s throat as he moved through the undergrowth.
A distant screech, and he paused, staring off into the distance where the noise came from. When the monster came, a hunched thing, its body covered in a black tar-like substance, with eyes like dull coins, it made no sound until it was already lunging. He unsheathed his sword with ease, its weight familiar and comforting, and in the back of his head, he heard Tribbios whispering, You never did learn how to hold your grief without welding it like a blade. He tightened his grip on the handle of Dawnmaker, and the blade met it with practised ease, a single, decisive motion, and its body crumpled into the ferns. He did not linger to watch the steam rise from the corpse and slowly disintegrate into black goo.
And as he stepped over it, the thought crossed his mind, sharp and brief, why had he ever believed the Heir of Strife would be hiding in a place as miserable and unremarkable as this? The trees here were old but unremarkable, nothing stood out, the paths were faint, and the air was stagnant with the smell of mildew and rot.
The other Heirs had scoured more likely grounds and had all returned empty-handed, their faces shadowed with the same quiet failure, Cipher making an off-handed comment about how she wouldn't be surprised if the Heir was already dead. It was almost absurd, this wandering search, this endless circling and chasing after nothing but threads of rumours heard by Aglaea and baseless legends and stories.
He tilted his head back, searching instinctively for the sun, and found nothing. The clouds were too thick, too stubborn, and though it must have surely been nearing sunset, there were no golden rays to soften the dark, gloomy edges of the forest. The day seemed suspended in a grey pause, lightless and cold.
His mind slipped back to the prophecy – those strange, jagged words that clung like burrs no matter how many times he tried to shake them loose.
Gold in their veins, they gather.
When the river remembers its source, the sky will bleed.
Two old friends will meet where no light dares fall.
Great walls will crumble, sacred places will burn.
When bone is taken from flesh, truth will spill into the open.
One will rise to become the blazing Sun of tomorrow.
He had memorized the prophecy and had turned the lines over in his head so many times they no longer sounded like words, just a shape of sound that gnawed at the edge of meaning.
Somewhere amid that thought, he realised he had wandered close to water. The thin whispers of a current reached him, threading through the hush of the forest. The sound tugged at something, a thread drawn taut in his mind. He stopped and listened. It should have been nothing, just the hum of a river, but the sound pressed on an old wound in his memory.
And suddenly, he was somewhere else entirely. A warm hand, small but insistent, pulling at his fingers, tugging him along. The press of fingers was warm and certain, but the face that the fingers led up to was blurred beyond recognition, yet alive with motion. He heard laughter, high and bright, ringing against the backdrop of splashing water and echoing in his head. He heard Cyrene yell at them not to get their clothes dirty again. He remembered the glint of sunlight on shallow ripples, golden wheat fields spreading out beside them. He did not know when the water’s sound had shifted from this present stream to that remembered one, but the realisation struck like cold iron in his chest.
He pressed the heel of his hand to his brow, a faint headache tightening behind his eyes. A faint headache throbbed behind his eyes, dull at first, then sharper with each heartbeat. It was as if the memory itself had weight, pressing against the inside of his skull, demanding he remember more, daring him to open that door fully. The edges of the memory dissolved as quickly as they had come, leaving behind only the ache and the lingering echo of that laughter, like a ghost he could almost, but not quite, see.
He forced his gaze away from the water and back to the path, but his feet didn’t move. Something about the river, its voice, and its smell was anchoring him in place.
The prophecy coiled again in his mind, and this time, the river runs on felt less like a metaphor and more like a warning.
Phainon shivered.
If the worst came to worst, at least he knew how to swim, he thought, though the thought was a practical one, not a comforting one. He moved along the riverbank with the quiet, measured steps of someone used to hostile terrain, his boots sinking faintly into the damp earth. The river beside him murmured and splashed over rocks, its silver-grey surface reflecting the dull weight of the clouded sky.
The air smelled of wet leaves and soil, sharp with the hint of rain that had yet to fall. After years of living in the palace, and venturing out in search of the missing Heir and campaigns, may or may not have spoiled him. But that doesn't mean he wasn't used to roughing it.
Every breath felt heavy, as though the forest itself had grown denser with the promise of the storm. Phainon’s eyes shifted constantly between the narrow path ahead and the undergrowth to his sides. Shadows swayed with the wind, bending the spindly branches into crooked shapes that looked, at a glance, like figures watching from the gloom.
It was then that his ears, sharper and keener than most, caught something out of place. Faint at first, just a murmur under the steady rush of the river. Words: not loud enough to be casual conversation, but soft and low, as though whoever spoke did not want the forest to overhear.
He stilled mid-step, head tilting slightly, every instinct sharpening. Voices did not belong here. Not so far from the beaten tracks, not so deep in a place that gnawed at the edges of even seasoned hunters’ nerves.
For a moment, he thought it might be a trick of the water, the current pulling over jagged stones in such a way that it formed phantom syllables. But no, this was human speech; the cadence was unmistakable.
He narrowed his eyes and adjusted the way he held his weight, allowing each step to fall more slowly, more deliberately. Soundless. If there was danger, and there usually was, it would not see him coming.
The words grew a fraction clearer, though the voice was still muffled by the constant burble of the river. A man, perhaps. Or not, there was a lightness to the tone, a softness that could have belonged to someone young, though not a child.
Phainon’s mind turned quickly through possibilities. A traveler who had lost his way? Foolish, no one wandered this far in a damp and dark forest without purpose. A trap? More likely. Bandits sometimes used soft voices to lure the curious, waiting until the prey drew too close.
His lips curved faintly, not quite a smile, but the faint edge of one, something dark and feral lighting his eyes. If it was a trap, they had chosen their target poorly.
Still, suspicion was an old friend, and it curled low in his gut as he decided to follow. The sound of the river masked his movements well enough, and the dying light made him one shadow among countless others.
The voice dipped into a pause. He halted, too, breathing slowly, listening. His pulse did not quicken; he was too practiced for that, but a thread of anticipation wound itself quietly through his chest. The clouds above seemed thicker now, the forest darker, as though dusk had hastened its approach.
Somewhere ahead, just beyond a bend in the river, the voice began again.
He stepped forward quietly.
A man knelt in the mud at the base of an ordinary-looking tree, its trunk wide and steady. At the base of the tree, delicate, strange blooms of pale violet, blood-red, and vivid white flowers were stirred slightly in the windless air, growing too meticulously for it to be a coincidence. They were most likely planted by human hands.
From what Phainon could see, if the man’s back was his hair was blond, lighter at the roots, and darker at the tips. It was matted from damp air and sweat, with loose strands escaping the hair tied. The muddied hem of his cloak dragged slowly on the dirty ground of the old tree.
Phainon shifted on the spot he stood, letting the man finish his words. The language was foreign but not unknown to him: Kremnoan.
The man finished talking, and there was a small sniff as he dragged his sleeve across his face, and he leaned forward to press his forehead against the tree's trunk.
Phainon waited until the man was steady before speaking.
“Dangerous place to linger when the sun’s thinking about setting.”
The voice cut through the quiet like a blade through silk and the man flinched sharply and turned hastily towards him.
For a heartbeat, Phainon forgot the forest, the river, and even the creeping dusk.
Beautiful.
Titans above, he was beautiful.
The word rose in his mind unbidden, blunt in its honesty.
The man’s face was almost too much to take in all at once, his wide golden eyes catching the dim light, the half-tied hair that spilled to his shoulders in loose strands, blonde at the crown but fading to a deep red at the tips, as if the sun itself had burned the edges. His lips were full, plush in a way that softened the sharp lines of his jaw. And beneath his right eye, a small, vivid red diamond mark. But his cheeks were sunken, the look of someone who ate just to make sure they don’t collapse from hunger.
Phainon’s breath slowed down as he eyed the mark.
Looks like the rumour that led him here was true after all.
Thank you, Kephale, for your guidance.
That mark told him what the rest of the world didn’t yet know – the bloodline of Strife stood before him. He wondered if the man knew about the blood that ran through him.
Phainon clicked his mouth shut and exhaled quietly. He didn’t say anything. Not yet.
The man’s gaze was guarded, his stance still angled slightly away as though keeping the tree between them was deliberate.
“How did you find me?” the man asked, the words stiff and formal, the tone of someone unused to strangers.
Phainon lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug, stepping forward just enough that the mud sucked faintly at his boot.
“Your voice carries. Hard not to hear when the forest’s otherwise dead quiet.”
The river rushed softly beside them, pulling at the edges of the bank. Phainon’s eyes flicked briefly to the flowers at the base of the tree, a very unlikely cluster of color in a place like this. He filed that away, too.
The man’s fingers brushed against his sleeve, brushing off flecks of mud absently, his attention half on Phainon and half on the river as though gauging an escape route, his body tensed.
“Didn’t think I’d meet anyone here,” the beauty said at last. The stiffness in his voice was still there, like every word had to be measured before it could leave his mouth. His words, his body language and even his gorgeous eyes were guarded, unwilling to give away anything, share nothing.
Phainon kept his tone easy and non-threatening.
“Most people steer clear of the forest close to sundown. The things that come out at night don’t exactly play fair.”
A faint shift of expression, not quite a smile, not quite disbelief. A small sneer decorated his face before he smoothed it out to blank indifference. The man’s eyes caught the waterlight, gold against gold, but his body language stayed closed.
Phainon didn’t push. He let the silence stretch, filled only by the sound of the current and the occasional drip of water from the overhanging leaves.
The man bent slightly, dipping his fingers into the river, letting the water run between them. He shook his hand once, droplets scattering into the mud, then brushed his damp hand against his thigh, small movements, very careful ones.
Phainon’s gaze traced them, reading more in the economy of motion than in the words they’d traded so far. Someone accustomed to watching their own back. Someone who thought ahead before committing to a path. Someone who could vanish into the trees if they chose to.
“You live near here?” Phainon asked finally.
The man’s golden eyes flicked to him, then away. “No.”
That was it. No elaboration, no invitation for further questions.
Phainon smiled faintly, the kind of smile that could mean anything. “Fair enough.” He moved a fraction closer, the leather of his boots creaking softly. “Name?”
A pause. The man’s jaw worked once, as though weighing whether to answer at all.
“…Mydei.”
Phainon stored it away beside the diamond mark.
“Phainon,” he offered in return. “Just passing through.”
Mydei froze the moment his eyes locked on Phainon. His shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly, the casual guardedness in his stance shifting into something sharper, more defensive.
“…Phainon,” he said at last, voice flat but edged, as though the name carried more weight than he wanted to admit.
Phainon noticed the change instantly – the tightening of the jaw, the subtle narrowing of golden eyes. That kind of reaction was one he’d seen plenty of times before. His name had preceded him again, and not in a way that made people relax.
A corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile, a smirk. “So, you’ve heard of me,” he said, the words deliberate, tasting the tension between them. “Good. Saves me the trouble of an introduction.”
Mydei’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing, his silence speaking louder than words. The river kept whispering against the stones between them, but now the air felt heavier, charged with an unspoken recognition that neither seemed ready to address.
Phainon pretended not to notice. He simply let the river’s low murmur fill the space between them again, watching as Mydei shifted his weight, favouring his right leg, and looking towards the forest’s deeper shadows.
The air had cooled; the breeze stirred Mydei’s half-loose hair so that the red-tipped strands brushed against his cheek. Another small, unguarded detail, and another reminder that the heir of strife was standing less than five paces away.
Phainon said nothing about it. Not yet, he decided as he took a step forward.
Mydei’s eyes narrowed just slightly as he stepped back from the tree, his boots squelching faintly in the mud. The wind stirred his half-tied hair, pulling a few strands of gold and red into his face.
“What,” he asked, tone clipped, “are you doing here? In the middle of nowhere?”
Phainon met his gaze without flinching. “Looking for the Heir of Strife.”
The name landed like a dropped blade. For the smallest fraction of a second, Mydei’s whole frame stiffened – shoulders drawn tight, jaw locked, the hand at his side curling faintly – but then he exhaled as if nothing had happened. His posture loosened, his face smoothed over.
“…Good luck finding them,” he said shortly, turning away. His boots crunched on the gravel bank as he began walking upstream, movements steady enough to fool a common man but not Phainon. He saw the way Mydei favoured his right leg, putting more weight on it, the way he quickly changed his left foot to the right, but it was also unnaturally precise, as though any sudden motion might give something away.
Phainon let him get three, maybe four strides ahead before falling into step. “How far are you walking?” he asked casually, hands tucked behind his head as if this were a stroll.
“Far enough for you to lose interest,” Mydei said without turning around.
“I was actually going to ask if I could stay the night,” Phainon said lightly.
“No,” Mydei replied instantly.
“No?”
“Get lost.”
Phainon grinned faintly at the man’s back. “That’s not very hospitable.”
“I’m not hospitable.”
“Then you’re in luck! I don’t need hospitality. Just a roof and maybe a chair.”
“I said no.”
Phainon hummed, deliberately keeping pace. “You know, I’ve been traveling for days, and the nights get cold near the river. A decent person might worry I’d freeze to death.”
“That sounds like your problem.”
“Mm. True. But it would be quite the scandal if anyone found out–” He stopped himself just before saying it, letting the implication hang.
Mydei shot him a sharp glance over his shoulder. “If anyone found out what?”
“That you turned away a Heir,” Phainon said with mock woundedness.
Mydei’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Your fame or title doesn’t impress me.”
“It doesn’t have to. I’m not asking you to be impressed, I’m asking for a place to sleep. You have one, don’t you?”
“No,” Mydei lied without even blinking.
Phainon chuckled under his breath. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m a very good liar,” Mydei countered stiffly. “You just don’t know when to quit.”
“That’s true,” Phainon agreed easily, stepping over a cluster of wet reeds. “But it’s one of my better qualities.”
“You think being irritating is a quality?”
“I think persistence is.”
The river beside them began to narrow, the wide stretch of gravel bank giving way to softer earth lined with tall grass. Dragonflies skimmed over the shallows, wings catching in the late light. Mydei’s pace never changed, but there was a faint edge of resignation to the way he glanced ahead, as if weighing whether leading this man all the way home was worth the trouble.
“You’re not going to stop following me, are you?” he asked finally, looking behind at Phainon.
“No.”
A sharp breath through the nose. “Fine. You can walk with me until I decide otherwise.”
“Oh, generous,” Phainon said with a flash of a grin.
“Don’t mistake it for generosity.”
They walked in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the rush of the river and the faint squelch of mud underfoot. The current grew quieter as the water thinned, meandering toward a shallow bend where smooth stones jutted out in crooked rows. Beyond it, tucked against a stand of willows, was a small house–so small it looked almost like a fisherman’s hut.
It was far enough from the cluster of rooftops in the distance to be private, but close enough to the water that a strong rain might threaten the porch.
Phainon’s eyes took in the sight of a few garments hanging from a line strung between two posts, tunics, trousers, and a dark red sash that swayed gently in the breeze.
“Clothes on the line,” he observed with a faint smile. “So you do live here.”
Mydei’s only answer was a flat look over his shoulder. “Don’t touch anything.”
“I wouldn't dream of it.”
He nodded towards the home, “Don't worry, it looks… cozy.”
“Cozy?” Mydei’s tone was flat. “It’s a roof over my head. That’s all it needs to be.”
Phainon grinned. “Could at least hang the clothes straighter. You’ve got your slash trying to strangle the tunic beside it.”
“Are you always this talkative?” Mydei muttered, stepping up to the clothes.
“Only when someone tells me to leave,” Phainon replied. “It brings out my charming side.”
Mydei shot him a sharp look as he stripped the clothes off the line, but he said nothing as he unlocked the door and stepped inside. Phainon followed in without being invited.
______
Phainon lay stretched out on the floor of Mydei’s modest home, his head propped on his folded cloak for a pillow, a threadbare blanket covering him. The wooden boards were cold, but not unbearably so. He’d been given nothing more than the floor space beside a small, low table. Mydei had taken the one bedroom without even hesitating, shutting the door behind him in that same stiff, measured way he had spoken earlier.
He was also limping. An old injury that hurts when the temperature drops? It wasn't completely unbelievable, Mydei was the Heir of Strife; he of all people couldn't have gone without any sort of violence in his life. Even though right now, he was living like a commoner.
Dinner had been… functional at best. A small loaf of bread, surprisingly soft, and thin slices of cured white fish with a faint salty tang. It wasn’t bad, but there was no pretense of hospitality, just enough food to ensure he didn’t collapse before morning. Phainon didn't complain, after all, he followed the man, not even expecting a single drop of hospitality. He has lived through even worse conditions, starving, bruised and bloody. This was a luxury in comparison. So in return, Phainon had placed a few balance coins on the table, a deliberate gesture to make sure the exchange felt like a transaction, not charity.
Outside, the rain had started shortly after nightfall. Now it came down in earnest, the steady drumming against the roof and the occasional patter of droplets slipping from the eaves into the mud outside filling the silence.
Phainon lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, and thought about the problem before him. How exactly was he going to breach the subject of Mydei’s identity? Just blurting out “I know you’re the heir of Strife” seemed unwise; no person lived alone this far from the world for no reason. But he couldn’t just linger here indefinitely either.
The prophecy was nearing its end, and all of them needed Mydei, regardless of whether or not the man was willing to join the Heirs in building a new world.
If Mydei refused to come to Okhema, and he did seem like the stubborn type, then Phainon would simply drag him there kicking and screaming. The thought made him smirk briefly before the rain pulled his attention toward the window.
The glass was blurred with water, the outside world nothing but shifting shadows in the storm. He could hear the wind push the rain in waves, each gust briefly louder than the last. The home smelled faintly of old wood, dried fish, and the faint mineral tang of the river.
Turning his head, Phainon studied the rest of the room. The shelves were lined with neatly stacked books, all without dust. Some spines were worn, their titles nearly rubbed away. There was no clutter, no warmth, just the bare essentials. Mydei lived alone. That much was clear.
The rain’s rhythm was soothing, but his mind refused to rest. Eventually, his eyes drifted closed, his body settling into an uneasy half-sleep.
_______
He was in Aedes Elysiae.
Golden fields spread out as far as the eye could see, their sweet smell rich in the air alongside the smell of freshly-baked bread. He heard laughter, gentle and faint to his side, and his gaze followed. Cyrene sat beside him, a book open in her hands, her head tilted toward someone seated beside her. The other’s face was blurred, as if the world itself refused to let him see it.
Her voice was soft, almost melodic, as she read aloud. A classic fairy tale of a brave warrior who came from nothing, who saved the world along with his friends. Something about her nostalgic voice made the air feel warmer, safer.
“I refuse to answer fate! If I were him, I would have fought against it.”
Cyrene laughed, the sound akin to the numerous wind chimes in Aedes Elysiae.
His heart clenched, not in fear, but in some half-forgotten yearning as he strained to see both their faces, blue eyes trained on the blurred face.
The edges of the scene began to burn. Then, without warning, the book in Cyrene’s hands erupted into flame.
Phainon jumped back in alarm, and he shouted at Cyrene and the blurry figure to throw the book away and stand up. But they didn't do anything, like they didn't notice the flames engulfing them, like the flames didn't bother them.
The sound was deafening, roaring like a beast. The warm sunlight was replaced by firelight, licking up the pages, swallowing the ink, burning away the words on the book, and swallowing the small figures of Cyrene and the blurry figure.
Phainon’s eyes snapped open, soaked in cold sweat, heart racing.
The room was dark save for the faint glow of dawn far in the distance. The rain hadn’t stopped; it had only softened into a steady whisper. He could still hear the drip-drip from outside.
He lay there staring at the ceiling, his heart loud in his ears. Going back to sleep was pointless; he knew the moment the fire had touched the book, any chance of rest had burned away with it.
So he stayed there, motionless, letting the sound of the rain keep him company while his mind turned again and again toward Mydei, the river, and the inevitable conversation that was coming.
________
The rain had not stopped until the deepest hours of the night, and when it did, it left behind that sodden stillness that seeps through thin walls. Phainon lay on his back in the cramped living room, staring up at the ceiling with eyes that he refused to close, because every time he did, the dream lingered: Aedes Elysiae’s dirt paths, the shadow of Cyrene’s face blurred as though behind rippling water, the book in her hands blossoming into fire.
He shifted on the cold wood, rolling from side to side, but sleep wouldn’t come. His mind was too full and too loud, buzzing like a struck chord that wouldn’t fade. There was only so much he could do to pass the hours, the stacks of books in the corner, the stray parchment on the table, the closed drawers against the wall, but touching any of it felt wrong. Mydei’s home was bare, yet it still felt too personal, as though each item had an invisible barrier drawn around it.
And so he stayed still. His keen ears listened to the occasional drip from the leaves, and his eyes watched the dim rectangle of the curtained window turn the faintest shade lighter as dawn crept in.
By the time the sun had begun to burn faintly through the grey, his eyes felt dry and grainy. He heard the faint creak of the bedroom door before he saw movement.
Mydei limped out, slower than he probably meant to, brushing a comb lazily through his hair. Even half-awake, there was a certain unstudied grace to him, like it was built into him, though Phainon’s gaze caught on something else: the way the early light caught the strands of his hair, soft and almost golden-brown at the edges, falling neatly over his shoulders. It looked… soft. Silken in a way that didn’t match the rest of Mydei’s guarded, weatherworn appearance.
Phainon shook his head slightly, trying to expel his thoughts. Titans, I’m losing it. I’m staring at a man’s hair when I should be figuring out how to drag him halfway across the world.
Mydei didn’t speak. He didn’t so much as glance at Phainon as he moved to the counter, picked up the knife, and began slicing what was left of the bread from last night. His limp was more noticeable in the thin morning light, but Phainon didn’t comment.
He sat up for a moment, drumming his fingers against his thigh, and then, in a sudden decision, padded across the short space on bare feet, and silent steps until he was right behind Mydei, leaning slightly to look over his shoulder, warm breath fanning out. Mydei shivered ever so slightly, but he didn't push him away, snap at him, or even step away.
“You haven’t asked me what I’m doing here,” Phainon said, his tone almost playful but with a sharpness underneath.
Mydei’s knife paused mid-slice for only a fraction of a heartbeat before continuing, clean and steady. “That’s because I don’t care,” he replied without even turning his head. “Why should I? What you do isn’t my concern.”
Phainon’s brows furrowed. “Not even a little curious?”
“No.” Mydei set the bread aside and reached for the small dish of salted fish, not once meeting Phainon's steady gaze. “You came here for whatever foolish reason you decided was worth it. It doesn’t change anything for me.”
Phainon stepped even closer, frowning now. “Even if that reason concerns you?”
That earned him a glance, cool, measured, and unimpressed. Mydei’s voice was quieter this time, but sharper. “If your reason has anything to do with that prophecy you’re chasing, and I know it does, then you’re even more of an idiot than you look. Let me guess, you think your fate is tied together with all the other Heirs? That some half-mumbled verse from a Titan who refuses to even show their physical form to their believers, and you have never met, means you're chained to the same path?”
Phainon’s jaw tightened, anger starting to shimmer in his gut, as he stepped back. “It’s not ‘half-mumbled.’ It’s the only thing that’s kept me from–” He cut himself off, the words feeling suddenly too raw.
“From what?” Mydei prompted, challenged even, though his tone made it clear he already didn’t respect the answer.
Phainon’s hands curled at his sides. “From losing my mind. From letting revenge burn me hollow. You think I’m clinging to some fantasy? That prophecy gave me direction when I had nothing else. Without it, I don’t–” He exhaled sharply, looking away. “Without it, I’m just a sword with no hand to guide it.”
There was a moment’s silence where the only sound was the faint scrape of the knife as Mydei set it down.
Then Mydei said flatly, “That’s not a reason. That’s an excuse. And excuses don’t bind me to your story.”
Phainon’s temper flared, but beneath it was something more wounded – the sting of someone dismissing the one thing that had kept him anchored for years. “You don’t get to say that when you’re not a part of it.”
He was, but Phainon couldn't just say it out loud, especially right now.
“Then you’re as blind as you are stubborn,” Mydei snapped back, turning back to his bread. “And I don’t waste my life walking in circles just because someone else insists the ground is sacred.”
Phainon didn’t move from where he stood in the kitchen. The faint light from the small square window caught in Mydei's eyes, sharpening the gold into something molten. Mydei tore the bread into smaller and smaller pieces, with deliberate care, each movement of his pretty fingers slow, controlled – like a man pretending nothing had been said at all.
“...You don’t give a damn, do you?” Phainon’s voice was low at first, but the edge of anger was creeping in, curling around the syllables. “You think you can just stand here, in the middle of nowhere, baking bread like it’s the only thing that matters–”
Mydei didn’t look at him. “Bread is what matters. Bread, water, and staying alive for yourself. Chasing shadows doesn't.”
Phainon’s jaw tightened, and he gritted his teeth together. “That’s what you call it? Staying alive? I have a much better name. I would call it hiding.”
Mydei didn't grace him with a reply, only picking up the knife. It was obvious he picked it up to keep up the pretense of being busy, keeping his hands preoccupied so he wouldn't have to look into Phainon's eyes. The sound of the knife stilling against the cutting board was subtle, but to Phainon, it was like a blade pressed to his ribs.
“You’re a coward, Mydei.”
It was thrown like a spear – no hesitation, and no mercy.
The air between them went taut, heavy with something unspoken. Mydei’s hands stilled completely, fingers curling slightly around the wooden handle of the knife. His shoulders, relaxed moments before, drew up ever so slightly, the faintest tremor of tension crawling along his frame.
“You don’t know anything about me,” Mydei said finally, his voice flat, almost too calm, but the faint tightness in it betrayed him. He was affected.
Phainon stepped forward again, closing the space between them until the clinging scent of damp rain on his clothes mingled with the faint salt of cured fish on the table.
“Oh, I know you.” His voice had lost its earlier heat – it was quieter now, but heavier, as if each word was laid down with purpose. “Better than you know yourself.”
Mydei turned his head just enough to glance at him, sharp-eyed and guarded. “Oh? Please do enlighten me, then, Deliverer.”
The title that Phainon shed blood, sweat and tears, that fell from people's lips in tones of awe and gratitude, sounded mocking from Mydei. Phainon didn’t blink at the use of his title, “I know I was looking for the Heir of Strife, and I know you're the Heir I have all been looking for all along.”
The words landed like a stone thrown into a smooth and steady body of water, and it broke the surface with no loud splash, just the deep, irrevocable disturbance beneath the surface.
Mydei flinched, ever so slightly, body freezing and he didn’t move at first. His eyes didn't widen, eyebrows furrowed, and his lips pursed. But his grip on the bread knife subtly shifted – enough for Phainon to notice. The smallest flicker of something – alarm? Anger? – passed through his gaze before it was shuttered shut again, smoothing out again.
He set the knife down with quiet precision. It was loud in Phainon's ears as he kept his eyes on the Heirs. “You’re wrong,” Mydei lied, not looking at Phainon now, busying himself with sliding all the bread he sliced and tore with his fingers into a rough wooden bowl. “And if you weren’t, it still wouldn’t matter.”
Phainon almost laughed at the sheer audacity of the denial. “Wouldn’t matter?” His voice was incredulous now. “The world burns on the edge of prophecy and you–” He cut himself off, running a hand through his hair. “You think you get to choose whether it matters?”
Mydei’s tone was icy. “Everyone chooses what matters to them.”
“Not you,” Phainon shot back. “Not us. We don't get to choose, it's handed to us.”
The silence fell like a blade between them.
Mydei gripped the wooden bowl, before slowly turning around and walking (limping) towards the lone table, sliding it towards the far side of the table as if he could end the conversation simply by tidying away the bread.
Phainon stepped into his path.
It wasn’t a threat, not exactly. He didn’t grab Mydei or raise his voice. But he planted himself between the table and the door, arms loose at his sides, gaze fixed like a drawn bowstring.
“Move,” Mydei said, voice low, golden eyes, beautiful eyes hard.
“No.”
The word hung there, simple and absolute.
Mydei exhaled slowly, the kind of breath meant to keep a person calm. “You’re wasting your time.”
Phainon tilted his head, eyes narrowing, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips, even as his eyes screamed danger. “You think I came all this way for nothing?”
“You came here because you still think everything’s a fight you can win.”
“That’s not what this is.”
Mydei barked a humorless laugh. “Isn’t it? You came here to drag me back into some war I didn’t start, for people, I’ve never sworn to serve—”
“This isn’t about serving anyone!” Phainon’s voice cracked sharply, his meticulous composure splintering. “This is about who you are!”
Mydei’s expression hardened, shutting him out. “Who you think I am,” he snapped back, the first time he raised his voice after they started their back-and-forth.
“No,” Phainon said, stepping closer. “Who do I know you are. I’ve seen it in all the other Heirs, Mydei and I see it in you. It isn’t luck, it's blood and inheritance.”
“You sound like a priest reciting omens,” Mydei said coolly.
“And you sound like a man running from the truth.”
Mydei didn’t answer. He just pushed past him, slow, deliberate, and walked towards his bedroom, each step measured like a man forcing himself not to break into a run, and Phainon, for some reason, let him, eyes wide, baffled at the audacity.
Mydei stopped, pivoting just enough to look at Phainon over his shoulder. His eyes were cold and hard as amber.
“You’re a delusional little boy,” he said, each syllable slow and precise, like a knife being set down on a table. “One who still believes the world can be saved. One who thinks everything always works out in the end.”
For a heartbeat, Phainon didn’t move. Didn’t blink. It was as though the words had knocked something loose in him that he wasn’t sure he wanted to examine.
Then his mouth curled – not into a smile, but into something far sharper, far more dangerous.
“You think I believe that?” His voice came out low, the edges rougher than before. “Do you think I walk around imagining happy endings?”
He took a step forward. To his credit Mydei didn’t move or even flinch, and Phainon knew he could he scary when he gets worked up.
“I’ve seen the world, Mydei and I’ve bled in it. I’ve had it take things from me I’ll never get back, and I’ve seen how cruel it can be firsthand. To be born in this world is to suffer. No one suffers the same, and unless you are truly fortunate, you too will suffer. Don’t you dare stand there and pretend I don’t know exactly what it is?”
His vivid blue eyes narrowed into a challenge. “Go on. Say it again.”
Mydei met his eyes, unflinching. The air between them felt taut enough to hum.
“You’re a delusional little boy.”
The words landed like stones dropped into deep water – no rush, no stammer, only inevitability. Mydei’s voice didn’t rise, didn’t falter. He might as well have been naming a fact.
Then he turned, stepping forward, aiming for the doorway to his bedroom like the conversation was over.
Phainon instinctively and unconsciously followed, a large stride covering the distance with ease, as his hand shot out when he neared.
Fingers clamped around Mydei’s wrist, the grip firm enough to stop him dead. Mydei jerked, startled, but before he could twist away, Phainon yanked him back, nothing brutal, but with enough force to erase the distance Mydei had tried to put between them.
The sudden nearness made Mydei’s pulse spike. His chest tightened – not with anger, but something sharper, and heavier. Panic flickered through him, quick and hot.
“Let go!” he snapped, struggling, eyes wide with flickering panic.
Phainon didn’t.
Mydei’s other hand came up fast, aiming for Phainon’s face in a reflex born of pure self-preservation. The slap would’ve cracked sharply across skin if it landed –
– But Phainon caught his wrist mid-swing.
The impact of palm against palm was loud in the quiet kitchen, a sound more intimate than violent. If anyone were to hear it out of context, they would think it belonged in the bedroom. Phainon’s fingers closed around Mydei’s hand, not crushing, but holding in place.
For a moment, they just stood there – two statues carved from the same moment, breath shallow, eyes locked.
Mydei's facade was visibly crumbling, his eyes flickering around, looking for something, anything.
“Mydei,” Phainon said, voice low, steady, but with something dangerous under it. “Stop.”
Mydei’s breath hitched in his throat, though he forced his expression into something flat, unreadable, but his eyes gave him away.
“You don’t get to – ”
“I do,” Phainon cut in. “Because you keep pretending none of this matters, but you’re shaking right now. I can feel it.”
Mydei tried to pull free, but Phainon didn’t let him go as his fingers stayed locked around Mydei’s wrist.
Mydei’s jaw tightened, the muscle in it twitching once before he abruptly twisted his shoulder in, trying to break the hold the way someone trained would – turning the joint, using it as leverage.
Phainon felt the shift instantly. Not wild flailing, he realized. Not instinct alone either. This is was technique.
“You’ve done this before,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the tense air between them.
Mydei’s only answer was to slam his elbow back toward Phainon’s ribs. It landed hard enough to knock a grunt out of him. The grip on Mydei’s captured hand loosened just enough for him to rip it free and shove Phainon back.
“Don’t touch me,” Mydei snapped. His breathing had picked up, the lines of his shoulders sharp under his clothes, as his arms wrapped around himself, a weak attempt at comforting himself.
Phainon straightened, rubbing at his side once, eyes never leaving Mydei’s. “If you don’t want to be touched, stop throwing words like you want a fight.”
“Who says I don’t?” Mydei snarled.
Phainon’s mouth twitched – not quite a smile. About time, he thought.
“Fine.”
Mydei moved first as his hand shot for Phainon’s collar, trying to yank him off-balance, but Phainon shifted his weight, caught the wrist, and shoved it aside. Mydei pivoted, tried to hook his foot behind Phainon’s ankle, but Phainon blocked with his shin and shoved forward.
The shove turned into a full-on grapple.
They crashed into the edge of the table; it groaned under their combined weight before Phainon pushed off it, reversing their positions. Mydei ducked under his arm, spinning free, but not without a faint wince – so small it would’ve been missed by anyone who wasn’t watching him like a hawk.
Phainon didn’t miss it.
He pressed the attack. Mydei blocked each grab with sharp, practiced deflections, but the limp – there it was again, subtle but there – meant his sidesteps weren’t as clean, his weight shifts a fraction slower.
“You’ve fought before,” Phainon said, interested, “but you’re favoring your left.”
Mydei’s eyes flashed, and he lunged, aiming a fist at Phainon’s jaw. Phainon ducked it, caught him low at the waist, and used his momentum to take him down. The thud of Mydei’s back hitting the floor rang in Phainon’s bones.
Before Mydei could kick free, Phainon was on him, knees braced, hands pinning both wrists to the ground above his head. His breathing was harsh in his ears, mixing with Mydei’s ragged inhales and exhales.
“You hide it well,” Phainon said, voice steady despite the adrenaline buzzing in his blood. “But that limp? It’s there. Old injury?”
Mydei’s glare was molten. “Get. Off,” he snarled.
“Answer me.”
“I don’t owe you –”
Phainon leaned closer, not enough to threaten, but enough to keep Mydei’s attention locked on him. “You think I’m the delusional one, but you’re the one pretending you can fight like this without consequence.”
Mydei jerked against the hold, but the position was solid. His wrists strained in Phainon’s hands, muscles taut, but Phainon’s weight kept him pinned.
“You can fight,” Phainon continued, softer now, “but you’re hurt. And I’m not going to pretend I didn’t see it.”
For a moment, Mydei stilled – not from surrender, but from some quieter calculation. Then he looked away, jaw clenched, breath coming fast but just as quick. Mydei’s eyes snapped back to Phainon’s, cold and unreadable.
“You think you know something about me because you saw me limp?”
“I don’t think,” Phainon said. “I know.” His grip tightened fractionally on Mydei’s wrists. “The way you moved, so clean, precise, but there’s a hesitation when you pivot left. You hide it well, but not from me.”
“You want to make this about my leg?” Mydei scoffed, voice laced with venom. “You corner me, call me a coward, and now you’re pretending you’re concerned?”
Phainon’s jaw set. “I’m not pretending anything. You ran from something—”
“I left because I had to.” Mydei hissed, his voice rose sharply, then broke into something quieter, rawer. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Phainon leaned in, not letting up. “Try me.”
Mydei didn’t answer. He twisted suddenly, throwing his weight into a bridge and rolling. For a heartbeat, Phainon thought he’d blocked it – but Mydei’s movement was sharp, targeted. He shifted his trapped wrist just enough to slide his hand free, then hooked his leg around Phainon’s knee and used the leverage to pull him off-balance.
They hit the floor again, this time with Mydei on top, his forearm braced against Phainon’s collarbone. The limp was still there – it showed in the fraction of a second longer it took him to settle his weight – but the technique was brutal in its efficiency.
“Still think you’ve got me figured out?” Mydei’s voice was low, almost a growl.
Phainon looked up at him, breath coming fast. “More than you want to admit.”
He didn't mention this was the most fun he had had in months; most of his opponents were mindless monsters or reckless soldiers. No one has ever managed to gain the upper hand on him.
Not until now, that is.
For a moment, they stayed locked there – heat from the fight radiating between them, the air charged with the unspoken weight of everything else they weren’t saying.
Mydei’s grip on Phainon’s shirt tightened. He looked like he wanted to say something more–something that had nothing to do with the fight–but his mouth closed again, jaw working furiously.
Mydei’s weight pressed hard into Phainon’s chest, his hair a loose blond curtain hiding the sharp set of his jaw. Both of them were breathing in ragged, heated bursts, their limbs trembling – not from exhaustion, but from the sheer unwillingness to yield.
A drop of sweat slid down Mydei's temple and dripped onto the collar of Phainon’s shirt. He wanted to catch the drop with his tongue and taste it, but that could come later.
Phainon’s lips curved up, slow and deliberate. Dismantle them, if you see any weak points, anything you could use against your opponents, use them. Be ruthless, a battle of words is not much different than an actual battle, Anaxa’s stern words echoed in his ears. But he won't lie, it was amusing seeing Mydei think he had won.
“I saw Kremnoan soldiers nearby,” he murmured, his voice low and dark. “Just passing through the outskirts of the forest. They were heavily armed and looking around like they’d lost something.”
The effect was instant. The words landed like a gut punch. Mydei’s grip faltered, the pressure of his palm easing by instinct, his eyes, wide with panic, flicking, just for a heartbeat, towards the window. The pressure of his weight faltering for the barest second, but it was enough. Phainon moved like water slipping past a crack, twisting his hips and sweeping Mydei’s leg out from under him. In an instant, the tables had turned; Mydei was on his back, the cold floor biting at his spine, Phainon’s knees locking his hips down, wrists wrenched above his head in an unyielding grip.
“Better,” Phainon breathed, settling down. His voice was almost kind, dangerous with a dark undertone. “Now we can talk.”
Phainon leaned in, his voice low and dangerously soft. “It’d be a shame if they got an anonymous message telling them exactly where they could find the prince.”
The word hit like a blade. Mydei bucked hard beneath him, his face twisting in alarm, but Phainon’s hold didn’t give. “You wouldn’t–” Mydei began, but the denial came out thin, frayed.
“Oh, I would,” Phainon cut in, the softness of his tone making the promise all the more lethal. “Don’t think for a moment I wouldn’t.”
Phainon tilted his head, studying him as though weighing the truth of that statement. “Think Mydei, think. Why wouldn’t I?” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Do you want to gamble on that?”
“You’re bluffing.”
“I don’t bluff,” Phainon said simply. “I plan. And when the plan demands sacrifices, I make them.”
The words sank deep, crawling under Mydei’s skin, because there was no hesitation in his tone. No uncertainty, just a cold, hard and certain fact.
Mydei’s struggles grew sharper, more desperate, but there was a wet shine to his eyes now. The tears were there before he could stop them, hot and unbidden, sliding past his temples into his hair. “Why?” he choked, the word half-breathed, half-spat. “Why are you going this far?”
Something in Phainon’s gaze tightened, a flicker of heat behind the steel. The question didn’t soften him; it angered him. “You have no idea,” he hissed. “No idea what I’ve given up. What I’ve lost. I have to believe in the prophecy. It’s the only thing keeping me from–” He bit the sentence off, his grip on Mydei’s wrists tightening. “It’s my singular goal. My only anchor.”
“I don't care, let me go, please,” Mydei begged.
Phainon’s smile softened in a way that made it worse. “You’re not ready to be free yet.”
His gaze swept over Mydei’s face, lingering just a fraction too long. Beautiful, he thought again.
“You’ve fought before. More than most common folk have at least. But you favor your right leg, why? An injury? Old wound?” He shifted his grip on Mydei’s wrists, pinning them with one hand so he could press two fingers into Mydei's thigh, and the blond man visibly flinched, trying to lean back to escape the touch, but he had forgotten his back was to the floor. “A limp. You mask it well, though, but unfortunately, your opponent was me, and I noticed it right away, but in a long and real fight? You’d lose.”
Mydei turned his head away, jaw clenched, refusing to answer.
“I could make sure you never fight alone again,” Phainon continued, voice low, persuasive. “Join me, and you’ll have protection from the Kremnoan soldiers. I'll protect you myself, I will refuse to let them touch a single strand of your hand if you accept. Keep running, and…” He trailed off, letting the weight of the silence fill in the threat.
Mydei shut his eyes tight. Phainon could feel the tremor in his body, and he knew Mydei hated that Phainon could feel it too.
“You can’t force me.”
“I don’t have to,” Phainon said. “Fear will do that for me.”
A tear slipped free, tracing the curve of Mydei’s cheek. He looked, no, looked up at him. The look in his eyes would have moved even a Titan, and Titans above, he was so beautiful. His voice was quieter now, but no less raw, “Will you ever regret this?”
Phainon didn’t even hesitate. “No.” His answer rang cold and certain. “Not if it gets you where you need to be. You’ve got a choice.” He shifted his weight slightly, making sure Mydei felt the pressure, the helplessness. “Keep running from the Kremnoan soldiers, or join the Flame Chase and have my protection.”
For a long moment, Mydei just lay there beneath him, eyes screwed shut, breath trembling. The silence between them stretched taut, full of all the things neither dared say aloud.
Finally, his lips parted, and the word came out in a whisper, like it had been dragged from the depths of him. “…Fine.”
Phainon’s grip eased – just slightly – but he didn’t move away. Not yet. “Good,” he murmured. The satisfaction in his tone wasn’t loud, but it was there, curling at the edges of his voice like smoke.
The admission was barely more than breath, but it lit something in Phainon’s chest – not warmth, never warmth, but the electric charge of triumph. To be honest, he had even forgotten the bitter taste of defeat.
He didn’t let it show. Not yet. Instead, he let his expression remain level, even bored, as if the answer had been inevitable all along. Slowly, he shifted his weight off Mydei, stepping back with the ease of someone who knew he’d already won.
Rising to a crouch, he extended a hand toward the man still sprawled on the floor.
“Good choice,” he repeated louder.
Mydei didn’t even hesitate. The swat was quick, sharp, dismissive, his palm connecting with the back of Phainon’s hand in a sound that was small but carried more bite than a shout. He pushed himself upright without help, though his movements were unsteady, a faint wobble betraying how drained he was.
“Get out,” he muttered, wiping at his eyes with the side of his hand in a gesture so quick it might have gone unnoticed if Phainon hadn’t been watching him like he was an intimate lover.
He tilted his head, half amused, half studying. “You’ll want to—”
“I said, get out!” Mydei’s voice cracked, harsh with the kind of rawness that came from too many unshed tears. His chin lifted, the fire in his molten glare at odds with the faint tremor in his frame. “Give me privacy. Pack your things and wait outside.”
For a heartbeat, they only stared at each other. Mydei’s breathing still came uneven, but the stubborn set of his mouth told Phainon there was no point in pushing–not now.
Phainon tilted his head slightly, blue eyes studying his fellow Heir. “Don’t try running,” Phainon said finally, his tone almost conversational, though the steel underneath it was unmistakable. “I’d hate to have to… follow through with, ah, my little message.”
And with that, he turned and walked out, shutting the door behind him with deliberate care.
The outside air met him like a quiet tide, cooler than he’d expected, scented faintly of smoke from the nearby hearths of the homes a few yards away and the herbal tang of drying leaves. The occasional murmur of voices carried from the village several yards away.
He leaned against the wall just beside the doorway, arms crossed, the wood of the home at his back still faintly warm from the sun.
This was it. The moment that made all the tedious months worth it. The nights poring over maps, chasing whispers through backwater towns, sifting through lies and half-truths. He’d found him. The Heir of Strife, tucked away like a forgotten secret in this place so small it barely deserved a name.
His lips almost curled into a smile, but he restrained it. No one to see here, after all, and triumph tasted sweeter when you didn’t let it spill too soon.
The image came unbidden: the other heirs, their faces when he told them. The surprise. The sting of envy. The begrudging respect they’d be forced to offer. Oh, he’d savor that moment. Draw it out like a fine drink.
The minutes bled into each other. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, tapping his thumb against his arm, scanning the street more from habit than suspicion. And yet, suspicion came anyway.
What if Mydei was foolish enough to try slipping away through a back window? What if this whole scene inside was just to buy himself time?
Phainon’s jaw tightened, though he didn’t move from his post. Let him try, Phainon thought. It would only end one way anyways.
A sound finally broke the monotony, the soft, deliberate creak of hinges.
The door eased open, and there he was.
Mydei had traded what he’d been wearing for a worn, hooded cloak that draped low, the edges frayed. A bag hung from his shoulder, its strap digging into him just enough to make him adjust his stance. The weight of it seemed nothing compared to the heaviness in his posture.
His eyes were rimmed red, the skin around them raw from rubbing, and though he kept his head down, there was no mistaking the tension that held his frame together like brittle glass.
He didn’t speak.
Instead, he turned back to the door and locked it shut, and tucked the key away in his bag, and leaned forward to press his forehead against the wooden frame, one hand curling around against the grain as if anchoring himself. He stood there in silence, and for once, Phainon didn’t interrupt.
Some things you let a person have, even if it was just the last breath of a life he’d never return to.
When Mydei finally moved, it was only to draw in a slow, steadying breath. Then he turned, meeting Phainon’s gaze with eyes that no longer burned, only smoldered with something colder. Anger tempered into some colder, sharper.
“Where are we going?”
Phainon’s grin unfurled slowly and sharply, the kind that promised nothing good.
“Okhema.”
Chapter 2
Summary:
What baffled Phainon, no, what angered him, was that not even once had Mydei so much as winced. No foul curse muttered under his breath, no sharp hiss when he stumbled over roots, no demand to rest, no complaints, only silence.
And it was the silence that drove Phainon mad.
Notes:
hii chapter two is finally here 🥳
additional warnings: mydei has a panic attack, prolonged use of a real injured limb without stop
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The road from Mydei's small village unfurled before them, in a seemingly endless path of dust and stone. The morning sun slanted low over the hills, gilding the tips of the long grasses that swayed on either side. Cicadas droned on with their steady song, filling the air with a heat that seemed to settle already into the earth, though it was only the first day of the journey.
Phainon had never traveled this far before, but he had experience in traveling and knew the measure of the road. Alone, he could have covered the journey to Okhema in three weeks if he pressed his pace, three weeks of silence and the steady company of his own thoughts. It would not have been pleasant; he genuinely did enjoy the company of other people, but it would have been efficient.
With Mydei at his side, it would be longer, and he could feel it already.
The man walked a half-step behind at times, half a step ahead at others, but always silent, and always rigid, and though he tried to hide it, Phainon noticed the faint stutter in his gait. A limp, light but unmistakable, every time the ground dipped unevenly or a stone rolled beneath his sandal.
It was the first day, and Mydei was already faltering.
Phainon pushed down the flare of guilt in his heart. After all, he could be considered the reason why Mydei's limp was so prominent, even though it was supposedly an old injury.
Phainon said nothing at first. He was the kind of man to offer comfort unasked for, but something in him told Mydei would snap Phainon's neck in half if he reached out in concern. But the silence stretched, thick as honey, and soon enough he could not bear it.
“You know,” he began, adjusting the weight of his pack as they reached the crest of a hill, “I hear some travelers sing to pass the time. If you ask me, that’s madness. But a little conversation wouldn’t kill us, would it?”
No answer, not even a glance over at him.
Phainon gave a short laugh, half genuine, half edged. “Not much of a singer yourself? Then talk, at least. Tell me about your life as the crown prince of Castrum Kremnos. Tell me why you glare at the road as if it’s done you personal harm.”
He got nothing. Mydei’s jaw was set, his gaze forward, unyielding, his entire tense as if bracing himself for a punch.
Phainon rolled his shoulders, loosening the small ache in them, before trying again. “Are you always this hospitable to your traveling companions, or is it just me? If it is, I have to admit, I’m flattered.”
Still nothing, not even a glance, and a flicker of an eye.
Phainon exhaled hard through his nose, irritation curling hot in his chest. Titans above, he could handle hatred, curses, even the hiss of steel drawn against him, but this? To be ignored as though he did not exist? It was worse than enmity because it was a dismissal, and Phainon spent a good chunk of his life proving himself to everyone who sneered down their noses at him.
Why he cared, he did not know. He should have let it go, and should have walked in silence and counted the miles, and yet, he found himself trying again.
“Maybe you don’t like talking. Fine! Castorice doesn't like talking either unless it's someone she's comfortable with, but if you keep this up for three weeks, I swear I’ll start naming every bird and tree we pass just to spite you.”
Mydei’s head did not turn, not even a twitch of his lips, eyes, or eyebrows to show his annoyance.
Phainon muttered something under his breath, foul, low and bitter, and if his parents were still alive, they would have gasped and scowled at him and assigned him even more chores around the wheat fields, but they weren't alive so it didn't matter. He forced his eyes away from the blond man, and the silence pressed harder now, if it was even possible, weighted by the sting of being unheard.
He should not care, he shouldn't. He told himself that with every step, but the words rang hollow in his head.
By midday, he gave up. They walked without a word, the heat thickening as the sun climbed overhead. Dust clung to their boots and rose in faint clouds around their ankles. The land stretched barren and open, broken only by the occasional olive grove or shepherd’s field, and Mydei walked on with his faint limp, always pretending nothing was amiss.
Phainon gritted his teeth, dragging a hand down his face, and let him.
That night, they camped by a thin copse of trees that leaned against the slope of a hill. Phainon finished gathering wood and laid Dawnmaker carefully beside him as he struck a flint to spark a small flame.
Mydei sat as far as he could from Phainon, his movements stiff, silent as ever, his face pale, but still achingly beautiful in the golden light of the flames.
They ate whatever rations they had with them, and Mydei's face didn't betray anything every time Phainon sneaked a glance at him. He expected a complaint, and got nothing. He twisted his shoulders, smoothing the aching muscles.
“Don't worry, I'll hunt tomorrow,” he said out loud, anything to fill the silence between them, and Mydei didn't even glance at him as he curled up in his cloak.
Phainon exhaled quietly, accepting defeat as he spread his own cloak out, and did his best not to stare at Mydei so close, yet so far away, and tried to go to sleep.
Sleep came to Phainon in fragments, restless and shallow, but when it did come, it came with memory.
He saw Cyrene’s face, sharp and bright, her laughter filling the air like music. Her pink hair was filled with stray leaves, golden wheat stalks, and tiny flowers, and she teased him as she always had, her words mocking but fond. Her eyes danced with mischief as if nothing in the world could touch her.
And besides her, the blurred figure lingered. They were shadowed, indistinct, a shape without face or voice, standing just out of reach, like they were nothing more than a line they dared Phainon to cross.
Phainon reached for them. He always reached out, and as always, they dissolved into nothing, leaving only the echo of laughter behind, fading into silence.
He woke with his hand reaching out to the figure curled up away from him.
_______
The second day dawned hot, the air already heavy before the sun had fully risen, and Mydei's limp was worse.
Phainon saw it the moment they began walking, the sharper shift of weight, the near-invisible wince when Mydei’s foot struck the earth, and he bit down on his tongue to keep himself from saying anything. He kept telling himself to let the man have his damn pride, but as the hours dragged on, the sound of Mydei’s uneven stride clawed at him. Without even meaning to, Phainon shortened his own steps, slowing his pace until it was gentler, less taxing. It was subtle enough, he thought.
Mydei might not notice, he thought even more confidentially.
But Mydei did notice.
He stopped dead on the road, spinning on Phainon with a suddenness that startled the white haired man. His golden eyes blazed, cold fury sparking in their depths.
“Do not slow down for me,” Mydei spat, his voice loud and cutting, “Do not pity me.”
Phainon blinked, startled and taken aback by the venom in his tone. “I wasn’t–”
“You think I don’t see it? The way you watch me? The way you change your stride, as though I need your charity? Don't forget, this is all according to your wish, not mine. So keep your pity, Deliverer. I don’t want it and I don’t need it.”
The words struck harder than he expected, lodging in his chest. His first instinct was to lash back, to snarl that Mydei was a fool, that he would break himself before he asked for help. But the man’s golden eyes were as sharp as steel, and they dared him to speak.
Phainon’s jaw tightened. He forced the words back down, swallowing them down like bile.
“Fine,” he said at last, voice clipped, the heat of his temper simmering beneath each syllable. “Break yourself, then. Cripple yourself. See if I care.”
Mydei didn't even blink at the worded threat and shoved past him, his shoulders rigid, his limp sharper now at the effort of walking too quickly.
Phainon stood in the road a long moment, staring at his back, fury sparking through his veins. Fury, and beneath it, something he hated even more: reluctant respect. The man was too stubborn to yield, too proud to bend, even when it hurt him. Foolish, yes – but he knew it was a kind of strength.
Cursing under his breath, Phainon lengthened his stride and matched Mydei's pace again, and he did not speak for the rest of the day.
That night, they camped by a narrow stream, its surface rippling silver beneath the moonlight. Phainon hunted rabbits in the dark, Dawnmaker sure and swift, and tossed the meat to Mydei without comment, curious to see what would happen, and sat across from him.
He expected very little. But when the smell of cooking reached him, Phainon glanced over despite himself. Mydei’s hands moved with practiced ease, turning the meat just so over the fire, coaxing flavor from little more than salt and ash.
The food was better than anything Phainon had cooked for himself in weeks, but he ate without speaking, and without any acknowledgment.
But as the fire burned low and silence wrapped around them once more, he found himself staring at the stars longer than usual, the weight of the road and the weight of Mydei’s words pressing heavy against his chest.
Sleep came late as usual, and when it did, the dreams returned, vivid as always.
_______
The third day emerged pale and grey, and the sky stretched thin with clouds that hung heavy but did not break yet. The ground beneath their boots was uneven and sharp, and the forest canopy above only rarely let through slivers of morning light. Phainon adjusted the strap of his sword over his shoulder, scanning ahead, but his mind was not on the path.
It was on Mydei and his limp, which had gotten worse.
Phainon had been watching it from the first day, at first thinking little of it – an occasional stumble, a faint favoring of the left leg, but by the third morning, there was no more ignoring it. Mydei’s pace faltered more often than it should have, his steps slower, his movements tight with a pain he was clearly swallowing whole.
What baffled Phainon, no, what angered him, was that not even once had Mydei so much as winced. No foul curse muttered under his breath, no sharp hiss when he stumbled over roots, no demand to rest, no complaints, only silence.
And it was the silence that drove Phainon mad.
It was wearing on him. It wasn’t that Phainon had expected warmth or gratitude, no, he wasn’t a fool, but silence was worse than curses because silence meant he could not fight back.
By midday, the silence pressed like a blade on his shoulders.
Every step Mydei took was labored, his weight falling unevenly, his stride tightening with a stubborn rigidity that betrayed how much pain he must have been in, and it drove Phainon mad.
He wanted to slow down. The urge itched at him, burned at the back of his throat, on his limbs, and he wanted to ease his pace, shorten his strides, give the other man a chance to breathe.
But he remembered yesterday.
He remembered the moment he had allowed his steps to drag, his pace to shorten ever so slightly. He remembered how quickly Mydei had noticed—how he had shoved past him, spitting venom in a voice ragged with fatigue:
“Do not slow down for me. Do not pity me.”
The words had echoed in Phainon’s ears long after, just as sharp as they were yesterday.
Now, as he watched Mydei’s limp worsen with every passing hour, Phainon’s chest burned with two clashing fires: fury at the man’s stubbornness, and a grudging, bitter respect.
What have you gone through? He thought savagely. To walk on a leg like that and not make a sound? What in the name of the Titans hardened you so, Mydei?
But Mydei gave him no answers, no glance back. He never did, did he?
That evening, when the light had begun to drain from the sky, they stopped. Mydei was the first to kneel by the firepit Phainon cleared, setting down his pack with stiff, uneven movements.
Phainon watched him work with a silent, heavy tension in his chest as Mydei’s hands moved with skill, cleaning and gutting the game Phainon had caught earlier, setting it over the fire with a precision that spoke of habit.
Phainon found himself staring.
He told himself it was just curiosity. That he was only watching because Mydei revealed so little otherwise, because he was trying to understand this stranger who was meant to be his companion, who would walk alongside him and the other heirs. But the truth was, there was something about the way Mydei moved that caught him. Something in the concentration on his face, the small curl of his full lips, the quiet determination in every flick of his fingers, the way the firelight turned his hair into threads of copper, illuminating the specks of amber in his golden eyes.
Beautiful.
The word slipped into his mind before he could stop it and lingered there, stubborn and unyielding, and the more he tried to push it away, the more it settled in.
Why? Why that word? Why, when there were so many others? Mydei was cold, sharp-edged, impossible to reach. He was proud to the point of cruelty, refusing even the smallest kindness. And yet…
Phainon shifted uncomfortably, realizing he had been staring too long, for it was not a glance. The silence pressed in around them, thick and suffocating. He opened his mouth, desperate to fill it, to push away the thoughts clawing at the edges of his chest.
“Okhema is beautiful at night. The walls are lit with torches so bright you’d think the stars had fallen from the heavens. You’ll see. The others are waiting for us.”
For the first time, Mydei froze. His eyes flicked up, sharp, catching Phainon’s with a force that startled him. Cold, hard, as though the words themselves were knives, but there was something else hidden deep, and it looked something a lot like fear.
Something in the depth of his eyes was the kind of beauty sung by poets, not the gentle grace of statues carved of marble. No, this was something rawer, sharper, like the edge of a blade honed too fine. A dangerous type of beauty, but also fragile, too, in a way that Phainon did not understand.
The word beautiful echoed in his mind like a curse.
He said nothing more, only looking away.
That night, after they had eaten and laid down by the dwindling fire, Phainon found sleep slow to come as usual. His dreams circled restlessly, shadows of battles fought, Aedes Elysiae, and prophecies spoken. He turned around, adjusting his cloak, when he heard it.
A very soft sound, a sob.
He froze as his entire body went taut, every muscle wound tight. For a very long moment, he told himself he was imagining it, that it was the night, the wind, some trick of memory.
But then came the rustle of fabric and the faint scrape of movement.
Phainon opened his eyes and saw Mydei rising, cloak wrapped tight around his shoulders. He limped slowly away from the fire, his head bowed, his hands clenched tight around himself.
Phainon lay still and closed his eyes again, his first instinct to stay and let Mydei go. To give him whatever privacy he clawed for with his silence.
But something in Phainon rebelled at the idea, so he got up, silent as the numerous shadows littered around him, and followed.
The trees closed in, their branches swaying against the night sky, as the moonlight broke through in pale fragments, silvering Mydei’s hair, his cloak. He sank against a boulder, drawing his knees to his chest, arms curling around them, and then, finally, and fully, he wept.
It wasn't loud or violent, but a quiet, raw sound that carved through the silence and straight into Phainon’s chest.
Phainon stood rooted, staring, something hard and unfamiliar twisting inside him. He should not see this. He did not deserve to see this. Mydei’s hatred of him had been clear from the start, and yet here he was, watching Mydei come undone, fragile in the darkness, and the sight burned him.
He turned away, each step heavy, and quietly returned to their camp. He lay down and forced his breath to be steady, forcing his body to go still, trying to ignore what he had just seen.
When Mydei returned, limping softly, Phainon kept his eyes shut and pretended to be fast asleep.
But he did not sleep.
How could he, when the memory of Mydei’s tears replayed again and again behind his eyes? For the first time, doubt began to gnaw at him.
He thought of the prophecy. The heirs. The path that had brought him here, and for the first time, he wondered if he had done the right thing.
But he shoved the thought away just as quickly as it came up, burying it beneath the iron certainty he had lived by for years.
The prophecy is more important, he told himself fiercely. Even if it meant breaking both of them.
And as dawn began to pale the horizon, he remembered the fairly big village nearby. A healer lived there, if memory serves him correctly.
Mydei’s limp could not go unchecked; Phainon would take him there, whether he wanted it or not.
_______
The fourth morning dawned pale and cool, the sky veiled in thin clouds that promised neither rain nor full sun. Phainon had not slept; he carried the weight of Mydei’s muffled sobs in his chest like an unhealed wound. His eyes burned, his head ached, but none of it compared to the dull ache of guilt that gnawed at him with every step. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard the muffled sobs from the night before, saw the shape of Mydei curled in on himself in the grass, cloak drawn tight, trying to fold into nothing.
He had walked away from it, pretended not to notice, and that guilt pressed at him now like a blade lodged in his chest. He told himself he had no right to intrude on such vulnerability; Mydei hated him enough already without catching him watching on such a vulnerable moment, and yet, turning his back on someone crying had felt like cowardice. For all his boasts of strength, his endless drive to prove himself the chosen of prophecy, he had faltered in the face of quiet human pain.
He did not allow himself to look at Mydei directly that morning, yet his gaze strayed all the same, catching the stiff set of the boy’s shoulders, the way his jaw was locked tight, and the limp that grew more pronounced with each passing hour.
By midmorning, the road widened through a small grove of olive trees as they descended toward the village of Eretria, a fairly large village straddling two major roads, known for its healers and smiths. A place where injured men had once been sent after skirmishes, where doctors had mended bones and pulled arrows free. It was larger than the scattered hamlets they had passed before: wooden fences ringed plots of tilled land, smoke rose in thin plumes from tiled-roof homes, and the sound of animals bleating carried across the morning air. A thin column of smoke rose from the center, carrying the smell of bread and roasted chickpeas. Phainon slowed for a moment, staring down at the clustered buildings. He remembered this place.
Mydei followed his gaze but said nothing. He only adjusted the strap of his satchel and kept walking, though his limp dragged at him so badly that each step seemed to jar up through his spine. The silence stretched, heavy as a stone, until Mydei finally asked, voice flat and expression unreadable, “Where are we going?”
Phainon forced a smile, though it felt brittle on his lips.
“An old friend lives here, don't worry.”
The lie slid off his tongue too easily. He hated himself for it, but he knew Mydei would refuse to enter if he told him the truth.
Mydei stopped briefly, squinting at him through the loose strands of blond hair that had fallen across his face. His lip curled, sharp and derisive, “An old friend. What then? You’ll drag me along so you can boast about your prize? Parade the broken thing you’ve managed to haul across half the land?”
The words struck sharper than he expected. Phainon’s smile twitched and faltered, but he held it in place like armor. He didn’t answer because he didn’t know how, because he couldn't, not without revealing too much. Instead, he turned away and kept walking, the noise of the village rising with each step, the calls of merchants, the braying of donkeys, and the clatter of pottery.
As they entered the main street, people turned to look. Mydei tried to straighten and tried to hide the drag of his leg, but the limp betrayed him all the same.
Passersby soon began to glance towards them, whispering. A farmer driving a mule cart slowed his pace, eyes drawn to the pale, sharp-faced man struggling to walk without betraying the full measure of his pain. A pair of women at a well stopped their chatter, their heads tilting toward Mydei, concern etched across their features.
Phainon felt the sting of their looks even though they weren’t directed at him. He glanced over his shoulder, saw Mydei’s jaw clenched, his expression stubbornly blank, the limp worse with each step. Mydei noticed his glance and sneered at him.
Whispers rippled among the villagers, soft but sharp enough for Phainon to catch.
“Poor boy…”
“Look at the way he walks–”
“Titans above, he needs a healer–”
Phainon clenched his jaw, but still, he said nothing and pressed forward, guiding them toward the healer’s house he remembered from years before. The walls were brown, and a faded blue door was half-hidden behind baskets of drying herbs.
It was then, when the door was almost within reach, that Mydei’s steps faltered and he stopped in the middle of the street, shoulders taut, eyes narrowing.
Phainon glanced back, confused. “Why did you stop?”
The answer came not in words, but in the sharp crack of a hand across his cheek, and it rang out loud enough to silence the nearest cluster of villagers. Heat bloomed across his skin, stinging, and Phainon blinked, more stunned than actually hurt.
Before he could speak, Mydei’s fist caught the front of his chiton, yanking him close. The man's golden eyes blazed, cold and wet, his voice a hiss that trembled with fury.
“You–” His grip tightened, shaking with the effort of holding him up, “You have no right. No fucking right to act as though you care. As though this limp, my ruined leg, concerns you when you’re the reason it has worsened. You. Don’t you dare stand there and pretend that you’re fucking worried.”
The world narrowed to Mydei’s face, the ragged rise and fall of his chest. The slap still burned, but Phainon forced his voice to be steady, calm, even though inside he was reeling.
“If you ignore it longer,” he said softly, “the pain will eat you whole. It will make itself permanent, and I will not stand by and watch that happen.”
Mydei scoffed, sharp and bitter, at his soft words. His grip loosened, and he shoved Phainon back with enough force to draw another ripple of whispers from the onlookers, and then he turned on his heel and began to limp away, jaw set, eyes fixed on anything but him, ignoring every whisper, every murmur around him.
Something inside Phainon cracked. Anger surged, anger at Mydei’s pride, at his own helplessness, at the prophecy that bound them both, and his patience snapped like a bowstring.
He strode after him in two long steps, caught up without effort, and in one fluid motion lifted Mydei off his feet. His arms locked firm beneath his knees and his shoulders, careful enough not to jolt the injury, and cradled him in a bridal carry before the man even had a chance to resist.
“Put me down!” Mydei screamed, his voice cracking with both fury and something perilously close to fear. “Put me down, or I swear—”
“No.” Phainon’s voice was hard, low, and unwavering. He held Mydei tighter as the man twisted around in his hold, as Phainon refused to loosen his grip. “I won't, not this time.”
The struggle only grew worse. Mydei’s blows rained against him, though they lacked real strength. His limbs were too thin for his figure, his body too exhausted, and his leg too ruined, but still, he fought like a cornered animal, teeth bared.
“Do you think I can’t walk? Do you think I’m weak?!”
“I think you’re in pain,” Phainon shot back, jaw tight, fury and anguish spilling together in his chest. “I think you’ve been in pain for a long time, and you’ve been forced to pretend it doesn’t matter. But it matters to me. Whether you like it or not, it matters.”
The words left him before he could stop them, raw and bare. Mydei froze in his arms, his fists pressed weakly against Phainon’s chest. For the first time since the journey began, he did not sneer and did not lash out. His face turned away, hiding his expression, but his body went still.
Phainon felt the tension drain from his exhausted frame and maintained his firm grip as he kept walking toward the physician’s hut, heart pounding.
“You may be used to pain,” he said more softly, “but you don’t have to be, not while I’m here.”
The words hung heavy between them. Mydei did not answer, did not look at him. But he no longer struggled. His head bowed slightly, and though his expression remained hidden, Phainon felt the faintest shift in him, as if the iron walls surrounding him had cracked, if only for even a moment.
And so he carried him, ignoring the stares of the villagers, ignoring the heat still burning in his cheek from the slap. He carried him into the hut, into the smell of herbs and smoke, refusing to let him walk another step in pain.
And beneath it all, guilt and regret knotted tighter in his chest.
This is my fault. He’s right. His limp, his hatred, his fear, they are all my doing. So why do I still want to take care of him? Why can’t I stop?
The answer did not come, however, only the echo of Mydei’s tears from the night before, and the sting of his hand across Phainon’s face, and the weight of him now, light, far too light for someone who stood nearly as tall as Phainon, in his arms
For the first time in his life, Phainon wondered if he was fighting the prophecy or himself.
Phainon pushed through the low blue-painted door without ceremony, ducking his head to fit beneath the frame. Inside, the air shifted at once: cooler, dense with the smell of dried sage, thyme, and bitter roots that hung in bundles from the rafters. The clamor of the street dimmed behind them, leaving only the faint crackle of a hearth-fire and the sharp clink of metal against wood.
A woman in her late forties looked up from a bench where she was grinding herbs into a bowl. Her hair was streaked with silver and tied back in a long braid, her hands stained green from leaves and ochre from dried powders. Her eyes flicked from Phainon to the boy in his arms, and one brow arched in practiced assessment.
“Well,” she said evenly, setting aside her pestle. “It’s been years since I’ve seen a soldier carry another man through my door like that. Usually, they’re all bleeding.”
Mydei stiffened at her choice of words, cheeks flushed in humiliation, but he kept his gaze averted. His jaw clenched, body taut with pride even as his leg dangled uselessly.
Phainon lowered him carefully onto a cot in the corner, padded with wool blankets, and he adjusted the pillow behind his back, ignoring the way Mydei’s fists curled as though he might strike him again. When he finally stepped back, the doctor’s gaze sharpened, sweeping over the man’s leg, the uneven angle even at rest.
“You should have brought him sooner,” she remarked, not unkindly but with the firm reproach of one accustomed to stubborn men. She moved to Mydei’s side, fingers already tugging at the ties of his boots.
Mydei’s voice cut sharp and fragile as glass, as he flinched away from the touch, “Don’t touch me.”
The woman’s hands paused. She studied his face, then gave a small snort. “Pride is an old disease, and I’ve seen worse. Luckily for you, it’s not fatal.”
Phainon almost smiled, but he swallowed it back because he did not want Mydei to think he was amused. Instead, he folded his arms and leaned against the wall, though his gaze never left the man.
The doctor, Eryme, sat back on her heels and looked between them. “Which of you is going to tell me what happened? Or should I guess?”
Phainon opened his mouth, but Mydei beat him to it, his tone dripping with venom, “It doesn’t matter how it happened. What does matter is that it’s his fault.”
The words landed heavy in the silence. Phainon flinched inwardly but kept his face steady. Eryme’s eyes flicked to him, reading more than he would have liked, but thankfully she didn’t press for details.
Instead, she said, “Fault or no fault, boy, it’s your leg that’s rotting beneath you, not his. Now decide, do you want to keep walking on it, or will you sit there and let it waste away?”
Mydei’s lips parted, then closed again, wordlessly. He looked away, staring at the far wall as his fingers dug into the wool blanket.
Phainon shifted his weight, then spoke quietly. “He’ll let you help.”
Mydei’s eyes snapped toward him, blazing, “Do not speak for me.”
But the defiance rang hollow this time, thin and fraying at the edges. His chest rose and fell too fast, and when Eryme reached for his boot again, he didn’t stop her.
The leather fell loose, and she peeled it away, then rolled up the leg of his chiton, exposing the twisted shape of his knee and calf. Phainon’s throat tightened at the sight, nausea swelling up. The joint was swollen, the muscles around it uneven from years of strain. A faint tremor ran through Mydei’s leg as if even resting it caused pain.
Eryme’s face remained calm, though her eyes narrowed slightly. “Old damage,” she murmured. “And it's worsening. You’ve been walking on it too long without treatment.”
“I’ve managed,” Mydei muttered. His voice was sharp, but there was something fragile underneath it.
“Managed?” Eryme snorted in contempt as she reached for a jar of salve. “That’s one word for it. But another word would be suffering.”
She dipped her fingers in the mixture and began to massage it into the swollen joint. Mydei jerked at the touch, a small, keen sound escaping his lips as he gripped the sheets, nails digging in, but she held firm, unwavering.
Phainon’s hands curled into fists at his sides, and he fought the urge to move closer. He wanted to move closer, to be there to steady him, to ease the sharp intake of breath. But he stayed where he was, leaning against the wall, because he knew if he touched Mydei now, he would only burn with more shame and anger.
Instead, he forced his voice to be low and steady from where he stood. “Calm down and breathe through it.”
Mydei’s gaze flicked up to him for half a heartbeat, dark and startled, and then dropped again. But he obeyed, chest rising in a shaky rhythm as Eryme worked the salve deeper into the muscles.
The minutes passed, and the only sounds were the crackle of the hearth and the wet scrape of salve being worked into skin. Eryme finished at last, binding the leg with fresh linen strips, her motions brisk but not unkind.
When she tied the final knot, she sat back and wiped her hands on a cloth. “He’ll need to rest it. No long marches, no climbing hills, no pretending he’s made of stone, like most soldiers like to pretend. If he listens, he’ll be able to keep what strength and health is left in that leg. If he doesn’t…” She glanced at Mydei, her tone sharp as a blade, “He’ll lose more than a limp.”
Silence followed her words as Mydei stared at the bandages, jaw trembling, then looked away, eyes shining in unshed tears but unyielding.
Phainon pushed off the wall at last, stepping forward. His voice was quiet, but firm with something that might have been both plea and vow. “He’ll listen, don't worry.”
Mydei’s head snapped toward him, anger flickering through them again, but he said nothing.
Eryme gave a curt nod. “Good. Then I expect to see you both tomorrow morning to check it again.” She rose, already reaching for her herbs again. “Leave the boy here for a while. Let him rest.”
Phainon hesitated, glancing between her and Mydei. His chest felt too tight, his palms damp, but he nodded, slowly.
And for the first time since the prophecy bound them together, Phainon allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he could protect what little remained of the man before him, as he slowly sank into an empty bed, waiting for her approval to leave.
_______
Phainon half expected Mydei to bolt the moment Eryme released him from the cot, but he only pressed his lips thin, allowing himself to be helped out the door. Outside, the village was alive with evening clamor: vendors shuttering their stalls, children darting between lantern-lit doorways, the scent of bread baking thick in the cooling air.
Phainon kept his pace measured, steady enough for Mydei’s limp not to worsen as he hovered near, just close enough. Every so often, he glanced sideways, watching as Mydei's jaw flexed as though he were chewing down words he didn’t dare spit into the street.
They reached the inn at the edge of the square, a stout building with a sloping roof and warm golden light spilling through its windows.
The inn smelled of hearth smoke, roasted lamb, and the faint tang of spilled wine that had seeped too deep into the wood to ever be scrubbed out. The place was modest, its beams blackened from years of smoke, its walls hung with dried herbs and olive branches to keep out insects. After the tense silence of the physician’s quarters, after the long road dust clinging to their cloaks and sandals, it almost felt welcoming.
Almost.
Phainon let his shoulder relax as he passed a few coins to the innkeeper, ordering both food and a room, and he slowly guided Mydei towards the corner table, keeping an eye on him.
But the moment they sat, Mydei’s voice came sharp as a knife: “So this is your plan? Drag me from healer to inn, from cot to tavern bench, until my leg rots off completely? I didn’t think the great Deliverer would stumble over something so small as a broken limb.”
The sneer curled his lip, and Phainon felt the words like a lash across the face. His hands clenched around the edge of the table. For a moment, he bit back his first retort, swallowing down the urge to shout, but Mydei’s eyes glittered with venom, daring him to take the bait.
Phainon took the bait and snapped back, “You have no idea who I am.” His voice was low, seething. “No idea what it means to carry this blood, as you hid away like a coward. You spit at every hand that offers you help, as if the whole world sits in a circle waiting to see you suffer.”
Mydei blinked, startled by the sharpness of it, but his face hardened again, his mask sliding back into place.
Phainon leaned closer, shoulders tight, “For once, accept a small act of kindness. Eat the food, and rest your leg, please. Stop acting as though every glance is a blade aimed at your throat.”
The words hung heavy between them, louder than the murmur of other patrons, louder than the crackle of the hearth.
Mydei's mocking smile faltered, his fingers tightening on the table’s edge, but he didn’t look up, didn’t look at Phainon, but his voice came out low and brittle as glass.
“You don’t know that.”
Phainon’s anger cooled in an instant, hollowing into something heavier.
Mydei’s gaze stayed fixed on the wood grain of the table. “You don’t know what I’ve seen, just what I’ve been through. What I had to survive just to be standing here now, so stop assuming.”
For the first time, his voice wavered, not in rage, but in something thinner, more dangerous: fear.
Phainon sat back slowly, heart pounding. He had no reply ready, no defense, which is ironic considering his quick tongue was an object of constant praise. He only had the realization that for all the venom Mydei poured on him, there were shadows beneath it, scars deeper than he could see.
The silence stretched. Outside, the bells of the square chimed the quint.
Phainon drew in a breath, steadying himself, and when he finally spoke again, his voice was softer, “…Then tell me.” Please.
But Mydei said nothing as his jaw locked tight, and his eyes stayed down, as if the wood grain was safer than the weight of Phainon’s gaze.
The meal came and sat heavy in their stomachs, though neither had truly enjoyed it. Mydei had picked at his food with an expression halfway between disdain and exhaustion, and Phainon had eaten in silence, the echo of their argument still buzzing in his chest.
When they finished, Phainon dropped coins onto the table and nodded toward the stairs. “Come.”
The inn’s stairwell creaked under their weight as they began to climb. The soft murmur of voices from below blended with the crackle of fire, and for a moment, it almost seemed they would reach their beds without incident.
But then the door slammed open.
The sound cracked through the inn like thunder, making the rafters shudder, and five men entered, their laughter harsh and grating, words rolling in a dialect Phainon knew all too well.
Kremnoan soldiers.
The flash of red cloth and bronze armor had him freezing, instinctively shifting half a step to shield Mydei.
But it was Mydei who reacted first.
The man’s body locked up, breath hitching sharply in his throat, his golden eyes fixed on the soldiers as if they were Thanatos themselves, coming to claim his soul. He stumbled back from where he stood, knees trembling.
Phainon caught the tremor of his hand, the way his chest heaved, his lips parting soundlessly as though air itself had abandoned him.
Then Mydei collapsed to the floor.
He folded in on himself, clutching his chest, gasping like a drowning man dragged beneath the waves. His cloak spilled around him, trembling fingers digging into the fabric. The sound that left him was raw and broken, but not a scream, a strangled choke of breath.
Phainon’s heart lurched into his throat. He crouched immediately, blocking Mydei from view of the soldiers, though they hadn’t yet noticed. “Mydei–”
No response. Only the rapid, uneven rasp of air, the shudder of shoulders curled tight, the glisten of sweat breaking across a pale brow.
Panic. Titans above, he was panicking.
Phainon’s instincts screamed at him to fight, to draw his sword, to cut down every soldier before they even looked their way, even though they weren't doing anything alarming, but the greater danger was in front of him: Mydei unraveling, body locked in terror.
There was no time to think as Phainon scooped him up, ignoring his weak thrashing, and his nails raking against Phainon’s cloak. He carried him up the stairs two at a time, heart hammering, and slammed the door of their room shut, locking it fast.
Inside, silence crashed down, broken only by the jagged sound of Mydei’s breaths. He was still curled in Phainon’s arms, his face buried against his chest, shoulders shaking with each attempt to breathe.
Phainon set him carefully on the kline, crouching in front of him, hands braced lightly on Mydei's trembling arms. “Listen to me,” he said, voice low, steady, the kind of tone he used to calm children, “You’re safe. They can’t see you and they won’t touch you here.”
But Mydei’s breaths came faster still, chest heaving, eyes wild and unseeing as his fingers clawed at his own chiton as though trying to tear it open for air.
Phainon’s throat tightened as he grasped Mydei’s hands firmly, prying them away from his chest, “Breathe with me, look at me, Mydei, please look at me.”
At first, nothing, then, slowly, unfocused gold eyes dragged upward, meeting Phainon’s gaze with a rawness that made his stomach twist.
Phainon exaggerated his breathing, inhaling deep through his nose, exhaling slowly through his mouth, “Match me, please. Yes, that’s it. In… and out. In… and out.”
Mydei tried, and failed, and he tried again. Each ragged inhale scraped like metal against gravel, but gradually, and painfully, his chest began to follow Phainon’s rhythm.
Phainon kept talking, words pouring from him in a desperate stream, “You’re not there. You’re here with me. No one’s going to touch you and no one’s going to hurt you, not while I am still here, not while I am still alive, please, not while I'm still breathing.”
A choked sound broke from Mydei’s throat, a sob, muffled against Phainon’s chest as he slumped forward, and his entire body shook violently, as though something deep inside had finally cracked.
Phainon froze, every muscle going taut, his brain struggling to think properly.
Mydei was crying into him.
For a heartbeat, he didn’t know what to do. No one had ever cried against him before, not like this, with such broken abandon, but instinct overrode hesitation, and he wrapped his arms around his fellow heir, pulling him in close, holding firm while the sobs tore free.
His tunic dampened beneath Mydei’s face. Each ragged breath stabbed Phainon deeper than any blade could. He stroked his trembling back, murmuring wordless comforts he hadn’t spoken since childhood.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered desperately, again and again, “I’ve got you, I promise.”
Time blurred as minutes, perhaps an hour passed. Phainon couldn’t tell as Mydei’s sobs dwindled eventually to shudders, his breath evening into hiccupping gasps. He sagged against Phainon, utterly spent, head still pressed to his chest.
Phainon’s arms remained around him, unwilling to let go. His mind churned in restless conflict. Why did it feel like betrayal to see him this vulnerable? Why did holding him feel… right? Why did it ache so much to know Mydei trusted him enough, if only for this moment, to fall apart in his arms? Or was it because Phainon was the only person available?
When silence finally settled heavily between them, Phainon’s voice cracked against it. “Take the bed.”
The words were clumsy, awkward, but it was all he had. He shifted back slowly, though his arms resisted releasing him. Mydei didn’t meet his gaze. His eyes were red and swollen, cheeks streaked, jaw clenched as if ashamed of what had just transpired.
The distance between them yawned wide again.
Phainon didn’t press. He only helped him sit onto the mattress more properly, tugging the blanket up without ceremony. Mydei curled toward the wall, silent.
Phainon sat back in the chair beside the bed, staring at the floorboards, heart hammering still. His chest ached with a hollow weight and he didn’t know what Mydei had endured, but he did know one thing: the prophecy had never warned him that duty could make him feel so much guilt.
Phainon had not intended to fall asleep. He’d told himself the creak of the chair would keep him upright, alert, that his body would never surrender to exhaustion with so much chaos still echoing in his chest. Yet fatigue had a cruel way of creeping in when he least expected it, and before long, the low hum of the inn beneath their room lulled him into uneasy slumber.
And once again, he was there.
The golden plain stretched out endlessly, Aedes Elysiae, its grass rippling under the gentle breath of an unseen wind. Phainon was smaller this time, younger than he had ever remembered himself being, with bare feet, scuffed knees, and dirt on his palms, and there, above him, were two figures. One was Cyrene, her light laugh ringing clear and bright as she crouched down to his level. The other blurred, as always, faceless yet unbearably familiar.
He was crying. He could hear himself, could feel the hot sting of tears running down his cheeks, his hands clutching at his knee where the skin was torn open and raw. He had tripped, simple, stupid clumsiness, and it had felt like the end of the world at that moment.
“You fell?” Cyrene teased, her tone both mocking and affectionate. “Phainon, you fall more often than a fawn trying to stand. That's what you get for being so tall at your small age.” She reached out, brushing his hair from his forehead, and the sound of her voice softened the shame tangled in his sobs.
The blurry figure leaned closer, a shadow with warmth, a presence that wrapped around him like sunlight. “You’re such a baby, but you're still going around calling me a baby when it's you,” the voice whined at him, “Crying over a little scrape.”
Sure, soft and familiar hands cradled his face, thumb gently brushing away the tears streaking his cheek.
He was mocked and comforted all at once, their laughter filling the air, yet their touch steadying him, anchoring him in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Cyrene ruffled his hair, giggling as he tried to swat her hand away. The ache in his knee lessened, but the ache in his heart only grew sharper.
Phainon’s small self sniffled, still crying, still leaning into their touch, torn between shame and yearning. He wanted to stay there forever, in the teasing, in the warmth, in the blurred edges of what could have been.
And then–
He woke with a sharp gasp, his body jolting against the stiff wooden chair. His hand flew to his face, and to his quiet horror, his fingers came away damp.
Tears. He had been crying.
The room was dim, lit only by the fading glow of the hearth embers. Phainon sat there, his chest heavy, and his throat raw. For a heartbeat, he forgot where he was, expecting golden fields, expecting voices that weren’t there.
Instead, his eyes landed on Mydei.
The other man lay on the bed, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. The lines of tension that usually carved themselves into Mydei’s face had softened in sleep, leaving him looking strangely young, vulnerable. More human.
Pretty.
Phainon stared, and he knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t pull his gaze away.
The dream’s warmth still lingered in his chest, muddled with grief, and he couldn’t reconcile it with the sight before him. Mydei, so cold, so sharp, so cruel with every word he spoke, looked peaceful now, fragile in a way Phainon had no right to see.
He dragged a trembling hand down his face, his breath shaking.
Why was it always him? Why was it Mydei’s face that lingered in his mind, Mydei’s voice that burned in his chest, Mydei’s stubbornness that both infuriated and, Kephale help him, moved him?
Phainon clenched his jaw, shaking his head as if he could dislodge the thoughts. He had no business crying over dreams, when Aedes Elysiae had burned years ago, there was no use lingering in his grief, and he had no business staring at Mydei as if the world would shatter if he looked away.
And yet he stayed there, unmoving, with tears drying on his cheeks, caught between the ghosts of his dream and the living reminder of his duty, and wondered when everything had become so tangled.
Eryme’s words from the day before returned: “Three days. That leg won’t heal if he keeps pushing it. No traveling until then.”
Phainon exhaled slowly.
Three days.
Three days in which he would have to sit still, when all he wanted was to keep moving, to fulfill what the prophecy demanded. Yet when he looked at Mydei, even he had to admit Eryme was right. The limp had gotten worse with every step, and if they pushed now, it could cripple him permanently. He settled into the chair and waited for the sun to rise.
_______
When the sun came up, the village moved at its own steady pace, humming with the rhythm of trade and chatter. Phainon slipped into the streets as Mydei slept late into the morning, restless energy driving him to do something. He offered his hands to anyone who would take them, hauling crates of grain from the docks, steadying a cart whose wheel had split, carrying water when the tavern’s boys tired. It distracted him, kept him from dwelling on the image of Mydei clutching his chest in panic, gasping for air like he was drowning.
He also had other things to listen for.
The Kremnoans.
Always, his ear bent toward the scraps of conversation drifting through tavern doors or marketplaces. What he found was thin and unsatisfying. Only that Castrum Kremnos had doubled its border patrols, tightened its walls. The monsters had grown bold, pressing harder and more often, and the Kremnoans had grown harsher in turn. The Kremnoan soldiers from yesterday evening had returned to where they came from as soon as they finished their meal.
Phainon got nothing more.
When he returned to the inn with food, bread still warm, stew in clay bowls balanced carefully, he found Mydei awake, sitting stiffly on the edge of the bed, his cloak wrapped around him and he didn’t look up when Phainon set the tray down.
He turned to leave, giving Mydei space to let him eat in silence, but before he reached the door, a tug stopped him.
Phainon froze as he looked down.
Mydei’s hand had caught his wrist. The grip was faint, almost hesitant, but very real.
The other man sat on the bed, eyes lowered, refusing to look at him. His hair fell into his face, curtaining it and hiding his expression. Only the flush on his ears betrayed anything at all.
“…thank you,” Mydei whispered, the words so quiet Phainon almost thought he imagined them.
For a long moment, Phainon could do nothing but stare, dazed, his chest hollow and full all at once. The hand on his wrist burned like fire, though the touch was light as air.
When Mydei let go, Phainon stumbled back a step, unable to form words. His throat felt thick. In the back of his mind, unbidden, came the same thought that had haunted him before:
He’s beautiful.
The word rang in him like a bell, unwanted and undeniable.
Phainon hurriedly left the room in silence, his pulse still echoing in his ears.
The next day passed much the same. Mydei rested, his sharpness dulled by exhaustion, while Phainon shouldered the weight of errands and vigilance. He asked in the morning and in the evening to change the bandages. He was refused every time, and yet something softer lingered now between them, an unspoken shift neither of them dared to name.
The routine became familiar: Phainon rising early, Mydei sleeping late. Phainon worked among the villagers, returning with food, trying not to notice how Mydei’s shoulders loosened slightly each time he brought him meals.
Eryme checked the leg again that morning, nodding with satisfaction, “Another day’s rest and he should be fit to travel again.”
Phainon felt relief, then guilt for feeling relieved, and he had also caught himself staring at Mydei more often, at the way the morning light caught in his hair, at the defiance that lingered in his posture even while sitting, and that word haunted him again.
It shouldn’t have and he didn’t want it to.
That evening, as they packed their things in preparation for leaving the next morning, Phainon hesitated at the door. Mydei glanced up briefly, brows furrowed as though expecting another lecture.
Instead, Phainon only said, “Get some rest. We’ve got a long road tomorrow.”
Mydei huffed softly, pulling his cloak tighter. “As if I had a choice.”
But his tone lacked venom. It sounded almost… tired and resigned.
And for the first time, Phainon thought maybe, just maybe, the walls Mydei had built around himself weren’t impenetrable after all.
The rest had passed, like all things did. And the road ahead waited.
_______
The road to Aurelia’s Crossing stretched on for four days.
Four days of slow steps, measured carefully against Mydei’s injury, and four days of Phainon biting his tongue against the impatient edge of his nature. They could have covered the distance in half the time if Mydei hadn’t been wounded, but Phainon didn’t complain and he never once urged him to hurry. If anything, he caught himself matching his stride to the limping rhythm, even when it made his own long legs ache.
The silence between them was heavy at first, broken only by the whisper of wind through the grass and the occasional caw of distant birds. Mydei was a man who built walls higher than city gates, and Phainon had quickly learned that pushing too hard only made him retreat further.
But still, cracks began to appear, and Phainon considered it all as small victories.
The first day passed with little more than the crunch of their boots against dirt. Phainon tried, once, to strike up conversation about the shape of the clouds, and received a flat look from Mydei that could have stripped bark off a tree. He let it drop after that, humming tunelessly under his breath instead, just loud enough to be annoying.
After the second quint of listening to Phainon hum the same tune, irritation finally cracked Mydei’s stone facade.
“If you hum that again,” Mydei said, his voice edged like a knife, “I will find a way to silence you.”
Phainon grinned, “At least then you’d be speaking to me.”
Mydei didn’t answer, but a few quints later, when Phainon tripped on a root and cursed loudly, he swore he caught the faint curve of a smirk ghosting Mydei’s lips.
On the second day, Phainon muttered something under his breath about Mydei’s way of squinting at the sun as if glaring could chase it away. To his shock, Mydei snorted, a quiet, unwilling sound that was almost a laugh.
"At least it's better than squinting at every tree like it owes you money,” Mydei murmured, his voice low, dry as kindling.
Phainon blinked, then barked a laugh, startled at how natural the exchange had felt. “So you do have a tongue, after all. I was starting to worry, I'd imagined it.”
“Don’t tempt me to go back to silence,” Mydei said, but his ears, betraying him, were faintly pink at the tips.
After that, their rhythm shifted. Mydei still kept distance, never allowing Phainon’s shoulder to brush his, never accepting a steadying arm when he stumbled, but sometimes he’d answer when spoken to and sometimes he’d even throw the words back with a sharp edge of wit that made Phainon grin despite himself.
It was on the third evening, firelight flickering against the hollow planes of Mydei’s face, that Phainon noticed the small glint in his ear. A piercing, empty now, the hole healed but bare.
The sight tugged at something in him. It was a gap, a missing piece, and Phainon found himself wondering what once filled it, who once gave him something to wear there. The thought lingered long after they’d doused the fire and laid down to rest, stubborn as a burr caught in wool.
A small idea started germinating in his head, but he quickly shoved it aside, shaking his head.
By the fourth day, they had found a rhythm. Phainon filled the road with chatter, mock complaints about his aching feet, dramatic sighs about the heat, while Mydei answered with dry, clipped retorts that sometimes, just sometimes, carried a spark of humor.
When a trader’s wagon nearly clipped Mydei as it barreled past, Phainon’s arm shot out without thought, yanking him back against his chest.
Mydei stiffened, golden eyes flashing up at him, “I can walk without being manhandled.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Phainon said lightly, but he didn’t release his grip until the wagon rattled safely down the road. His hand lingered a heartbeat too long on Mydei’s arm before he forced himself to let go.
He didn’t miss the faint pink coloring of Mydei’s ears, his blue eyes once again lingering on his bare ear.
By the time the gates of Aurelia’s Crossing loomed tall before them, Phainon knew what he wanted to do.
Aurelia’s Crossing was a city in all but name. The great merchant village sprawled across the valley floor, its high timbered gates carved with sigils of every trade: scales, ships, and sheaves of grain. The air buzzed with voices, dozens of languages colliding in a tide of shouts and laughter. Merchants cried their wares from painted stalls, hawking bolts of silk, gleaming trinkets, jars of spiced preserves. The scent of roasting meat mingled with incense smoke, heavy and heady in the air.
Travelers and traders thronged the streets, soldiers in livery brushing shoulders with pilgrims in roughspun, children darting between carts laden with fruit and cheese.
Mydei paused at the threshold, eyes narrowing as he took in the chaos as his hand twitched toward his side, as if instinctively seeking a weapon that wasn’t there.
“Relax,” Phainon said easily, stepping past him, “They’re merchants, not monsters.”
“Both can bleed you dry,” Mydei muttered under his breath.
Phainon chuckled, glancing back at him, “That’s the closest thing to wisdom I’ve heard you say all week.”
Mydei huffed, but followed, his limp more pronounced after the long road, but quickly faltered at the press of bodies. The crowd surged too close, brushing shoulders, hands, and cloaks. Phainon moved instinctively, sliding to his side, broad frame blocking the worst of the press. He angled himself just enough that Mydei walked in his shadow, shielded from the jostle.
“You don’t have to—” Mydei began, irritation sparking.
“Relax,” Phainon cut in, tone easy but final. “I’m taller, so I might as well make myself useful.”
Mydei’s mouth snapped shut, and after a long while, “Not by a lot," he finally corrected. “Don’t get cocky, HKS.”
Phainon grinned, not even looking back at him. “I’ll take that as gratitude. Yes, even the curse that I don't know the meaning of.”
Phainon wove them through the crowd, ignoring the way Mydei’s suspicion deepened with each turn. He stopped only when they reached a jeweler’s stall draped in velvet, trays laid out with rings, pendants, and earrings that caught the sun in sharp gleams.
Mydei blinked. “…Why are we here?”
“You’ll see,” Phainon answered, crouching over the display. His fingers skimmed lightly across the trays until they stopped on a single large golden earring with a sapphire embedded on it. The stone was deep and luminous, a blue that seemed to hold light inside it.
Phainon picked it up, then turned to Mydei with a grin that was half-mischief, half-certainty, “Hold still.”
Before Mydei could recoil, Phainon lifted the earring near his ear, tilting his head as he imagined it in place. The sapphire caught against Mydei’s skin, the color startlingly vivid. The color was perfect. The gem caught the light in a way that almost mirrored the shade of his own eyes. Phainon’s chest tightened without warning, the thought rushing in unbidden, but he didn't shove it away this time, because it was a fact.
Mydei was beautiful.
Phainon kept the word sealed in his chest, though it burned against his ribs.
“Perfect,” Phainon murmured instead, and the certainty in his voice made Mydei’s ears flush.
The merchant leaned forward, squinting at Phainon, and recognition flared in his eyes. “Wait–you, you're the Deliverer, aren’t you–”
Phainon’s smile vanished as he pressed a palm flat to the counter, sharp enough to silence him, “The price, please.”
The merchant stammered, then named the number. Phainon pulled free twice the amount and dropped the coins without hesitation, turned, and quickly took Mydei by the wrist, tugging him gently but firmly away before the man could find his tongue again.
“Deliverer, what in Nikador's name–”
“Quiet,” Phainon said, but there was no edge in his voice, and instead, he set Mydei in the mouth of an alley, his touch light at his shoulder. “Don’t move.”
Mydei frowned but obeyed, his suspicion warring with confusion. Phainon’s hands brushed through his surprisingly soft hair, steady as he eased the earring into place. His knuckles grazed skin, and for the briefest instant, the world seemed unbearably still, and he exhaled quietly, his warm breath fanning out, and invoking a subtle shiver from Mydei.
Up close, he could see how the gold warmed against Mydei’s skin, how the sapphire glowed like a shard of sky. His heart gave an odd, tight twist.
When it was done, Phainon stepped back. The sapphire gleamed against gold, vivid against the curve of Mydei’s ear as Mydei’s hand rose instinctively, brushing the jewel. His golden eyes lifted to meet Phainon’s, and for one startling heartbeat, there was no sneer, no wall, only raw, unguarded confusion and something else, something startling soft.
Beautiful, Phainon thought again, the word louder than he meant it to be.
Mydei blinked, the faintest furrow in his brow. “What…?” he began, voice low.
Phainon’s smile softened as he raked a hand through his bangs, pushing it away from his face, and he couldn't meet golden eyes heavy with softness, too scared. He shrugged, “It suits you.”
Notes:
I hope I did their canon dynamic justice tbh and I also hope I'm not going to fast
here's my twt if you wanna follow twt
muah muah thank you for reading 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻
moondrinker on Chapter 2 Sat 25 Oct 2025 11:23AM UTC
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potted_sedeveria on Chapter 2 Sat 25 Oct 2025 03:34PM UTC
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strawslk on Chapter 2 Sun 26 Oct 2025 03:32PM UTC
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Wisteria1507 on Chapter 2 Tue 28 Oct 2025 12:14PM UTC
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