#and have to find it to make sure it does actually already exist

[menlove]

Hello! I saw your post about how you deeply believe that John and Paul had sex frequently, and honestly I'm on the fence on whether or not I believe that they did. I was wondering if there were any particular reasons as to why you believe this or if it was just a feeling lol.

there's fsdfasdadf a lot To Me that convinces me but i'm not sure how solid it is so i'd say it's Mostly a feeling/vibe but i'll work through my reasoning under the cut (separated into The Vibes and then actual shit they've said/done that makes me go uh. hm.)

disclaimer: obviously i can't know if they fucked. at the end of the day it truly does not have any impact on my life if they did or not. this is also solely getting into whether or not they fucked, not the rest of the crazy shit they had going on bc that would genuinely take a 1000 page novel. i'm also not getting into proof about either one of them having gay sex bc if we take them both at face value that answer is a resounding "no" and this isn't about proving their queerness

i will say first of all we know for a fact they jerked off together & had sex in the same bed so i'm gonna go ahead and count that as sex bc it's 2025 and queer people have made leaps and bounds away from considering penetrative sex the only kind of sex that exists. but i don't think they would've considered either of those things sex. but in my view? that was sex. does also mean they've had sex with the other quarrymen though #happypride

vibes

first of for me is their personalities/circumstances. i mean it's obviously all very nuanced and i never knew them so there's aspects to their personalities that we obviously aren't privy to. but they were both very sexual people with incredibly loose sexual boundaries, neither of whom really ever had (or at least expressed) religious hangups around sex, and who were Both at the like forefront of the whole changing culture of the 60s to become freer, looser, less repressed. obviously them being free with heterosexual sex doesn't automatically equate to them having the same feelings about homosexual sex, but it's a factor in the way i think about it anyway.

we already know they were loose with sex with Each Other as well. there's ofc the beat the meatles thing (group wanking with the quarrymen/early beatles) but there's also the fact that they'd all have sex in the same tiny ass room in hamburg & the fact that john and paul allegedly had a foursome with a couple of girls whose pictures they took back in liverpool (on the same bed). again, that doesn't Necessarily translate to "yeah they'd have gay sex" but it just sets up that they weren't really prudish about sex and they weren't shy about having sex around/near each other. there's ALSO a different version of the story john told to pete floating around somewhere (can't find it rn so don't quote me on this) where in addition to everything else he mentions it (as in letting brian jerk him off) not being different than what he does with his friends. which does also implicate everyone Else, not just paul, but it's interesting.

i just do Not think that john would've had the self restraint to not make a move on paul if he wanted to. and from Well Everything, we can tell that he wanted to. john wasn't someone who had a lot of self control & i don't think his relationship to paul being "too important" or anything like that would've stopped him either. and i think if he'd made a move & paul shot him down, we would have never heard the end of it and there would've never been the beatles in the first place bc i don't think john would've taken it well at all. on paul's end, i can't see him turning john down either. if they were already jerking off together, potentially jerking each other off, having sex in the same bed, etc, i don't think it's a stretch to say he wouldn't have shoved john off for going further. and again, if he had, there would've been a more dramatic reaction. which means either john Never made a move, or he did & paul went with it.

ofc there's the whole india theory but i do not buy into that even remotely and i'm not getting into why again but tl;dr i just don't think it would be in character for Either of them to have this big dramatic rejection of john's feelings and for john to wait and simmer in it for 2 years before breaking up the band. i think if anything like that happened he would've lost his goddamn mind immediately and the band wouldn't have made it beyond like two more months lmao

i can however see paul making a move and john shooting it down due to His Issues, but i don't really see any time period where that would've potentially happened yk like there's not enough there to speculate on that one. but i can see it more than the opposite

they were also on so, so many drugs. you take two people with loose sexual boundaries and you put them on uppers/alcohol/weed/lsd/coke and i truly think it's more unlikely that they didn't ever fuck. i think most anyone who regularly gets drunk/high has at least one story about making out with/fucking someone they shouldn't. oftentimes when you can't remember shit.

there's also the severe lack of personal space between them & just the way they watch each other. ofc there's a severe lack of space between All the beatles, but it's glaringly obvious and embarrassing when they're all 4 in the same space and the blowjob brothers are over there ass to dick while everyone else has a respectable friend distance.

i won't put a photo/gif dump here i'm sure we've all seen them but this is the single one i have to add bc genuinely what is their problem:

and the way paul stops and then looks over at john after noticing he's watching his ass? they're as subtle as a brick to the head lmfao

tl;dr on the vibes: it's a if you give a mouse a cookie situation to me. if john was attracted to paul (he was), he would've made a move -> if john made a move on paul, paul would've said yes -> if paul had said no, there would have been 0 way john would've just gone on like normal -> nothing ever blew up like that sooo -> i think they fucked (in our definition- idfk what they would count it as). throw in their drug use & lack of personal space................

actual shit w substance

i don't think unless john's diaries leak or paul slips in his old age that we're Ever going to get any kind of Actual confirmation about if they did or did not have a sexual relationship of any kind. BUT there are some things that make me go. well okay !

and a disclaimer i don't think this is the only way you can interpret these things and i'm well aware i look like this rn

i mean this so seriously when i say the thing that convinced me they did actually fuck was john's real love (real life) demo. we know he's talking about paul bc he says "was i just dreaming, or was it only yesterday? i used to hold you in my arms. and now a baby and another on the way la la la farm" and then the added fact from this post that the daily news from that same year around the time john would've made this demo has a page dedicated to linda & paul expecting a new baby and in the same paper it's talking about cruises. which in the demo he says "picked up the paper, read the daily news, nothing doing anyway, same old bs, doot doot doot doot cruise." so we've got him singing about someone he used to hold in his arms that now has another baby on the way on a farm, which he found out about reading the daily news that mentioned cruises. when there was a paper from that day from the daily news announcing that linda & paul were expecting and talking about cruises. so i can say with confidence that he's talking about paul there. unless he was just wildly in love with linda lmfao. and of course "i used to hold you in my arms" doesn't exactly translate to "i fucked you" but like......????? there's really not much else you can infer from that. the rest of it is true to reality, so why would he embellish that bit with something he wished happened? why would he wished to have held him and then lost him anyway? and like it'd just be a weird thing to say about a platonic friend. i can't exactly imagine them just platonically laying around cuddling. i mean sure, maybe, but come on.

speaking of john's demos, there's also his weird paris shit (ignore that title lmfao. it is definitely a real demo & i actually accidentally own it on vinyl- it was one that got leaked during the lost lennon tapes). in it, he's singing to "my pau pau" about his little prod (lmfao) at a cafe on the left bank (hysterically also the title of a wings song ABOUT john and paul's trip to paris). i mean does that mean they fucked? maybe not. but also fucking bizarre to refer to your friend as "my pau pau" and start talking about his little dick while calling him my cheri..... like. again. come on.

speaking of paris there's also the whole skywriting by word of mouth thing. this one's the loosest bc it's fictional, but john based a lot of the sexual stories in skywriting by word of mouth on his own sexual exploits. also realizing for some reason i didn't put this in the original post, but leading up to the paris bit, it describes the man as a journalist who's in the middle of writing a play. but tl;dr on that link: john wrote a short story full of references to gay sex/gay culture about a man leaving writing a play to meet up with his lover in paris where they stay at the george v and fuck to god only knows. in 1966, john left filming how i won the war to meet up with paul in paris and they stayed at the george v. that's the same year pet sounds came out & paul got obsessed with god only knows as well. now this one could Also be taking the details of a very platonic meetup (paul did have one of his girlfriends, maggie mcgivern, with him) and adding a sexual connotation to them retroactively, but....................

i'm also throwing this paul song into the mix bc .....????? sure man. i'll also throw let me roll it into that category bc of the "he gave me loving in the palm of my hand" thing like okay man. i'm sure he did. and best friend/call me back again are just self explanatory.

this one is EXTREMELY loose and i don't believe 99% of them but there Are a ton of rumors/blind items if you go digging around about them kind of openly fucking during the 60s (as well as paul & linda having threesomes with men lmao). not linking those bc i wouldn't count them as even a remotely reliable source but they exist and all say just about the same thing

am i 100% certain they fucked? i mean no. but it just seems way less likely to me that they didn't. and i've seen historical narratives built on less so i'm gonna go on w my interpretation that they did fuck nasty in whatever way

[everettes-requiem]

"Why are you so angry?

You speak really formally, you know? A lot of people here speak really formally. It makes it scarier for the smaller blokes when you start lashing out like that. You think no one can hear the arguments you have with others? It's always like listening to a stage play with the way you lot talk to each other.

Why do you do that, why do you act so hostile all the time? Is there any point or are you just doing it to feel a step above everyone else? We're stranded here together, you know, you're not going to benefit isolating yourself like that.

You don't have to be formal with me. We're on equal footing, in the same situation, aren't we? I could be your friend."

- ☀️ ( @finscadetkids )

“you’re nicholas. you’re friends with johnny” he spoke before the other could even get a word in. he let out his words cautiously, a bit more careful than he usually was. he looked at nicholas in the eye only slightly, before turning his attention to the weapon strapped to him. that was the real cause for concern.

“why are you here?” his eyes narrowed. surely johnny had told him about their little quarrel. though everette was sure nicholas was harmless, and that he himself was far from a rabid animal, so it was unlikely that he would shoot him point blank. but, there was still a possibility— and that possibility was most likely higher now considering how recently he made enemies with his best friend

but despite this and his efforts at the start to stay wary, his inherent nature betrayed his deteriorating want to live— to survive that is. his accursed tongue was no stranger to verbalizing his inner unbridled detestation, and thus, he did. there was no longer much regard for the other's feelings, nor his own life at this point so early in time

“did he send you my direction to send a bullet through my head? i already have enough to deal with after what abel did to me, you know. but of course you probably know. everybody does at this point. word spreads fast amongst you loathsome lot. as fast as 'he fire that happened on this island when we first got here. or maybe—“

everette’s words, just as they were starting to return to their rhythmic bouts of bitterness, ended as quick as they began. his words caught in his throat, the other boy's question hanging in the hair, until it fell into everette's hands. his grey eyes slowly met nicholas’ brown eyes. a glare riddled with building aggravation, met with a look of straightforward sincerity.

heat started to prickle beneath everette's skin. it slowly began to simmer to the surface, no doubt it was going to boil and overflow sooner or later. “what kind of question is that? you know, your little blue eyed friend came up to me with a stupid question just like yours not too long ago. didn't think i've ever cross a question more foolish than his, but 'hen here you are, presenting me with one 'hat might as well serve to be a testament to how daft you can really be. that's one thing about you nicholas, you just have to keep proving me wrong, don't you?"

"i've constantly overheard people say you two are opposites, but maybe i'm the first to actually find a solid similarity. how you two are complete idiots and sorry excuses for people. is that why johnny said you like the smarter folk? is 'hat to make up for your wits being non-existent, or am I mistaken? oh, of course not, i never actually am"

"you do know the saying that goes two heads are better than one, do you not, nicholas? though, how much better are they really if they're both as hollow as some seashell, hm? just like that useless conch that ralph still keeps around, 'hinking it'll do him any good anymore"

“it’s not like i was expecting anything more out of you, wasn’t expecting much at all, really. you could even say that they were in the ground, six feet below or what not— especially with the kind of people you associate with. but, perhaps even then my expectations were apparently too high, which I never thought to be possible"

"i thought you were going to shoot me dead. make me bleed from my head rather than from my nose. but now? quite honestly, i think i’d rather 'ake that over having a conversation with you” but, through all of this, the initial question still remained unanswered. purposeful ignorance, avoidance even. nicholas moved on after all, no reason for everette to dwell on it, no matter how much it provoked him. but, why did it provoke him so? was it because he truly thought it wasn't worth his time? or was it because for once, he couldn't properly answer him because he didn't know how to.

everette opted to focus on other things instead, he had no choice but to do so. he strained to listen to nicholas, a faint pain beginning to nag at him, his head aching. "if you want to talk about speaking formally, you should refer to reeves. 'hat boy speaks in riddles or something, such nonsense coming out of that self righteous mouth of his"

"what's the point in trying to get a message across when no one can understand you? no point at all 'hat's for sure. if you say anything about it though he'll probably retort back by saying how a simpleton such as yourself couldn't even begin to understand words of such superiority and grace. he makes me want to vomit." he let out a shaky breath, wiping off the excess blood that had now dried from his bruised and battered nose. his expression remained unbothered, although tension played at some of his features

"reeves thinks he'll make such a big impact in society. i just think reality has yet to hit him in the face, to knock him down a few pegs from 'hat pedestal he puts himself on. when that happens he's going to fall right into the loony bin, into 'he mental asylum where he belongs"

"there's something wrong with him, im sure of it. not just his ugly face, but internally as well. isn't it ironic? he's so closely affiliated with damon, who's the medic of the island, and yet no matter what, i bet that he could never fix reeves even if he tried!" if this were anyone else, perhaps there would be a little humor woven into that otherwise crude statement to lighten the connotations. but, everette was not just anyone else, of course he wasn't. the boy only grimaced, looking off to the side. he meant what he said.

"or take ripley for instance. he tends to articulate his 'houghts in such poetic verses. he did tell me he got full marks in writing back in school before we ended up here, so maybe that has something to do with it. every word of his is akin to the bindings of a book. strung together for one reason or another, it’s beyond me, really. can barely tell what’s going on in that head of his, i’d think it would be rather difficult to think with constant buzzing going on. if he even does think for himself anymore”

“there were days i wished he would just go quiet. no matter how lyrical and appealing his words may seem, when they are constantly following you around like some never ending allegory, 'hen it would end up driving you to your wits end sooner or later. but, i will say with indifference that my past desire has partly come true now. he speaks less than he used to, he mutters more than he actually talks. however, it’s all still very flowery. it’s much like 'he flowers he used to gift me. though, i'm sure flowers wilt in his path nowadays. the byproduct of his chosen lineage, i suppose"

his voice evened out at the last words, falling into silence. the waves fell high and low, and the wind blew past, it all served as white noise that then only emphasized how uncharacteristically still everette stood. he even looked, uncomfortable for a moment. the boy shook his head, crossing his arms.

"either way, i do not know their reasons, and I don’t care to give you mine in full. all you need to know is that if my father bids me to speak this way, then I will listen. he said that the way you speak is indicative of the boy you are, if not the man you will find yourself growing to be in the future. if you have a proper grasp on your words, then you may as well have the world in the palm of your hand. at the very least, that is what i remember him saying. I cannot recall his exact words anymore. i used to be able to. but, it has been a while since I last spoke to him, even before we got here"

everette's expression only faltered into more discomfort, his shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. whether they were meant to compose himself, or they were from losing his composure, it was unclear. he gripped onto the skin of his arms, almost absentmindedly like he didn't mean to do so. they looked quite different from before. the flesh was once so pristine, free of impurity. but now? they were covered in shallow scars. nicks, scratches, cuts alike.

he eyed nicholas again, the dirty look just barely offsetting the evident ache that was painted over the rest of him "but tell me, nicholas. when we got here, what did you 'hink was going to happen after a while? of course arguments were bound to stir up, of course disagreements and disputes were going to happen. and they will continue to do so. sure, perhaps for a little while at the start this place was some garden of eden to some of you. trees full of fruit, pristine waters, no adults to sully a good time"

"but then you take into account the selection of people here, and you realize something. 'hings were going to fall apart one way or another. whether that be between people our age, those who are older than us who should really know better, or even the littluns as 'hey kick sand into each other's eyes” his nails dug into his skin, but he continued to look nicholas dead in the eye. it was almost like he didn't notice the way it hurt, like he didn't mean to, he just did. and god knows why he did.

“we are in the middle of a war. we are stranded on a damned island with perhaps our only chance of salvation having already slipped from our fingers. do you think it matters to me who sees anymore? do you think i care about how it affects the others around when they overhear? I could care less about what they think! I don't— I don't care about how they perceive me, if that's what you think! I know i'm better 'han all of you, everyone else just has yet to get it through their numb skulls. i'll be revered as I was meant to be. I will"

"if they were truly scared, how about they just pry their eyes away and run off to some place where they don’t have to come across such sights? but no! you all still watch, don’t you?” as he spoke, his nails only dug deeper, threatening to draw blood. it was as if he was trying to claw and reach the sacrilegious nature of his soul. as if he was trying to pull out the hatred that ran deep in his veins, even if that meant hurting his body that was only so human.

“at least something comes out of it 'hough, right? according to you, all these quarrels and fights, they all piece together to craft a very original stage play for your very own personal viewing. entertainment, is that what you saw in it? find it pretty funny seeing me get my face beaten, didn't you, nicholas?"

"go off and find some more of it then if you find it so amusing. there’s plenty to go around here. maybe you can catch that god-awful merridew and ralph bickering with one another again. or here's some food for 'hought. perhaps you can even star in some little drama of your own. though, you aren't exactly star material. but, 'here are some exceptions. you would fit perfectly in a tragedy, you know? i would just adore seeing you die at the end. i'd go so far as to say that would be a picture perfect film" he scoffed, his gaze finally settling beyond the distant shore. he slowly uncrossed his arms, rubbing at them a bit. it was as if he thought he could wipe off the blemishes. how silly. don't you agree?

"now sod off, leave me alone. will you at the very least give me that much peace?" his voice cracked at the end. the tone of it still held an undeniable harshness, but if one were to listen closely, exhaustion had begun to lace itself at the ends. he brushed the tangles of his hair out at the bottoms, the curls at the edges barely maintained. he sighed, lowering himself down, sitting on the sand. the ocean waters came up, the seafoam nearly grazing him.

he thought that would be it, that nicholas would leave him alone. he would walk away, either being nice enough to give everette the loneliness that he wanted, or simply just being deterred enough from anything further. perhaps everette would even overhear a word or two dripping with newfound contempt slipping from the other's mouth as he did so. it was inevitable, it's what should have happened. but, that's not what the outcome ended up being.

the shadow that once loomed over him had gone away, only to be replaced with the very same presence, only now sitting beside him. patience is a heavenly virtue, and everette was far from the angel he claimed to be. the little patience he had was being held together by a singular thin thread, hung over his head. that thread had been cut clean as soon as nicholas began to speak once more, everette's restraint burning up more and more at each question that only acted as fuel to the flames in his lungs.

he turned to nicholas sharply, flinching backwards and away from him. his temper had come to a boil, his nerves ill at ease. the water that now washed up to his palms did nothing to cool the heat on his skin. he should have just got up and left, he didn't owe nicholas an answer. but, it was as if the words got ripped out from his throat, the defensive vices spilling from his lips like uncontrollable bile.

“why is it so hard to understand that i don't want you near me? keep me out of your filthy mouth, will you? i'm not hostile, nor do i lash out, but if you're making me out to be 'hat way then perhaps you are deserving to be on the receiving end of it! i’m just being honest, and it is not my fault that other people cannot handle the truth. if 'hey are going to take it so horribly, then so be it! i would gladly take isolation and have that familiar forsaken loneliness to plague me, over constantly surrounding myself with people who don't deserve to breathe the same air as me!"

"it is not my fault either 'hat i am simply just a cut above the rest of you. i have no need to make myself feel that way, what purpose would that serve? it would be absolutely redundant when i know i already am a step above all of you. and— and i am! i'm like this because— because" suddenly, his voice that had once been so loud and aggressive, fell into a hush. his eyes once so full of blatant frustration, went blank.

everette struggled to find his words, and for once, he stumbled over them. he stuttered and mumbled underneath his breath, incoherent muddled phrases leaving his lips, barely audible over the tides crashing into one another. he tried to form an explanation, even fabricate one if he had to. but, he couldn't. at least, none that he could admit to the other boy that he now looked away from, and more less himself.

he looked down at the sand, hugging his knees close to his chest. he felt awfully small, he was feeling like that a lot lately. his words came out worn and uneasy, quieter and more unsure than he had ever been before. “i don’t— I don't know, okay? why are you prying? are you trying to get something out of me so you can use it against me? spread it around to everyone else here who hates me? i've given them good reason to, you know”

everette was always faced with questions, and if not, then general interactions were constantly being offered instead. in turn, they were always met with varying, long winding responses. however, there was always one continuity. everette always insulted, berated, mocked or scorned. no one was excused from it because to him, everyone had something he could tear apart before stepping on the remains that resided beneath his shoe. in that awful sense, perhaps he did treat everyone with some form of equality.

the way he acted was a means to bring him safety, it acted as his security, even if it ended up warping his fate. so, what was he to do when it came to this? when someone did not approach him with curious naivety or the same vile scrutiny that he was so familiar with, but instead— genuine humanity? he was so confused, disorientated even. how was he supposed to act?

"I don't know— I don't. what do you want me to do? what can i do? i'm not like you, nicholas. i was born to be better, I was raised to be better, i'm supposed to be better. and thus i know that at the end of the day, the niceties that you preach will all be futile. this situation will either end with us dead, or alive long enough to make it off of here. and when that day comes, you all won't have to see me ever again. it’s going to end someday, one way or another. I don’t care about the means, as long as I get to the end. as long as I get to see her again"

"or maybe, do you want me to change? I can't, nicholas. i will always be my father’s son. bound by blood and yet not by heart nor soul" everette felt droplets of water hit the scraped skin of his knees. tear droplets. the tears trickled down his eyes in steady streams, warm against his skin, though the warmth brought no comfort. he hadn't even noticed, he couldn't even gauge when he first started to cry. but, there was no use in wiping them away anymore.

"I don't know why i'm saying all of this. against my better judgement i'm admitting all of this. 'hough, what I do know is that it's not to make you feel bad for me, if that's what you're assuming. i'm above that. i've above the pity you give out as some form of benevolent charity. I don't want nor need it, i'm not here to garner sympathy."

"i just— i think a part of me believes that if i don't take your little folly attempt to understand as my opportunity to, for once be vulnerable. then, perhaps one day, one of you would come across my bleeding body. all of the sins of human kind i’ve swallowed bleeding right out of my deceased being, instead of the confessions i am making right now as i sit here, still alive. telling them to you out of all people. i never would have thought. god, what do I make of myself anymore? what am I doing?"

he let a shaky breath in and out, tilting his head to look at nicholas— and for once, he didn't look like some amalgamation of corrupted verses from the testaments. everette looked like a child. a child who only knew how to hate for he never was loved enough. “truthfully, i just miss someone, nicholas. and, im sure you got a family who misses you. so does johnny, i assume. in that way, perhaps we are vaguely connected"

"but with how you are, and with who i am, i doubt friendship could ever come to fruition. I don't want to be friends. we're strangers, not equals, nor friends, who are only tied together by our situation as you mentioned yourself. but, if you mean it. we can talk here by the beach more. skip rocks, or what not? it'll be boring, but i think i would take boring over everything else that's going on right about now” his words were awkward, his voice foreign to even himself, but he was trying.

“that's my offer, since i turned down yours” and for once, something seemed to shift. not the tides, nor the wind, nor the boys' and their circumstance. but maybe, for once, something within everette did.

— everette ainsworth 🪽 nicholas @conchcorner

& johnny @conchcorner mentioned

mention @ask-abel-lotf

mention @white-wysteria

mention @bubos-apothecary

mention @henrys-eulogy-aflame

[serpentface]

This was going to be a panel of a little comic but I got too invested in drawing minute background details so, here.

[fidgetspringer-art]

✧ The Ardal stars ✧

[sketchtastrophee]

old art again!! this time a rough animation of sawyer and yarnaby 😎 (looks better if u click to view 😭)

im working on a short ppt animation rn. im thinking i should post it to my youtube channel, though im not sure if people here would see it. i think i can link videos on here?? idk

okay I'm gonna talk abt more chapter 4 stuff.. this time about prototype's previous identity.. ch4 spoilers and also a theory below..

hiding the solo yarnaby under here LOL

people theorized 1006 was elliot, which was recently disproven in the chapter 4 tape where poppy refers to elliot as her dad and wishes he were there. in the same tape she addresses prototype as a completely different person. also recall that elliot died in the 90s, meanwhile prototype met theo in 1989. so yeah, they aren't the same person

I've also seen people say rich is prototype, which cannot be true either. in a ch4 tape he speaks to one of the employees under his supervision. the kid mentions his coworkers joking about him going missing. before the bbi, it would not make sense for this to be a common rumor at the company, which means this tape had to happen after harley was hired in 1990; at a time when the company would have a reason to silence people

prototype existed in 1989 at the minimum, but considering he says "it's always been about you and me" to poppy, he's likely the prototype of HER. she's elliots daughter, she died in the 60s, meaning prototype was probably created around that time as well.

this means that rich can't be the prototype because he was human long after prototype was made

if you want my take on who prototype truly is, i'd say his identity doesn't necessarily matter. i don't mean to say his origins aren't important, just that his name and specific role in the past probably doesn't mean anything in the long run. i've never believed he was elliot or rich, and maybe in the future i'll be proven wrong but for now i'll tell you the theory i've had since june of last year

elliot's daughter dies in the 60s. he divorced his wife in 1930, so his daughter is probably in her 30s when she dies. she gets sick or injured, maybe she's actively dying or already dead by the time elliot begins his research. he looks for ways to bring her back, but it doesn't work on the rats (as he mentioned a note in the 2nd chapter)

so what does he do? he tries it on something bigger as he said he would: a human. of course he's not going to try this experimental method on his own daughter, even if she's already dead, so he finds someone else to use it on. we know that elliot wasn't evil or anything, so it's unlikely he killed anybody to use for the experiment. considering the orphanage isn't open yet (it opened in the 70s, not the 60s), prototype probably wasn't an orphan child either. if i run with my simple version of the theory, elliot may have dug up a body in a graveyard and used that. maybe a fresh one, who knows. he tried it, it worked, then he revived his daughter with the same method.

this is likely what harley wanted to know about in the chapter 3 tape (the "i learn something new about you every day" one), and also what prototype is asking harley to figure out in the ch4 tape they're both in. in that case, sawyer never actually figured out how to revive people with the poppy substance. sure, he can transfer people into the toys, but he can't bring anybody back to life

more reason to believe prototype and poppy are of the same "batch" is because it seems they are the only two who don't need food. it's outright stated about him in the ch1 trailer, and insinuated with her saying the "toys will starve otherwise" when she's talking about how nasty them eating humans is. she refers to them, not herself. her and prototype are probably the only 2 who were ever brought back from the dead, which circles back around to his monologue and gives meaning to the "it's always been about you and me, poppy. what we are". when i heard him say that i felt like my theory was lowk confirmed 😭😭

no guarantee this is right, but it's been my guess for a long time

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

🧩 How to Outline Without Feeling Like You’re Dying

(a non-suffering writer’s guide to structure, sanity, and staying mildly hydrated)

Hey besties. Let’s talk outlines. Specifically: how to do them without crawling into the floorboards and screaming like a Victorian ghost.

If just hearing the word “outline” sends your brain into chaos-mode, welcome. You’re not broken, you’re just a writer whose process has been hijacked by Very Serious Advice™ that doesn’t fit you. You don’t need to build a military-grade beat sheet. You don’t need a sixteen-tab spreadsheet. You don’t need to suffer to be legitimate. You just need a structure that feels like it’s helping you, not haunting you.

So. Here’s how to outline your book without losing your soul (or all your serotonin).

—

🍓 1. Stop thinking of it as “outlining.” That word is cursed. Try “story sketch.” “Narrative roadmap.” “Planning soup.” Whatever gets your brain to chill out. The goal here is to understand your story, not architect it to death.

Outlining isn’t predicting everything. It’s just building a scaffold so your plot doesn't fall over mid-draft.

—

🧠 2. Find your plot skeleton. There are lots of plot structures floating around: 3-Act. Save the Cat. Hero’s Journey. Take what helps, ignore the rest.

If all else fails, try this dirt-simple one I use when my brain is mush:

Act I: What’s the problem?

Act II: Why can’t we fix it?

Act III: What finally makes us change?

Ending: What does that change cost?

You don’t need to fill in every detail. You just need to know what’s driving your character, what’s blocking them, and what choices will change them.

—

🛒 3. Make a “scene bucket list.” Before you start plotting in order, write down a list of scenes you know you want: key vibes, emotional beats, dramatic reveals, whatever.

These are your anchors. Even if you don’t know where they go yet, they’re proof your story already exists, it just needs connecting tissue.

Bonus: when you inevitably get stuck later, one of these might be the scene that pulls you back in.

—

🧩 4. Start with 5 key scenes. That’s it. Here’s a minimalist approach that won’t kill your momentum:

Opening (what sucks about their world?)

Catalyst (what throws them off course?)

Midpoint (what makes them confront themselves?)

Climax (what breaks or remakes them?)

Ending (what’s changed?)

Plot the spaces between those after you’ve nailed these. Think of it like nailing down corners of a poster before smoothing the rest.

You’re not “doing it wrong” if you start messy. A messy start is a start.

—

🔧 5. Use the outline to ask questions, not just answer them. Every section of your outline should provoke a question that the scene must answer.

Instead of: — “Chapter 5: Sarah finds a journal.”

Try: — “Chapter 5: What truth does Sarah find that complicates her next move?”

This makes your story active, not just a list of stuff that happens. Outlines aren’t just there to record, they’re tools for curiosity.

—

🪤 6. Beware of the Perfectionist Trap™. You will not get the entire plot perfect before you write. Don’t stall your momentum waiting for a divine lightning bolt of Clarity. You get clarity by writing.

Think of your outline as a map drawn in pencil, not ink. It’s allowed to evolve. It should evolve.

You’re not building a museum exhibit. You’re making a prototype.

—

🧼 7. Clean up after you start drafting. Here’s the secret: the first draft will teach you what the story’s actually about. You can go back and revise the outline to fit that. It’s not wasted work, it’s evolving scaffolding.

You don’t have to build the house before you live in it. You can live in the mess while you figure out where the kitchen goes.

—

🛟 8. If you’re a discovery writer, hybrid it. A lot of “pantsers” aren’t anti-outline, they’re just anti-stiff-outline. That’s fair.

Try using “signposts,” not full scenes:

Here’s a secret someone’s hiding.

Here’s the emotional breakdown scene.

Here’s a betrayal. Maybe not sure by who yet.

Let the plot breathe. Let the characters argue with your outline. That tension is where the fun happens.

—

🪴 TL;DR but emotionally: You don’t need a flawless outline to write a good book. You just need a loose net of ideas, a couple of emotional anchors, and the willingness to pivot when your story teaches you something new.

Outlines should support you, not suffocate you.

Let yourself try. Let it be imperfect. That’s where the good stuff lives.

Go forth and outline like a gently chaotic legend 🧃

— written with snacks in hand by Rin T. @ thewriteadviceforwriters 🍓🧠✍️

Sometimes the problem isn’t your plot. It’s your first 5 pages. Fix it here → 🖤 Free eBook: 5 Opening Pages Mistakes to Stop Making:

[delinquentkru]

the narrative/visual cues in this scene from 1x01 are so important to how the show views mel and langdon’s dynamic and i need to talk about it lol

robby doesn’t really have any friends, nor does he want any. while he is obviously willing to mentor those junior to him at the pitt, he is also very clearly uninterested in their personal lives (with the exception of collins). he’s able to support them when it comes to difficulties on the job but it doesn’t go much further than that.

the issue there is that most of the characters are not leaving their work at work (including robby himself lmao). it is seemingly going home with them and impacting the other parts of their lives. ultimately, they all need to connect with others who understand that feeling and can help them navigate it. mel isn’t as guarded as the rest of them so she makes it pretty apparent that she’s looking for this kind of connection (speaking of, can everyone pls just be friends with her already??? jfc). langdon is more subtle about it, but he's also looking for the exact same thing.

his exchange with robby in this scene is so telling because he clearly sees robby as one of his best friends and robby can barely admit that they're friends at all (which....brutal). langdon is asking for emotional connection/reassurance in that moment and, essentially, being rejected.

and right as this rejection is occurring, mel enters the scene (both literally and figuratively lol). mel, who wants emotional connection and is very willing to give it in return. it feels like a little wink from the show letting you know that these two are going to be actual friends. it’s also a perfectly written starting point for the parallel between robby and langdon’s mentor-mentee relationship and the one that comes to exist between langdon and mel. whereas robby is not attuned enough to langdon to notice his struggles, langdon is constantly checking in with mel to make sure she’s doing okay and then offering up support when she needs it. langdon's not perfect at it and he missteps a few times when it comes to her, but it feels a lot like he is treating mel the way he wishes robby would treat him </3

you then have the added intrigue of robby watching langdon and mel interact for the first time and looking for collins immediately after. as if something about those two possibly reminded robby of himself and collins. i just find the choice to visually parallel langdon/mel and robby/collins in 1x01 to be very curious now that we know robby and collins were romantically involved. and i don’t have much more to say regarding that other than 👀👀👀

tl;dr the framing of mel and langdon’s first real interaction on the show really highlights how important they are/will be to one another.

[dalishious]

The Sanitized Lore of Dragon Age: The Veilguard

Tevinter is the heart of slavery in Thedas. This lore has been established in every game, novel, comic, and other extended material in the Dragon Age franchise to date that so much as mentions the nation. But in Dragon Age: The Veilguard, when we are finally able to actually visit this location for the first time… this rampant slavery we’ve heard so much about is nowhere to be found. It’s talked about here and there; Neve mentions The Viper has a history of freeing slaves, as does Rook themselves if they choose the Shadow Dragon faction as their origin, for example. But walking down the streets of Minrathous, you’d never know. Because Dragon Age: The Veilguard, for all its enjoyment otherwise, has one glaring issue: It’s too clean.

The world of Thedas is full of injustices. Humans persecute elves, fear qunari, and belittle dwarves. Mages of any race are treated like caged animals in most places. The nobility is corrupt. Although, Dragon Age has not always handled these injustices well, mind you. Many, many times I’ve found myself frustrated with moments that just feel like a Racism Simulator. But what makes it worth it, is when you can actually do something about it. These injustices are things that a good-aligned character strives to fight back against, maybe even for very personal reasons. Part of the power-fantasy for many minorities is that this fight feels tangible. I cannot arrange the assassination of a corrupt politician in real life, but I sure can get Celene Valmont stabbed to death in Dragon Age: Inquisition, for example. Additionally, these fictional injustices can be used to make statements on real life parallels, like any source of media. For example, no, the Chant of Light is not real, but acting as a stand-in for Catholicism, through a media analysis lens we can explore what the Chant of Light communicates on a figurative level.

When starting Dragon Age: The Veilguard and selecting to play as an elf – this should be unsurprising to anyone who is familiar with my bias towards them – I was fully prepared to enter the streets of Minrathous and immediately get called “knife-ear” or “rabbit”. But this did not happen. I thought perhaps it was just a prologue thing, but returning to Minrathous once again, there was not a single shred of disapproval from any NPC I encountered that wasn’t a generic enemy to fight. And even the generic enemies, the Tevinter Nationalist cult of the Venatori, didn’t seem to care at all that I was a lineage they deemed inferior before now. This is a stark difference from entering the Winter Palace in Dragon Age: Inquisition and immediately getting hit with court disapproval and insults. Are we now to believe that Tevinter has somehow solved its astronomical racism and classism problems in the ten years since the past game? Or perhaps are we to believe all the characters who have demonstrated Tevinter’s systemic discriminatory views were just lying or outliers? Because it makes absolutely no sense at all for this horribly corrupt nation to not have a shred of reactivity to an elven or qunari Rook prancing around. But here were are, and not a single NPC even recognizes my character’s lineage. And because this is so different from every single past game, it feels weird.

As an elf, you have the option to make a comment about how “too many humans look down on us” in one scene early in the game. You can also talk to Bellara and Davrin, the elven companions, about concerns that people won’t trust elves after finding out about the big bad Ancient Evanuris… but this is presented as if elves don’t already face persecution. It’s all so limited in scope that it could be all too easily missed if you are not paying very close attention, and coming into the game with pre-existing lore knowledge.

All this made it easy to first assume that the developers simply over-corrected an attempt to address the Racism Simulator moments. And if that was the case, than I would at least give credit to effort; they did not find the right balance, but they at least tried. However, the sudden lack of discrimination against different lineages in Dragon Age: The Veilguard is not the only sanitized example of lore present.

In Dragon Age: Origins, Zevran Arainai is a companion who is from the Antivan Crows; a group of assassins. He discusses in detail how the Crows buy children and raise them into murder machines through all kinds of torture. The World of Thedas books also describe how the Antivan Crows work, echoing what Zevran says and expanding that of the recruitment, only a select handful of those taken by the Crows even survive. When you start Dragon Age: The Veilguard as an Antivan Crow, you immediately unlock a re-used codex entry from the past, “The Crows and Queen Madrigal”, that says the following:

“His guild has a reputation to uphold. They are ruthless, efficient, and discreet. How would they maintain such notoriety if agents routinely revealed the names of employers with something as "banal" as torture.”

Ruthless, efficient, and discreet. Torture is banal. This is what the Crows were before Dragon Age: The Veilguard decided to take them in a very different direction. The Antivan Crows in this latest game are painted as freedom fighters against the Antaam occupation of Treviso. Teia calls the Crows “patriots”. And while I can certainly believe that the Crows would have enough motivation to fight back against the Antaam, given that it is in direct opposition to their own goals, I cannot understand why they are suddenly suggested to be morally good. They are assassins. They treat their people like tools and murder for money. Even as recent as the Tevinter Nights story Eight Little Talons, it is addressed that the Antivan Crows are in it for the coin and power, with characters like Teia being outliers for wanting to change that. It makes the use of the older codex all the more confusing, as it sets the Antivan Crows up as something they are no longer portrayed as.

I personally think it would have been really interesting to explore a morally corrupt faction in comparison to say, the Shadow Dragons. Perhaps even as a protagonist, address things like the enslavement of “recruits” to make the faction at least somewhat better. (They are still assassins, after all.) Instead, we’re just supposed to ignore everything unsavory about them, I suppose…

We could discuss even further examples. Like how the Lords of Fortune pillage ruins but it’s okay, because they never sell artifacts of cultural importance, supposedly. Or how the only problem with the Templar Order in Tevinter is just the “bad apples” that work with Venatori. I could go on, but I don’t think I have to.

It is because of all this sanitization, that I cannot believe this was simply over-correction on a developmental part. Especially when there is still racism in the game, in other forms. The impression I’m left with feels far deeper than that; it feels corporate. As if a computer ran through the game’s script and got rid of anything with “too much” political substance. The strongest statements are hidden in codex entries, and I almost suspect they had to be snuck in.

Between a Racism Simulator and just ignoring anything bad whatsoever, I believe a balance is achievable; that sweet spot that actually has something to say about what it is presenting. I know it is achievable, because there are a few bright spots of this that I’ve encountered in Dragon Age: The Veilguard too. For example, some of the codex entries like I mentioned, and almost all the content with the Grey Wardens thus far. It is a shame there is not more content on this level.

Dragon Age: The Veilguard is overall still a fun game, in my opinion. But it’s hard to argue that it isn’t missing the grit of its predecessors. The sharp edges have been smoothed. The claws have been removed. The house has been baby-proofed. And for what purpose?

-----

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[munsonsmixtapes]

Just One More

virgin!eddie x fem!reader

You literally fall into Eddie's lap and after doing you a favor, you somehow become his first.

cw: MDNI (18+) smut (p in v)

The party is in full swing when you get there. This is the first one you’ve gone to alone since your messy break up and it feels weird but oddly freeing to not have anyone by your side. You had no one to answer to, to wait on and you didn’t have to worry about being abandoned so he could go talk with his friends and pretend like you didn’t even exist. 

But because you have the most terrible luck, you spot him in the kitchen, flirting with the exact guy that he always told you not to worry about. This all has to be some elaborate joke that life has decided to play on you, that’s the only thing that makes sense. Well, good for them. They deserve each other. 

You swear you see Johnny look your way and hurry into the living room, backing up as quickly as possible to make sure that they can’t see you, but of course, because this is all still some joke, you end up falling onto something, or rather, someone. A cute someone at that. He’s got curly, dark brown hair and the prettiest eyes you’ve ever seen. 

“I’m so sorry,” you apologize quickly. Instead of being offended like you assume he would be, he just smiles and it’s pretty. 

“I’m not,” he says, his voice taking on a flirty tone. Maybe life is actually starting to be kinder to you. 

“You’re not?” You ask, sitting up and the stranger just smiles wider. 

“Not at all. It’s not everyday a pretty girl literally falls into my lap.” Your cheeks heat at his compliment and you shyly turn away, only seeing that Johnny’s eyes have locked on yours. 

“Can I ask a huge favor?” He doesn’t even know you but is sure that he’d do whatever you asked. You’ve already bewitched him and he doesn’t even know your name. He always falls fast and hard and it never seems to get him anywhere. His heart always gets broken in the end. 

“Anything,” he breathes, not even caring how desperate he sounds. 

“My ex is over there and I really need you to kiss me,” you say, leaning closer and Eddie is standing to wonder what kind of dream he’s entered because surely something as perfect as this wouldn’t be real life, right?

“Sure,” he nods, his lips parting, and you slot yours between them as your arms wrap around his neck. One hand rests against your waist as the other cradles the back of your head. 

The kiss is soft and sweet, everything you could have ever hoped for. It’s like what you’ve seen in the movies but didn’t think was real. There’s a spark there and you already feel sad knowing that you’re going to have to break the kiss eventually. 

You stay like that for so long that you completely forget why you initially asked him, so caught up in his lips that you forget about everything else but him. And Eddie’s not even sure how he’s able to kiss you back since his mind is so fuzzy, no thoughts going on besides your lips. 

You’re straddling his waist now, kissing his neck and all he can do is whine, wanting more, needing more. You’re whispering the most filthy things into his skin. He wants to do everything you’re asking of him. He wants to fully submit to you. To be your good boy. 

“That’s a nice sound,” you tell him, your lips finding his again. “You wanna make it again? Maybe somewhere more private?” 

He wants to, he really does. But he’s never done that kind of thing before. Hell, he’s barely even kissed anyone before tonight so he’s sure that he’d have no idea what to do. You clearly seem to be much more experienced than him and he wouldn’t want to disappoint you. 

So he’s not sure why he agrees and lets you lead him up the stairs to an empty bedroom. His heart is pounding as you close the door then push him onto the bed. He knows he should say something, but his mind goes blank as you start to undress, your lacy bra making his cheeks flush. 

He just stays there, staring up at you as you move onto your jeans, giving him his own personal show and he’s not going to dare to tell you to stop. Especially not when he feels his pants getting tighter. 

He’s adorable, you think. He’s staring at you with drool practically falling from his lips and you wonder why he’s here alone tonight when any woman would be lucky to have him. He’s sweet and kind and you feel so grateful to have fallen into his lap. He’s unlike any guy you’ve ever met and you just know that he’ll be nothing but a gentleman when he finally gets you into bed. 

He’s staring intently, his pupils getting bigger so that his eyes look almost black and you decide that you need him and you need him now. and he needs you too considering how hard he is right now. 

You’re now just in your bra and panties and you make your way for him, placing yourself on top of him, kissing him until he’s breathless. Your hands slide up his shirt as your lips move to his neck again, pushing the shirt up slowly until you can get it over his head. 

“I-I’ve never done this before,” he says breathily. You’re quick to pull away, reaching for your clothes, but he stops you, taking your hands in his. “But I want you to be my first.” 

“You do?” You ask. “You don’t even know my name.” 

“I’m Eddie,” he replies with that pretty smile and you swear your heart melts for just a second. 

“Y/n.” 

“Y/n,” he repeats, putting emphasis on each syllable and it sounds so pretty coming out of his mouth. ”Now I do know your name and I still want you to be my first…if you want.” 

“I’m not very good, just so you know.” Those were the exact words that Johnny had said to you every time 

“How would I know?” He lets out a laugh and it makes your heart flutter. God, he’s perfect. He’s perfect and you’re probably never going to see him again. That’s why you’ve got to make tonight count. So you pull him in for another kiss, sticking your tongue into his mouth this time and he moans, loudly, a sound he’s only made when he was by himself. 

You begin to grind against him and now he’s whining into your mouth and the sound is intoxicating. You need more. You need to ride him until all he can get out is your name, screaming it until he can’t anymore. 

“You gonna be a good boy for me?” You ask as your hands slip between your bodies, feeling around for the button of his jeans. 

“God, yes,” he breathes. Once they’re off, it’s much easier to see his bulge and how much of an effect you’ve had on him from giving him your little show plus your kisses. He’s never wanted anyone so badly and he’s prepared to do whatever, be whatever you ask of him. 

He sees you pulling something from your purse and immediately realizes that it’s a condom as soon as comes into view. You slowly pull down his boxers and he should be shy about you being the only girl to ever see his cock, but he’s not. 

“I’m gonna put this on you, okay?” You tell him and he nods as his boxers finally come off and your eyes widen at the size of him. You roll the condom onto him then quickly remove your panties before straddling him. 

You settle on top of him nice and slow to get him used to it and the moan that falls from his lips is enough to make you soaked. He’s already coming undone so you’re going to take your time because you know he’s not going to last very long. 

“God,” he whines. “This is far better than using my hand.” You’re moving slowly, your hands pressed against his chest as you continue to move. 

“Yeah? You like that? How about this?” You begin to bounce even faster, moving your hands to grab onto his hips, pushing them against yours until he’s able to do it on his own, mimicking the movement perfectly. 

“Fuck,” he whines again. “Does it always feel this good?” He’s moving slowly, trying his best to keep up with your pace and you watch him come completely undone underneath you, his body pouring sweat as he pushes in and out of you, his words quickly slurring by the second.

“To be honest, not really, but with you, it feels just right. You’re such a good boy.” Those seem to be the magic words because not long after, he’s reaching his orgasm and you feel so smug because of how loud he’s being. You did that and you feel even more confident that you made him feel that good. 

When he comes down, you turn to leave because that’s what you’re used to, but Eddie grabs hold of you and pulls you down to lie beside him. You turn to face him and his eyes are pleading. You know what he wants and even though it’s programmed into you to leave, you just can’t. Not when he’s been so sweet and not when he made you feel so good. He’s not like the others that you’ve slept with. He actually cares what you’re into and isn’t interested in using you just to feel something. 

As you pull him into another kiss, you just know that you’re going to go for another round and you give in. You let him take the lead this time, only with a little guidance and he’s nothing but a good boy. He doesn’t even have to ask to know what you like. He just does. As he makes you orgasm, you just know that you won’t be able to sleep with anyone else after that. And with the way he pulls you into his arms after you come down, he tells you exactly that.

Pretty much everyone is gone when the two of you sneak downstairs and out the door. You head outside hand in hand and Eddie walks you to your car. Kissing you again and again, stalling going to his own vehicle and only leaves when he gets your phone number and plans to meet again for one more, but you both know that it won’t be just one more. Not if you can help it, anyway.

[livinghalfway]

Younger Years

Summary: Damian gets temp de-aged to 6yrs old; cue him asking where his twin is. This is how everyone finds out about Danny's existence Word Count: 1541

No one was prepared for the event that occurred a mere hours ago. Nightwing and Robin had been investigating an unknown target that had recently been causing trouble near the docks. There wasn't supposed to be an altercation, but when the person of interest showed up they weren't going to just let him walk away. 

This target had a trick up his sleeve though; literally. The moment he was cornered by the two vigilantes he had thrown a magical blast at Robin that managed to hit him square in the chest. By the time Nightwing had reached his side it was already too late and the magician had used that as his way to sneak away. 

“Robin?” Nightwing's voice is hesitant and soft as he peers down at the very small passed out child that lays in a pile of clothes. “Oh no.” 

As soon as the now tiny Damian is into his arms he’s rushing back to the cave. “Oracle, Robin and I ran into some trouble during our investigation. Alert Batman that he needs to get back to the cave as soon as he can.” 

“What’s happening? Do I need to get Dr. Leslie to the cave as well?” 

“No, not yet at least; neither of us is injured. We’ll need to contact Zatanna or Constantine though. It seems Robin got hit with some kind of de-aging spell.” 

The line on the other end was silent for a few moments before a soft snickering sound filled the comm line. “... I’m contacting everyone. How young would you say he is?”

“If I had to take a guess I’d say he’s 6 maybe 7.” Nightwing says as he glances down at the sleeping boy in his arms. He is taking so many photos as soon as he’s back in the cave Dick promises to himself. 

"So we have a baby assassin who's still deep in the LoA mindset. Is he awake right now? I can't imagine you'd be talking this calmly if you were trying to settle a Damian who  doesn't know you and seemingly woke up in a new location."

"He's asleep right now." He couldn't help but let out an exhausted sigh knowing that it wasn't going to be a fun time when Damian eventually wakes up, "As long as Robin doesn’t kill or hurt anyone by the end of this I'll count it as a personal win." 

"That'll count as a win for all of us." She hums, "Everyone available tonight has responded and should be waiting for your arrival. Good luck."

With that sign off the comm link went silent. He looks down at Damian's sleeping face once more and can't help but can't help to mourn the fact that this is the youngest he's ever seen his baby brother. He loves Damian at his normal age of 14 years old, but he also knows that he's going to enjoy having him this young as much as he can. 

It only took a few minutes after that to finally reach the cave. Dick took note of Bruce, Alfred, Tim, Jason, and Duke who were also in the cave, but ignored them for the moment in favor of rushing Damian to a med bay bed to lie him down. 

Before Dick can even fully settle Damian down he feels the familiar looming presence of Bruce standing behind him. "I hope you have a camera with you; I want to fill a photo album before this whole thing is done."

"We need to confirm that this is actually Damian first." Bruce reaches out, running a hand through the child's hair before gently plucking a couple hairs and turning away back to the computer. 

With Bruce occupied on the other side of the cave Jason, Tim, and Duke all shuffle in around the bed. Predictably, Tim does have a camera at the ready and immediately snaps a picture of Damian as soon as he's in the room. "I'm never letting him forget about this." 

"Just make sure you send me all your photos of this before trying to blackmail him to do anything with them." Dick is quick to say; he's getting his photo album one way or another. Knowing Damian he's going to try and destroy all evidence of this occurring. 

It is then that Alfred walks into the room as well, "Before we continue with the photos I insist we dress Master Damian in clothes that will more properly fit than the ones currently wrapped around him." 

After that was said Alfred gestured for all the boys out of the med bay room while he got Damian dressed in what must be some of Damian's smallest clothes that the older man was able to find. While waiting to be allowed back in the room a ping sounds out from behind them. It seems the DNA test is complete. 

"Well B, is it a boy, or are you still paranoid that the demon brat in there isn't actually Damian?" Jason questions as he walks forward and snatches the report. "Let's see! Yup, the boy is Damian alright; Bruce was being paranoid for no reason as usual." 

"How funny would it be though if the spell did just replace Damian with a 6 year old look alike though?" Duke grins as he takes a look at the report as well.

"… You think there's a spell that does that?" Jason looks far too interested in knowing that answer if the smirk on his face was anything to go by.

"We could ask-"

"You will not be asking anyone that question." Bruce quickly interrupts that conversation from continuing. If Dick had to guess though he'd say that it wasn't over based on the look Jason and Duke share with one another.  "I've already contacted Zatanna, and she's on the way now to assess the situation; nothing more." 

Tim scoffs and gives an exaggerated eye roll, "Oh, might as well let them ask otherwise-."

It was just then the zeta tube pinged and Zatanna was then standing in the Batcave with them. At the same time Alfred also exits the med bay room. "Well Batman, I'm sure you don't want me to be here more than necessary so let's go ahead and take a look at the little Robin." 

"Hm." 

With nothing else said Bruce turns and walks to where Damian is sleeping; Zatanna follows silently behind him. Dick and the others follow as well, not wanting to not hear what she has to say about Damian's situation. 

Everyone watches silently as she examines Damian, saying a few magic words before addressing Bruce.  "Well the good news is that this isn't permanent. The binding magic surrounding him is pretty weak."

"And the bad news?" Dick is immediately asking.

"The bad news is that this isn't something I can just undo right here right now. De-aging magic is always complicated, and the less risks we take the better." Zatanna tells him, "Which means you're just going to have to wait this out. It looks like it'll only last a couple of days." 

Perfect! Dick can't help, but think that is a perfect amount of time. He can definitely get a photo album of the amount of pictures in that time, and they all get to spend time with Damian as the youngest they've ever seen him! The only thing they need to do is make sure the baby assassin doesn't hurt anyone. 

The group after that naturally filters back into the main area of the cave. Zatanna and Bruce share a couple quiet words before she enters the zeta tube and it is only them in the cave once more. 

"Guess the only thing to do now is to wait for the demon brat to wake up." Jason gleefully exclaims, "I for one am excited to see how B handles the little terror." 

"Should one of us be there when he does wake up?" Duke asks; clearly thinking about the kid possibly waking up and trying to attack them.

Tim immediately shouts out, "Not it!"

"I'll do it," Dick assures Tim, "I still need to write my report anyway. I'll let you all know when he wakes up." 

With no complaints Dick gathers his things, and goes to take a seat next to Damian while he writes up an official report of the events that occurred tonight. As he does he makes sure to look up every few minutes; he's not sure when Damian might wake up, and he wants to be ready when he does. 

After half an hour Dick was just finishing up, and he could still hear his brothers loudly talking about something. It warms his heart to think about the three of them getting along; with that in mind he takes another glance at his littlest brother. Damian is of course glaring at him with the cutest little pout.

Wait.

Damian's awake!

"Hey Damian," he makes sure to speak as gently as he can, "do you feel okay? What's the last thing you remember?" 

Now, Dick expected Damian to attack one of them at some point during this; what he didn't expect was for him to do it immediately to the first person he saw. He probably should have though.

[enderlovez]

A Little Timid

Spencer Reid x Shy Female Reader WORD COUNT: 1100+

Summary: You bring Spencer something for dinner during a particularly stressful case. One thing, though—nobody else knows you exist.

Content Warning: Spencer is overworking himself and forgetting to eat, reader has a sister and a niece/nephew (not specified), pet names

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

You and Spencer have been dating for nearly three years, and throughout that time he's visited your workplace more times than you can count. Usually to spend your lunch breaks with you, sometimes just so he can sit and be in your company as you work.

Which your boss is completely fine with, for some reason unknown to you.

Oftentimes you find yourself wishing you could do the same for him, on the nights where he doesn't come home until stupidly late, but every time you bring up maybe bringing him lunch on your days off, he shoots you down entirely. Like a bird out of the sky, or some other stupid simile you can't be bothered trying to come up with.

It's quite different for him, being a federal agent and such, working with sensitive subjects and often in harsh environments, so you suppose it does make sense that he would want to keep you away from all that. Still, you can't help but feel a little hurt and slightly embarrassed every time he denies your requests.

And yet...

"You sound tired," you comment softly, stirring the pot of chicken soup in front of you.

"Mhm."

"Have you eaten anything yet?"

There's no response, which is answer enough for you.

"Lovey, you need to eat," you say with a sigh, putting down the spoon you were stirring with and lean back against the counter beside the stove.

"I know," he mumbles quietly.

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes turned down to the ground. "I'm making chicken soup, I could bring you some for dinner, if you'd like?" you suggest weakly. "And some of the bread I finished making earlier. You know, I could sit with you for a while."

Before he's even responded, you're bracing yourself for rejection.

"That would be nice," he sighs.

Immediately, the tension in your body melts away, a tiny smile making its way onto your face.

"You want me to bring one of those cinnamon rolls you like, too?"

"Yes please..." His voice is so quiet, you're sure he's practically falling asleep at his desk.

"Okay, I'll be there in ten minutes."

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

Spencer doesn't really think about much when he hangs up the phone. Only that he's really hungry right now, and that he really likes your chicken soup.

The fact that his coworkers don't even know you exist doesn't cross his mind once. Only when you're actually walking into the bullpen, does he realize he should've given them a bit of a heads up, because everyone is looking at you now.

No horrible looks, of course, they're only curious of who you are and why you're here, but you've never particularly liked people looking at you. It makes you feel all anxious and jittery.

Your eyes quickly scan the room (definitely taking note of all the people watching you) and when you finally find your target, a small smile makes it onto your face, despite the discomfort.

He pulls another chair over to his desk as you make your way over, walking just a little faster usual, and place one of those reusable supermarket bags in front of him.

"Hey there," you murmur, bringing his hand to your face so you can press a soft kiss to the back of it. This time, he doesn't even mention how many stupid pathogens can be passed through your hands.

"Beautiful girl," is all he says, quiet and uncharacteristically drowsy, as he reaches into the bag and pulls everything out. Two perfectly warm thermoses, a brown paper bag with some of your fresh bread inside, and two saran-wrapped cinnamon rolls that you've already heated.

You chuckle softly, taking your share of the food and offering him a hunk of warm bread.

Spencer bites off a chunk of the bread and really takes a look at you, now that you're distracted with your own soup. You're wearing a baby pink milkmaid dress, the same one you wore to your sisters baby shower last year, and a white cardigan with little flowers embroidered all over it.

He gifted you the plain cardigan, you were the one who added all the flowers and personal touches.

"I really appreciate this," he hums, finally opening the thermos of soup and spooning some of it into his mouth with one of the metal utensils you brought with you.

"I'm always happy to bring you food when you need it, lovey. Even when you don't necessarily need it, I'll come running," you say in a low voice, sipping your own soup straight from the thermos. "I wish you'd let me do it more. Even when you're not starving and sleep deprived."

He chuckles at the playful lilt in your voice, but knows you're actually being completely serious. "Maybe we can make this a more regular. On the nights I can't be at home—"

"And who might this be?" someone asks, appearing suddenly enough for you to jump a little.

You turn your head the smallest fraction to find another man leaning against Spencer's desk, a (seemingly permanent) smirk breaking through the tired, clouded expression everyone here is sporting.

"Uhm—hi—erm..."

You glance over at Spencer, who is, for the most part, paying no attention to the encounter, simply sipping on his soup and gnawing on his bread like he hasn't eaten in weeks.

"I'm Y/N," you manage, in a voice soft enough to bring serial killers to their knees (now there's an idea), wiping your hands on the fabric covering your thighs and sticking one of them out.

The man hums, eyes flicking between yourself and the man seated beside you. "I don't think Spencer's ever mentioned you before."

Your smile falters slightly, but doesn't disappear completely. "I'm his girlfriend," you say, "and I never really expected him to talk about me here. He said he wouldn't, anyway."

"Girlfriend?" he asks, as if it's the craziest thing he's ever heard. "You. Are Spencer's girlfriend? Spencer has a girlfriend?"

That seems to grab the aforementioned mans attention.

"Morgan. Is it really so hard to comprehend," he asks, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close—as close as he can, with the chairs in the way, "that I could find a beautiful woman to love me?"

Ah. Derek Morgan, that explains it.

"You know that's not what I mean," Morgan argues, the smile not leaving his face. "And now, if you don't mind, I'll be around. Telling everyone. That you've got a gorgeous girlfriend, and kept it from us."

Neither of you have a chance to argue before he's gone. You're honestly surprised he didn't ask exactly how long it's been, but you're sure he wouldn't have liked the answer, so you don't push it.

"...this is great soup, by the way. I love you."

You chuckle, red coloring your face. "Thanks. I love you, too, baby."

[cryoculus]

— WORLD ALONE ⟢

when you make a living in the bowels of the eternal holy city, nothing is ever personal. until you catch yourself wondering just how heavy of a crown that kremnoan prince actually bears.

★ featuring; mydei x f!reader

★ word count; 40.6k words (i'm sorry.....)

★ tags; canon compliant, red light district, prostitution, doomed relationship, yearning, heavy angst (like,,, this is not an exaggeration i swear), implied/referenced past abuse, smut (MINORS DNI)

★ notes; the very first mydei fic i've written, coming to you on tumblr dot com! i was wondering if the character limit is going to permit the existence of a monster wall of text like this, but surprisingly, it did! on ao3, this is actually a trilogy of fics, but part of me thought it really would have been better if it was posted in one go AJSJDHFSHD so here we are!!!! the title is also from lorde's world alone <3

★ header art cr; chongguolyb on x

READ ON AO3

★ SMUT TAGS; vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, mating press, creampie, oral (f receiving), come eating, emotional sex, wall sex, really every smut scene is just so tender and melancholic

Despite its reputation as the city dearly loved by the sun, Okhema has its own share of misgivings.  You’ve known since you first set foot within the borders of the Holy City that you have no place here.  Even if it prides itself as a sanctuary for those whose homes were ravaged by the Black Tide, the reception for refugees offers none of the hospitality once promised to you.  Perhaps those born and raised in the capital—far from the city states that have fallen prey to the eternal night—would rather not involve themselves with people like you. People that have seen the worst of what the impending calamity has in store. People who only wish to find some place to call home. But you don’t condemn them from feeling the way they do. Okhemans treat all outsiders with an equal amount of disdain: the Kremnoans, the Dolosians, even the Aidonians. Then again, if your hometown suddenly has an influx of strangers pouring in from every part of the world, you would be alarmed by it as well. That’s why you try your best to stay in their good graces. Always. “Big Sis Thalia? Someone’s looking for you.” Your session of early morning tea is quietly interrupted by a child named Nikolas. He peeks through the curtain of seashells separating your quarters from the rest of The House, eyes closed just to make sure he’s not intruding on anything. The boy’s discretion makes you laugh.  “Nik, it’s alright. Come in,” you insist and ever-so shyly, he does. Nikolas has been inside here before, but the bedazzled look in his eyes whenever he takes in the trinkets you’ve decorated your space with is nothing short of amusing. You give him some time to gawk around as you finish the rest of your tea.  “Sorry,” he mumbles once he snaps out of it. “Mother wanted me to tell you that the swordsman is here again. The one with the white hair?”  You shake your head. “Nik, Lord Phainon has done enough for the undercity that you should at least remember his name.”  “Y-Yes, him! Lord Phainon.”  “Okay, did Elena tell you what he wants?” you ask, despite already hazarding a couple of reasons for his visit. “I doubt he’s here to avail of my services.”  Unlike most boys his age, Nikolas doesn’t get flustered by casual mentions of your line of work. After all, he was born in this very brothel. His mother raised him to treat all his big sisters with love and respect, and it’s hard not to dote on him because of it. “She didn’t say,” he sighs. “Should I tell the other big sisters to let him up here?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Shortly after, another person parts the curtain of glittering shells by the entryway. Phainon lets himself inside with a polite look on his face, as if he’s walking into the Pantheon’s grand hall and not some common whore’s quarters.  “Lord Phainon,” you address him with an inquisitive smile. “What brings you here?”

Phainon’s lips crack into a handsome smile. “Lady Thalia—”

That makes you groan. “Please, you don’t have to address me with that name. You’re a friend.” 

“But it’s only proper if I’m here on the prospect of business, isn’t it?” 

“...Forgive me, but the mere idea of doing business with you feels horrendously wrong. I’m afraid I must decline—”

Phainon says your real name as a matter of throwing you off, and your face contorts with mild vexation. But now that he has your attention, he says, “You don’t have to worry. I’m not here to seek the paradise that The House offers to all willing patrons. It’s more like…a referral of sorts.” You take in his words slowly, making sure there’s no underlying wordplay. But you suppose the man is as direct as he can be with what he’s trying to say. 

“A referral?” you echo with a snort. “Now, who could a Chrysos Heir like you be referring to a shoddy place like this? Your mere presence here is already enough to send Lady Aglaea into a fit of rage, you know. What more if you endorse our services to someone else?”

“If that's the case, then I’m afraid that you gravely misunderstand her,” Phainon chuckles softly. “But I digress. I think it would be best for you to meet this person face-to-face rather than have me put in a word for him.”

“So you’re basically asking if I’m willing to accommodate whoever this is?” is your deadpan retort. “Lord Phainon, when you work here in the undercity, making ends meet is difficult if you don’t pull enough strings. Someone like me has no business refusing clients—”

“Yet you refused me?” he sighs dramatically.

“You just said you’re not here for that! Can you please make up your mind?”

Phainon lets out a laugh he pulls straight from the pit of his stomach, and it makes you think that maybe you would have fallen for someone like him if your life had been more different, if fate had been kinder to you. But this is the reality you live in; a reality where you’d rather drown in the Black Tide than put your friendship with Phainon to the test.  “Anyway,” he interjects once he’s done guffawing. “I take it that you’re agreeing to meet this friend of mine? I don’t usually bring up The House to just anyone, but I think he might need the distraction. And the company.” Heaving a sigh, you fold your arms together. “I take it that you have no plans to even tell me your friend’s name?”

“If I did that, you would probably decline in an instant,” Phainon laughs again, “which is perfectly fine in any case. I just want you to give him a chance first.”

“...Your description alone is already making me second guess.”

Placing a hand over his chest, he bows. “I swear on Kephale’s name that this man will bring neither you nor the other residents of The House any harm. If he does, I’ll personally end him for you.”

That makes you arch an eyebrow. “So you’re saying he has the capacity to do that?”

“Yes, but apart from free will, intellect is another one of Kephale’s greatest gifts to mankind.” Phainon rises back to his full height, eyes brimming with optimism as usual. “Even if my friend is free to hurt others, it doesn't mean he will. Amphoreus is past the age of barbaric violence, after all.” 

There’s something infuriating in how cheeky Phainon’s reasoning is, but he’s always been gifted with words. You suppose it’s alright to do him this favor, given that he’s the reason The House has yet to be cracked down on by the Council of Elders. If it weren’t for Phainon, you and the other girls would have been forced back into the streets of the Holy City, with those Okhemans who seem to despise foreigners more than the Black Tide itself. 

“...Fine. When is he coming?” you relent eventually, much to your dismay. “I don’t have any patrons to accommodate this evening, so your timing is actually impeccable—suspiciously so.”

The subtle jab does not go unnoticed. “Why, I have nothing to do with that at all. But I’ll let him know. Thank you for your kind consideration, Lady Thalia.”

“If you call me that one more time…”

Phainon eventually bids his farewell, not just to you but the rest of the girls in The House. Of course, they practically swoon from his unintentional charm. Everyone here loves that man to varying degrees, after all. 

“Big Sister, should I help draw a bath for you?” 

The third person who crosses your seashell curtain today is a girl named Iris. Her voice is meek, as is her countenance, and you’re convinced that, whatever hell she escaped from, she must not be used to being able to speak as freely as she does now. “Iris,” you sigh. “I’m not your master or anything like that. You don’t have to draw me a bath.”

“B-But Lady Elena mentioned you were accommodating someone tonight,” she squeaks, embarrassment coloring her cheeks with warmth. “I just wanted to help you out, just like you did for me back then…” Her thoughtfulness makes you smile candidly. “Alright. If you insist.”

The straight affirmation makes her face light up, and the sight warms your heart. Iris constantly stammers with her words as she helps you prepare for the arrival of Phainon’s friend, but her nervousness is compensated for by her sincerity—something you’ve come to enjoy as a staple ever since you started living at The House. Why live amongst the vicious Okhemans when not even the Dawn Device can light up their obscured view of foreigners like you? It’s much better to stay with your newfound sisters here in the shadows. Even if you’re lifetimes away from the vast ocean you once called home, what you found here is the closest thing.

You’d be a fool to trade it for anything else.

Evenings have always been long in Okhema’s red light district. 

It’s a place devoid of the usual rules they follow up there on the surface. Absolutely anything goes in the undercity, and the promise of secrecy is enticing enough even for the overworlders to come crawling down into the darkness. You know it’s hypocritical of those Okhemans to shun outsiders whenever they feel like riding their moral high horses, only to succumb to the pleasures of the flesh when it’s convenient for them. But it’s even more hypocritical of you to despise them in equal measure, just for you to accept their money as if it’s your only lifeline. Debauchery is only second to the stench of hypocrisy that lingers in the stale air of the undercity. But the only way to survive here is to never take anything to heart.

Much like the fact that Phainon’s friend still hasn’t shown up past midnight. 

You’re no stranger to missed appointments—if you can even call them that to begin with. While there are some depraved men who would do anything for a minute of your time, there are also others who don’t think you’re worth a moment of theirs. At the end of the day, you’re just some prostitute they can do as they please with.  Iris waits with you out of courtesy. Even if the poor girl is better off resting in bed—given that her last client did quite a number on her—she insisted on keeping you company. But when the fourth hour ticks past with no sign of Phainon’s friend, she gives up and obeys when you plead with her to get some sleep. 

Eventually, the ruckus you’ve grown accustomed to hearing around The House dulls into shared whispers between your sisters who are thoughtful enough to keep their voices down. The location of the red light district allows for the illusion of night without the threat of the Black Tide. Here, anyone can fall into a deep sleep without the sun razing their eyes.

“I didn’t think you would agree.”

Elena’s voice is soft like thunder rumbling in the distance, strangely comforting to hear. She joins you in the room you’ve reserved for tonight’s tryst. Titans know you’d never bring patrons to your own quarters. Still, as the head of The House, it’s only natural for her to make a place meant for sinners to feel like home for girls with nowhere else to go. “To what?” you ask, deciding to play along.

She smiles before taking a seat next to you on the bed. “To Lord Phainon’s outrageous request. You seem like you’d do anything but take anyone associated with him as a patron.” 

“That’s what I thought, too. But you know how convincing he can be.”

“Very much so.” The two of you share a laugh in the dim lights of the lanterns. If there are any people who know how much Phainon has helped The House, it’s you and Elena. 

“That boy is a bit of a gray character, isn’t he? A hero of the people, telling his friend to relieve some tension at a place like this?” Elena shakes her head in disbelief. “I’d understand why that friend of his is a no-show. Phainon is the only overworlder crazy enough to not have a bone to pick with us bottom dwellers.”

You hum. “Not so sure about that. I heard that Penelope’s client for tonight is a wealthy merchant that has no problem with her dominating him into oblivion.” 

“Do me a favor and exclude the nymphomaniacs from the conversation, please?”

Despite his status as both an overworlder and a Chrysos Heir, the main reason why Phainon even involves himself with the undercity is Elena. The two of them came from the same small village at the edge of the world—long forgotten, long burned to ashes.  Aedes Elysiae is a place you’ve only learned about when Elena took you in. While you don’t bother with the specifics, it’s comforting to know that Phainon is well aware of the gripes that come with being a foreigner. You’d call him a hypocrite too, for cozying up to the overworlders, but he’s much too kind to everyone he encounters. Coupled with the fact that he helped save you and Elena from the clutches of the old master of The House, you suppose he deserves your respect. “Did he tell you who it is though?” To be fair, curiosity is starting to eat at you. “I can’t think of a single soul that would even consider Phainon’s suggestion. It’s as you said: no one is as crazy as he is.”  Though Elena is good at masking her thoughts from the others, you can read her like an open book. Even if she only hums in response, that’s already an answer on its own. “Fine. Keep your secrets then,” you grumble. “So can I wash off my makeup now? Though I feel a bit bad since Iris helped out. She even did my nails.”  “You know, that girl has taken a liking to you the same way you did with me back in the day.” “You wish.”  Elena shakes her head endearingly. “No need to wish for something that’s already true. Oh, but I suggest you wait just a while longer.” That warrants an immediate groan. “Why? The entire district’s asleep by now.” “Exactly.” Like she always does, Elena gets up without elaborating further. She makes a beeline toward the entrance with a knowing look on her face and, without so much as another word, the head of The House leaves you to your own devices. Great. Speaking with Elena isn’t so different from speaking with Phainon. You wonder if they have a shared trait where they can rile you up without trying. Is it something exclusive to Aedes Elysians? Thank Titans, her son Nikolas hasn’t manifested anything similar. You wouldn’t be able to handle three troublemakers.  In the midst of your musing, you hear the sound of footsteps down the hall. You typically wouldn’t mind the noise, given that this brothel houses about a dozen and a half of your sisters. But each step sounds deliberate—strong and sure, like a person who knows the value of their presence. You initially assume it’s Elena, but have an inkling that the footsteps are much too heavy to be hers. Just when you decide to get up and check who it is, you come face-to-face with the perpetrator the moment you parted the velvet curtains. The man that stands before you is more of a legend than anything else. You’ve heard about him from tall tales that Kremnoan patrons have shared out of the blue. The Last Prince. The Immortal Lion. While the reputation of those who hail from Castrum Kremnos precedes them, you didn’t think they’d be so devoted to their Prince until that day. Your patron spoke about him as if he was a Titan himself. But now that you’re faced with none other than Mydeimos in the flesh, everything has started to make sense.  He towers over you with ease, his presence effortlessly domineering. The placid look on his face as he sizes you up makes you feel like you’re on opposite sides of the battlefield, and you’d rather not fight a seasoned warrior who’s nearly twice your size— “Hello,” he greets surprisingly…normally. “My name is Mydeimos, but I’d rather you call me Mydei. You are?”  His directness makes you blink up at him. You didn’t think he was the type to introduce himself. He seems like someone who expects every person he crosses paths with to know his name. After all, Mydeimos made waves when he brought the Kremnoan Detachment in Okhema and helped defend the city against the mad Titan, Nikador, among other feats. “Thalia,” you tell him your working name while keeping a straight face, trying not to let him see just how befuddled you are. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“The Deliverer has told me about you a couple of times in passing,” he tells you, all while taking in the interior of the dimly lit room. “While I was initially against his proposal, one thing led to another and I’ve found myself right where he wants me.” It takes you a moment to figure out who this Deliverer is. “Oh. Lord Phainon can be quite persuasive.”  “Persuasive is an understatement,” the blond huffs before affixing you with that golden-eyed stare. “So, how will this go? I’m afraid I am wholly unfamiliar with how you operate in the undercity. I…don’t want to overstep any boundaries.” That only serves to confuse you even more. You’ve been in the business long enough to know that men are disgusting scoundrels one way or another. Most of them would just pay to use your body and not even say a word when they’re done. They’d never even think twice about you since you’re working for them at that moment, after all.  It’s a lifestyle you’re not proud of. You’ve never felt more empty than when a man pumps you full of his seed with no regard for your wellbeing. But this is all you know. All you’re good for. And you love Elena and your sisters too much to leave The House behind. Then this man walks into the room with overstepping boundaries as his main concern instead of getting impatient to fuck you against the closest solid surface. Still, you tread carefully.  “Before anything else, I’d like to clarify what exactly it is you came here for,” you say, proud of how firm you sound in spite of how anxious you are. “We can’t work on anything if I don’t know where to start, Lord Mydeimos.”  He sighs. “As I said, just Mydei is fine. And didn't the Deliverer already tell you?” You cast him a pointed look. “Lo— Mydei, we both know Lord Phainon well enough to know that he tends to exaggerate certain details. He’s not the one paying for my services—you are. So I ask you again…” In a show of confidence, you step closer to him, eyes drifting to the ornate necklace sitting across his throat. It was a band of dark metal inlaid with gilded sapphires gleaming in the waning light. You muster enough courage to curl your fingers around it and tug. He yields disarmingly easily, grunting in contempt but with no signs of protest. For some reason, it fills you with a strange sense of accomplishment.

“What are you here for?” you say, voice barely above a whisper.  His jaw clenches for a moment, as if biting something down. Though you try your best to keep your eyes focused on his gaze of molten fire, you can’t help but notice the way his posture shifts to accommodate the compromising position you forced him into.  Mydei’s body is as flawless as people say it is—not a single scar denting his strong, rippled flesh. This is the physique of a man who has gone to war far more times than you can imagine. There is no blade in the world sharp enough to cut him down, and you quietly revel in the detail that Kephale personally took to mold this statue of a man.  “I…”  He starts, but hesitates still. Feeling emboldened, you caress Mydei’s face gently—tracing the bright red marks that bleed from his right eye before swirling in deliberate patterns across the rest of his body. He shudders at your touch and you flash him a lopsided smile.  Then and there, you pull up a mental catalogue of every single thing you’ve heard about Mydei in passing. What the people love about him, what they hate, what they wish they could emulate for themselves—all of it. Because your line of work requires you to deduce what will make your patrons unravel at the seams in a mere glance. That’s how you decide to play your cards: out of a plethora of guesses about their character. From the way Mydei has acted in the five minutes you’ve been together, it’s painstakingly obvious that he bears the weight of a crown he does not even want. Which makes things much easier for you.  “Go on,” you murmur, letting your breath fan across his face. “There’s no need for hesitation here. When you’re with me… “You don’t have to be anything else but mine.”  While it always works on your more eager patrons, saying something so intrepid to a Chrysos Heir is near-unthinkable. A shot in the dark. You aren’t even sure if Mydei is into being addressed that way by a complete stranger, but you see it again—that not-so subtle click of his jaw, which tells you more than enough. The tension hangs heavy in the air. You can barely breathe without feeling your heart race erratically. There’s an unspoken fervor in Mydei’s gaze as his lips quiver like he has something to say.

But you quickly realize that there is little need for words when it comes to someone like him. Mydei’s intentions translate much better when he puts them into action. He barely gives you any time to process what was happening. All you know is that there’s nothing sweeter than the moment the distance between you disappears, and his warm lips slant across yours. The kiss catches you off-guard for only a moment. Most of your patrons don’t bother. In the red light district, kissing is far too intimate for most of them. Yet Mydei doesn’t even think twice about it. His warmth permeates into you as Mydei holds you as close as he can—pressing you flush against his rigid body. It’s a dizzying feeling, but one you can’t dwell on for long when you feel his tongue prodding at your lips. You grant Mydei entrance far too easily, letting him map the cavern of your mouth with the slick appendage. He pulls a moan out of you, and in turn, you feel a strong hand firmly pushing your head further into the kiss.  The feel of his cold gauntlet in your hair should have scared you, or at least, made you wary. But his armor is of little consequence when Mydei holds you like you’re the most precious thing in the entire world. You don’t recall the last time you’ve felt so lightheaded from a patron’s kiss. You don’t even remember the last time any of them even kissed you. That’s how you know that this encounter with Mydei will cement itself into your memory whether or not you want it to. Not just because he’s a Prince, but because he makes it a point to remind you that things like this are supposed to feel good. You gasp his name against his lips, but Mydei devours the words before you can get them out. That simple show of dominance already has you clenching your thighs—a reaction that isn’t lost on the perpetrator himself. In another attempt to catch you completely by surprise, Mydei’s armor-clad hands travel to your thighs, where the high slits of your skirt conveniently part to accommodate the intrusion. Your doughy flesh is hot against his gauntlets and you nearly whimper when he grabs the meat of your ass—the sharp tips digging into your sensitive skin.  Despite your mind being thrown into a haze, you still catch on to what he wants. You curl one of your thighs around his hips—lips still melded together as Mydei helps hoist you up. Once he’s balanced your weight sufficiently, you’re able to cage him between your legs. Still, the both of you know who truly holds the reins. Mydei traces a path of flames along the hollow of your throat, murmuring words in a language you can’t understand. When he presses you against the nearest wall and takes full advantage of the leverage, you can’t ever hope to resist. He doesn’t say anything more, content with swathing your skin in reds and blues from each bruising kiss. The man hasn’t even done much, but you’re already this willing to let him do as he pleases. It’s difficult to miss just how much slick has pooled between your thighs, and the anticipation makes you shiver. When was the last time you were this eager to let a patron have his way with you? “Hold on,” he whispers before gently nibbling on your bottom lip. “I need to feel you.” Head still fuzzy from his ministrations, you barely notice when Mydei maneuvers you to the bed, setting you down as gently as he can. The cool sheets are a stark contrast to your fever-pitched skin. But you barely pay attention when you notice Mydei pressing a knee onto the bed, molten gold irises entirely transfixed on you as he unlatches the gauntlets from his arms. 

His words only begin to dawn on you then.  I need to feel you.  Did you excite a reaction so intense that Mydei felt such a carnal need to touch you with his bare hands—skin to skin, and nothing in between? You don’t care if his armor clatters uselessly onto the floor. Not when Mydei surges forward to capture your lips again and nudges your legs apart. Saliva trickles past the corner of your mouth as another moan is lost to his fervent kiss.   Contrary to your initial beliefs, Mydei is not the legend many think he is. In fact, he is just as human as anyone else—those large, hot hands of his are proof of that. Mydei spreads you apart before him like he wants to take in every inch of you—to devour you with his gaze.

He’s not much of a talker, which poses no problem, as you’ve been with enough men who think far too much of themselves. Fools often compensate for their poor performance with senseless talk. But there’s none of that with Mydei, whose gaze alone can melt you into nothingness.  (You hope he knows that you're all too willing to surrender all that you have for a taste of him.) When Mydei leans closer, you expect another kiss—even pucker up in sheer anticipation. But his first display of petulance comes in a small smirk that plays at his lips. The Prince quickly evades you to nose at your collarbone, licking at the motley of bruises he left in his wake. Almost like a quiet apology despite himself. His discretion makes you squirm, and it distracts you from the fact that he’s undoing the laces holding your dress together. When the fabric comes apart, he’s granted a generous view of your breasts, and the noise that escapes him would make you think he’s unearthed some holy relic from a past gone by. Mydei wastes no time peppering your chest with the degree of affection he’s lathered along the column of your neck. It’s like he means for every biting kiss to leave a mark, a lasting reminder of your time with him for days to come. The moment he takes one of your pert nipples into his mouth, you barely contain your own sounds, and you wonder if you’ll lose yourself completely once he’s gone all the way. Unlike the cold bite of his gauntlets, Mydei’s bare hands are warmer than the unsetting sun on the surface. He touches you with the intention of committing each dip and crevice of your body to memory. You feel him pawing at your breasts, his nails digging into the curve of your ass, and when those wandering hands settle along the curve of your hips, you involuntarily buck up into him. It’s a reaction that makes him pause, those golden eyes like gilded lanterns in the night flickering to yours in a heartbeat. Your breath hitches as your gazes meet. Strange enough, you find the eye contact much more intimate than whatever he’s doing to your body. Wordlessly, Mydei stops suckling at your breasts to sink lower on the bed. The man doesn’t even bother removing your skirt, content with nudging it out of the way before settling himself between your lovely thighs.

When you realize what he’s trying to do, you tense up for all the wrong reasons. You know what people say about the whores of The House. No matter how many times you cleanse yourselves with Phagousa’s blessing of the stream, your bodies will remain tainted by the touch of all the men you’ve let inside of you. You should know better. The Titan of the Sea is much closer to you than meets the eye, but if you stay in Okhema for far too long, you start to forget what you’ve been taught at home—your real home. “Your mind is wandering.” Mydei’s quiet voice snaps you out of your reverie, making your face flush. But he quickly dispels the lingering shame when his soft fingers prod at your mound. He spreads your lips apart with caution, like he doesn’t wish to hurt you. And when he has a firsthand look of how drenched you are, he barely stifles a groan. He doesn’t comment on your momentary distraction again, thank Titans. However, he momentarily robs you of your capacity to speak when he hoists your thighs up his broad shoulders, not even thinking twice before licking a long, deliberate stripe across your dripping cunt. Your nerves are set alight every which way. Mydei repeats the motions of his tongue in dizzying succession, even taking the time to trace tight circles around your sensitive nub. It has you gushing in an instant, and Mydei is all too eager to lap up every drop of your essence.  So tender in the way he pleases you, you can’t help but tangle your fingers into his fiery blond hair—pressing his face even closer to your sopping heat. Mydei licks and slurps at you cunt like some mere mortal gifted ambrosia for the first time. Nothing makes sense about the passion he’s exhibiting for a complete stranger, but you’re too intoxicated from pleasure to deny yourself his devotion.  You know you’re doomed the moment those thick fingers start to gather the slick that’s collected along your seam—working in tandem with his sinful tongue as he presses the lone digit inside your tight cunt. Your toes curl at the blissful intrusion, and you’re certain you’ve pulled at his hair enough for it to hurt. Mydei doesn’t exhibit any signs that he particularly minds. In fact, he even moans into your wet heat, making come hither motions with his finger that stimulates your walls in all the right ways. The premise of foreplay has been lost on you for a long time, and getting someone like him to do all of this without a second thought makes you wonder if this is all a dream. But then the Prince slides in another of his thick digits inside you, anchoring you to the shores of reality as he fucks you on his fingers and feasts on you with his mouth. The way he grips harshly onto your thighs ought to hurt, but the only thing that spills from your lips is pure ecstasy. Mydei doesn’t lick between your folds with reckless abandon. He makes sure each flick of his tongue is slow, dragging, purposeful—enough to render you squirming beneath his touch.  He builds up that steady burn flickering in the pit of your stomach. The more he tongues at your clit, fishes for that patch of spongy flesh that makes you keen just right, the closer he brings you to the precipice. You don’t know how he can possibly tell, but when you start feeling that blissful release starting to boil beneath your skin, Mydei noticeably amps up the effort.  His fingers barely retract from your cunt, in favor of driving those thick digits even deeper into you. That unfairly talented mouth latches onto your nub and Mydei concentrates all his attention to helping you reach that high you don’t always see with most patrons. The stimulation is too good, too much.

You’re not used to this, not used to him.  You thought that the stars had left Amphoreus when Aquila closed their eyes. But all you see are a dozen constellations dancing across your blurry vision when you come apart on Mydei’s tongue. He holds your hips down as you ride out that blissful high—making sure you feel it course through your veins and shoot straight through your skull. From his hedonistic stare alone, you would know he’s far from done with you. When the dust settles, you catch your breath in short gasps, pulse thundering in the confine of your ribs. You don’t immediately realize that Mydei is in the process of taking off the rest of his armor. Though you can’t help the soft giggle you make when you hear him curse out the offending garments when they refuse to yield to him. So, despite having little to no feeling in your legs, you scoot closer to the edge of the bed—undoing the latches that hold his belt and leg plates in place. Mydei awkwardly steps out of them, and you try your best to stifle your laughter; really, you do! “I don’t understand why this is so amusing for you,” he grumbles. All you can offer him is a grin. “You’re just not…the person I expected.” “Hm? Care to elaborate?”  “I think you would enjoy it more if we pick up where we left off.” The Prince doesn’t protest. Instead, he lets you pull him back to the bed not without stealing another kiss that grows more heated, more desperate with each passing second. Even if you’re still feeling the tingling sensation in the wake of your last orgasm, you’re eager to return the favor. Mydei doesn’t object when you undo the clasp of his trousers. The fabric feels expensive—befitting of a man of royal lineage. But the way he sheds the rest of his clothes makes their value feel inconsequential when he has eyes on one thing only. You. There’s a teasing edge to the way you kiss him as you grasp his throbbing length. He feels hot and heavy in your hand, thick veins jutting along the underside. The girth of him troubles you for a moment, making you consider retrieving that jar of lubricant safety stashed in one of the nearby drawers.  Before you can voice out the suggestion, however, Mydei rests his forehead on your shoulder, breathing heavily as you pump his cock in your feeble little hands. The show of vulnerability startles you a bit. Is he so deprived of relief that he crumbles the moment it’s given to him? Normally, this is when you would crawl between a patron’s legs and suck him off before letting him fuck you. But this entire session with Mydei is anything but normal. No man has ever gone down on you the way he has, and from the way he shudders so adorably from your hands alone tells you he needs release much more than he lets on. So, you plant both of your knees on either side of his hips to straddle him comfortably, and with all the strength you can muster, you push the Prince onto his back. Although you do fail to account for the man’s rapid reflexes. The moment he feels the extra force, his hand is quick to seize your wrist—tight enough that it actually hurts.  “M-Mydei…?”  The hint of fear in your voice seems to snap him out of it, and his ironclad grip loosens. Mydei stares up at you apologetically. “Forgive me. It’s…a force of habit.”

Oh, right. First and foremost, he is a warrior. A Kremnoan Prince. And though he has no business floating inside of your head at the moment, the conversation you had with Phainon earlier resurfaces in your head.  Even if my friend is free to hurt others, it doesn't mean he will. The dissonance between what you know about the battle-hungry spirit of Kremnoans and the tenderness that Mydei has shown you so far only serves to puzzle you even more. Phainon was right to assume you would turn him down if he told you that the friend in question is Mydeimos of all people.  Because…what else would you expect from a man who’s known war more than he’s ever known love? You’ve lied with warriors before, and soldiers, and even some city guards. None of the people who have tasted what it’s like to stand on the battlefield have ever been kind to someone they only think of as a hole to fuck—a source of relief and none else. But Mydei? In the short time you’ve known him, he’s convinced you that no harm will come to you as long as you’re in his company. Instead of fearing for your life, you feel…safe. Something you consider a luxury for someone in your line of work. You feel like there’s something twisted in the fact that you’re relieved just from the thought that he isn’t here to kill you. But too many of your sisters have lost their lives to pigs who want to silence them for good. Unfaithful husbands that didn’t want their wives to find out about their infidelity. Important societal figures that wanted no trace of their illicit activities. After all, anything goes in the undercity. Even the death of a prostitute—a foreigner, at that.  “You’re thinking too deeply again.” Count on Mydei to catch on to your little tells. Another thing you didn’t expect about him is how easily he can read you. Or maybe you’ve always been an open book. It’s just that your patrons don’t usually give as much of a damn as Mydei does.  “It’s nothing,” you chuckle, mentally chiding yourself for being so distracted today. “You’re just… I can’t even put it into words. I might just be a bit overwhelmed is all.” You can’t tell him that you can’t wrap your head around the fact that you’re servicing a Chrysos Heir. It feels all sorts of inappropriate. Mydei studies you for only a moment before he rises back into a sitting position. You’re about to protest—to let him let you please him this time. But he doesn’t seem interested in heeding your quiet request. 

He manhandles you in a way that swiftly switches your positions and you find yourself back beneath him. The lanterns cast a faint halo around his muscular glory. Even in the dim light, the red marks on Mydei’s skin glow like veins of fire beneath the earth. He pins you in place not only with his strong hands, but also with eyes like liquid sunlight. “It’s as you said before,” he murmurs quietly before leaning closer to your ear. The warmth of his breath tickles your neck, and you shudder as he presses a soft, chaste kiss on your temple.  “When you’re with me, you don’t have to be anything else but mine.”  The fact that he just used your words against you makes heat shoot straight to your core. Mydei makes the crude yet attractive motion of spitting into his hand before lathering his cock with saliva. Your mind whispers a reminder about that lubricant you were just thinking about, but there’s something more carnal in the thought that he’s going to loosen you up with his spit alone. Yet despite the need burning in his eyes, each movement he makes is weighted with caution. You feel as if he’s compensating for that knee-jerk reaction from earlier—something you’d tell him is past you, and that he doesn’t have to treat you like fragile glass. But again, the words evaporate on your tongue when you feel the head of his thick cock by your entrance.  Mydei lets out another shuddering breath, nudging your knees apart before rubbing his length along the seam of your cunt. It glistens with spit and slick, and you pull him even closer to let him know what it is that you want. The abrupt tug you make on his arm disrupts his center of gravity, and Mydei nearly topples into you. But of course his reflexes work in time yet again and suddenly your faces are but a hair’s breadth apart. You’ve said it before and you’ll say it again: eye contact is a thousand times more intimate than the act of sex itself.  He breathes out a word from that unfamiliar language yet again. The way it rolls off his tongue is soft, tender in a way that it almost hurts. Like something meant to be heard by a person close to his heart—not some whore he’ll probably never see again. You close your eyes and his lips find yours. Ever-so gently, he pushes himself in.  Everything about Mydei is difficult to process. From his presence to his attitude to the sheer girth of him—you had to take a moment to recalibrate yourself to every single one. You clutch the sheets tight enough that they start to pull off the edge of the bed.  The intrusion is sharp, but not uncomfortable. Not when he eases inch by delicious inch into you with the patience of a saint. While he doesn’t coo and coddle you, his eyes are expressive enough to let you know of his concern. You even feel him start to withdraw, possibly out of fear that you wouldn’t be able to take him, but you hold on to his forearm to keep him in place.

“I do not wish to hurt you,” Mydei whispers. You shake your head vigorously. “You’re doing everything but.” That doesn’t immediately quell the doubt on his face, but Mydei presses forward—slowly, slowly until his hips are flush against yours.  All of a sudden, you forget how to breathe. He’s… huge inside you. Spreading your walls so far apart, you wonder how you were even able to accommodate his size. You’ve never been so filled to the brim that tears nearly well in your eyes because of how good he feels— “Fuck…” Hearing him voice his own blissed out delight and seeing the euphoric look on his face makes you involuntarily clench around him. It’s a reaction met with a snarl from the man currently eclipsing your smaller frame. Mydei makes the motions to pull out slowly, only to buck his hips with unforgiving force. The switch-up blindsides you for a moment, lips gaping from a soundless moan. When the Prince catches on to how much you like it, he hammers into you relentlessly—pushing his fat cock desperately deeper into your slick sex.  Your arms curl around his broad shoulders, fingers seeking purchase along the rippling flesh of his muscles. The sinew of his back shifts with each thrust, making you mewl his name pathetically as Mydei drowns you in the heat of him. There are no words shared between you. Only gasps and moans lost in the wet squelch of flesh. You’re mindful enough to keep it down, and so is he. But even if the red light district is fast asleep, you and Mydei are only getting started.  He doesn’t quite fuck into you the way you’re used to. The intensity is there, but so is the unbridled passion. It feels like something that isn't yours, but Mydei gives it to you again and again and again until you have no choice but to claim it as your own.  To take him as yours. (Even just for tonight.)

Your nails dig in sharply into his rigid skin, but the fact that he has an indestructible body makes you throw all caution to the wind. Where other men would bleed, he would only use it as a means to push ever-so deeply. As if Mydei isn’t already pounding you into the bed, he grasps your chin and meets your lips in an open-mouthed kiss. He spreads you on his cock like he was made for you, and you alone. You can feel him so far inside of you that you fear it’ll take days to sweat him out.  The nature of your work requires you to never get too attached to any of your clients, which used to be as easy as breathing. None of the men you encounter are worth remembering and you thought that none of them ever will be. But when it’s a prince who kisses you like a lover and holds you like his queen, how are you supposed to put up a fight? Mydei’s pace eventually starts to lose its sound rhythm. From the sharp breaths he takes to the fact that his eyes seem to be going in and out of focus, you can tell that he’s close to the edge. Who are you to deny him that? Your fingers tangle in his hair yet again and you whisper every sort of expletive in the book. You fuck me so good. Can feel you throbbing inside me. Come on, Mydeimos, I know you’re almost there. Please, please, please— That does just the trick. Mydei reaches the apex of bliss with a sharp hiss. But instead of finishing inside you, he musters up the strength to pull out and lets his white hot emission coat the sheets instead. You don't realize right away, but when you see the pearlescent essence of his cum on the sheets, your heart sinks.  “W-Why did you…?” 

You don’t know why you sound so miserable at the idea of his seed not being deep inside of you. The mere thought of a man’s spend dripping from your cunt repulsed you to no end. But Mydei has a knack for being the sole exception to many things. He’s quick to wipe the tears that trickle across your face, thumb swiping gently across your soft cheek. “I… I do not wish to burden you with having to bear my child. And I have my own reasons for not wanting to sire an heir at this point in time.” “But…” Mydei continues, having not heard you protest. “Kremnoan children are also difficult to bear, according to many mothers I’ve spoken to before. The last thing I want is for you to—” “Mydeimos,” you sigh in exasperation, grabbing his face so that he would pay attention. “I’ve been sterilized long before I met you, so you needn’t fret about any children growing inside me.”  The silence that follows is deafening, and it makes you want to bury your head in sand. Mydei is too baffled to speak right away, and you don't fault him for it. The rumors about women at The House have been floating around for a while, but none of you didn't want to sow any more conflicts than there already are. Instinctively, you trail your fingers along your navel. Though the scars have long been healed by Phagousa’s blessing, you remember what you lost like it was just yesterday.  “We can’t bear any children because the previous head of The House took that away from us,” you murmur—memories, old but still painful flashing in the forefront of your mind. “So please don’t concern yourself with trivial things like that. I only want to provide the most out of your experience.” Your chest aches at your own words. It’s not that you’re dying to have children of your own. Nikolas being the first and last child to be born here is more than enough for you. Children should never have to grow up in the darkness anyways. Mydei frowns. “Why do you speak of yourself like you’re nothing but an object made for my enjoyment?” “Am I not?” He doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls you upright—anger glowing in his golden eyes. It doesn’t scare you. Somehow, you know the ire in his gaze is not directed at you.  But despite the obvious shift in his mood, Mydei kisses you again with nothing but passion imbued in his lips. He quickly melts away the bitterness dredged up by those memories he unknowingly dug up into the surface. The faith you’ve put in him tonight is phenomenal, especially when you allow him back between your thighs despite what you just discussed. You don’t understand how he’s still hard after releasing so much of his emission earlier. But if there’s one thing you know about Kremnoans, it’s that their stamina is unparalleled. Unlike the first time, Mydei doesn’t rut into you hard and fast. Everything about this is slow and sensual, as if he wants to mold your cunt into the shape of him. He presses your thighs into your chest, tilting your body at just the right angle so he can let his cock hit even deeper.  “Mydei…” His name sounds strained, like you’re choking on your own voice. “Please.” You don’t know what you’re begging for. You don’t know what you even want at this point. But Mydei heeds your unspoken wishes anyway. He folds you further into the bed in a way that makes you feel like his desire for you is inescapable. The position you’re in is meant for lovers trying for a child, to make sure the seed takes and bears fruit. You two are nothing but strangers basking in each other’s bodies deep in the darkness of the undercity. 

But even if you can never have children of your own, there’s something oddly comforting in the fact that Mydei fucks into you like this anyway. Like you’re worth more than a bottom dweller lost to the shadows.  Your orgasm crests without much bravado either. It’s straightforward, having been exacerbated by the Prince rubbing your clit as he nearly breaches a place inside of you that has never been reached by anyone else. It feels intrusive at first, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand in instinctive wariness. But as the head of his cock continues to drag along your spongy flesh, as he keeps hitting that sinfully sweet spot, your caution begins to fray at the seams. You embrace him with a quiet sob, tight walls squeezing his cock for all he’s worth.  And then you fall off the edge of ecstasy itself. It’s much different from when you came undone from his mouth. That felt like you were reaching for stars that burst in the back of your eyelids. This feels like coming back home.

Mydei murmurs yet another string of words that are beyond your range of understanding, each one sounding more vulnerable than the last. And with one last, stuttering thrust, he bursts—coating your walls in the warmth of his release.  He fills you to the brim, pumping you full of his seed until it drips out of your cunt with his cock still flush inside you. The sensation is filthy but not in a way that you despise. You even move your hips to let him fuck his cum deeper inside you. When Mydei notices, he lets out a sharp laugh. “I didn’t think…you’d still be this eager.” You don’t say anything in return—or more like, you can’t. The sensation of him filling you up has rendered you into a mindless deviant. Only his cock can stoke the fire still raging inside you. So you do your best to entice him. While you loathe the idea at first, you slip his cock out of your soiled cunt. Mydei watches your every move with rapt attention and a growl nearly tears through his chest when you get on your knees, facing away from him before presenting your ass for the taking. His seed trickles out of you and onto the sheets. No man would be sane enough to resist the same display of seduction. “Are you sure you want to provoke me like this?” he warns. “The woman in charge of this place told me I should be gone by sunrise.”  Your mind doesn’t quite register the fact that Elena herself imposed that restriction—too desperate to be speared on his cock once more. The sun doesn’t even rise in a place like this.  “I don’t care,” you whimper, tugging him closer to you. “Mydei, fuck me more.”  Mydei looks up at the ceiling, as if praying for some sort of deliverance. “What am I going to do with you?”

Fortunately for you, the Prince surrenders far too easily to the desires of the flesh. The two of you go at it with no end in sight. Mydei proves to live up to the Kremnoan stamina that’s grown recently popular amongst your sisters. And despite the room smelling of sex and depravity alike, he doesn’t relent—committed to fulfilling your desires until you’re completely spent.  You’re the first one to tap out, as expected. Mydei didn’t seem finished with you at first, but when he finally notices the mess he’s made of your body, his rationality comes back to the surface.  He lays your head on the pillow gently, positioning the rest of your body upright once he’s done wiping down the evidence of his time with you. Mydei knows you’re not quite asleep when your eyes slowly flutter in confusion, and he sighs before leaning forward to kiss your forehead. “Can I ask something?” “Hmm…?” Hopefully, that translates to a yes. “What’s your name? Your real name.”  “Mmmh…” On a regular day, you would think twice before giving that information out so freely. Your line of work is more dangerous than it seems, and the most basic precaution is to never give patrons your real name. But you don’t usually get your brains fucked into mush on regular days either, so you suppose Elena can forgive you for the lapse in judgement.  Mydei repeats your name with a hint of fondness in his voice. You don’t quite hear it, given that you’re halfway to the land of slumber.

“Thank you… Your… has been… splendid.” What was that…? You’re too far gone to give his words another conscious thought.  Instead, you dream of a man with eyes hewn from pure starlight. Of a life you could have with him if only you hadn’t been born with the lives you had.  But like all dreams do, they cease to exist the moment you open your eyes. 

“B-Big Sister, how do you make this much in one night?” This is the first thing Iris asks when you step into the pavilion. Well, you’re not sure if it’s even morning. It’s difficult to tell here in the undercity. Still feeling the lasting throb of a headache, you gaze at Iris with a befuddled look. “What are you talking about?”  It’s only then that you realize a handful of your other sisters have gathered around the large table in the middle of the room, where bags upon bags of gold overflow on the marble surface. You stare at them with a nonplussed expression, not sure why they think all this finery belongs to you— Mydei. “Alright, girls, give poor Thalia some space.” Sometimes, you’re grateful for Elena’s timely interventions. While some of your sisters bemoan the lack of an explanation for this…massive influx of currency, they all have enough courtesy to step out when it’s needed. Shortly after, you enjoy a meal that Elena already prepared for you beforehand—one glass of pomegranate juice and a plate of golden honeycakes.  “I’ve never seen you that spent before,” the head of The House snickers to herself. “That man did a number on you now, did he?”  You would have glared at her, if only her cooking wasn’t so good. “Elena, shouldn’t we practice the art of minding our own business?” “Technically, you’re working for my business, yes?” This woman can really be insufferable sometimes. 

Thankfully, Elena gives you enough grace for the next several minutes. You get to finish your food without so much as a quip on her end. But just when you think she’s let you off the hook, she has the gall to ask: “And you’re sure you haven’t fallen in love with that Prince?” Elena’s preposterous words nearly make you choke on your drink. “If I start falling for every man that shows me an ounce of kindness, then I would’ve been long dead, Elena. You know that men who mask their intentions are worse than those who are outright scoundrels.” “But is he?” “...What?” “A man who masks his intentions?” Her question is met with a puzzled stare. “Of course not—” “Then why not let yourself fall for the kind man?” Elena chuckles. 

“Because he’s a Chrysos Heir? He has much more pressing concerns than some random woman in the red light district. If the lesser men that have had me never even thought twice about me, why would he?” Elena shrugs. “Only you can answer that, I’m afraid.” Eventually, one of your sisters ends up calling Elena for an urgent matter. You don’t quite hear what it’s about, but the head of The House steps out of the pavilion to leave you to your devices… Or to your heaps of gold, in this case.  You still don’t know what you’re supposed to do with all of this, but you might give half of the money to Elena to help with the much needed repairs around The House, and the other half to Phainon so he can give it to the less fortunate citizens up on the surface. Though you immediately scratch the latter off the list since the chance of Mydei finding out is fairly high. The moment your thoughts drift back to him, your face heats up with embarrassment.

You were not yourself last night. You don’t know what drove you to go such lengths just to please him, and where you even got the courage to keep going. But when you recall the warmth of Mydei’s golden eyes, the tenderness weighted beneath his touch, and the fire that seemed to burn behind those marks on his body… You spend the rest of your day ruminating about your time with Mydei. Hell, you even consider reaching out to Phainon to ask all your pressing questions just to sate your biting curiosity. Why did he come here? Did he need reprieve from his princely duties so badly?  No. You shouldn’t think of him anymore.  Mydei is nothing but a client. You’ve rendered your services. He’s paid his dues. That should be the end of the transaction, and nothing else. Time and time again, you tell yourself the same thing: When you make a living in the bowels of the Eternal Holy City, nothing is ever personal. Until you catch yourself wondering just how heavy of a crown that Kremnoan Prince actually bears. “Big Sister? A customer is asking for you.” Nikolas peeks through the curtain of seashells dangling by the entrance of your room again. He doesn’t wait long for your answer because the speed in which you burst into a sprint is somewhat embarrassing. “Who is it?” you ask, eyes wide and pulse roaring in your ears. “Did you see?” “Umm, I think it’s just one of the bartenders working down the street. Why?” You visibly deflate at the news, and you know that despite being fairly young, Nikolas doesn’t miss the disappointment on your face.

In the end, you decline to see any potential clients for the next few days. Your official statement is that you’re still recuperating from your last session. The only reason your sisters don’t nose in on the matter is the fact that you brought so much revenue to The House in just one session, they’re fully convinced that you deserve all the rest you can get. But the truth is that you spend most of your time lost in thought, daydreaming of a man with fiery hair and molten gold eyes.  You wonder if he’ll ever come back.

In the seaside state of Lethe, it’s fairly easy to forget about one’s problems.

Wine and song filled every street and back-alley, as the land is loved by the Titan of honey brews and banquets. Tales of the neverending festivities reached far and wide in Amphoreus, and that word-of-mouth alone was enough to attract visitors from across the land. 

It’s for this reason that Lethians are as hospitable as they are. Phagousa taught them how to cultivate the sweetest wine from mere grapes; taught them the art of music and how it brings life to the darkest of nights. 

For thousands of years, your people simply dedicated their toasts and sang their shanties to honor the Ocean Mother’s kindness. When others hailing from places near and far started to gravitate towards such a profound relationship between a Titan and their people, you welcomed them with open arms. 

After all, Phagousa’s benevolence is meant to be shared, not kept. 

Your mother has been bringing you into the jovial streets since you were ten years old—singing and dancing amongst drunken sailors and tourists who wanted a quick getaway. It was easy to let loose in a place meant for you to forget about life’s worries. But on some days, you preferred basking in the comfort of waves lapping gently across the shore. The stars were much easier to see along the coastline, far from the entertainment district that robbed a person’s attention of the vast sky that stretched above their heads. Though Phagousa exists in every goblet overflowing with drink, Their presence is most captivating when you’re out here at sea. 

The spot you’ve chosen was a ways away from the wharf that received and sent off ships. Which is why one bothers to encroach on this safe haven of yours. Not even your own mother. But apart from the privacy the secluded shore offered, there was another reason why you liked to sit here and observe in your lonesome. 

A reason that might get you in trouble. 

Several miles east of Lethe is the stronghold of the Titan of Death: the city state of Styxia. Legend has it, Lethians used to live there a long time ago—before the end of Era Chrysea, when Thanatos was born. The god’s presence was a plague that spread throughout the land. Not even Phagousa could protect Their people from Death’s inviting fingertips.

But since the lost city state isn’t too far from here, sometimes, fragments of the Nether Realm end up leaking into the open sea.

There, you often see things that others would deem impossible. 

Souls—by the hundreds, sometimes even by the thousands. They all drift aimlessly across the ocean like luminescent creatures you’d normally find deep underwater. The first time you witnessed this happening, you simply thought that it was migration season for the crystal jellyfish. Lethians even have a festival dedicated to that specific phenomenon.

But that only ever happens during the Month of Joy, which was over five months ago. 

Instead of spiraling into a panic and alerting the entire island of what you saw, you chose to linger—observing as each soul meandered across the moonlit ocean and into the unknown. The sight reminded you of a tale about the Sea of Souls, and how you would inevitably make the journey towards it once you pass.  You wondered if these souls have simply lost their way to their supposed destination. Though you’ve never heard of this happening before, it wasn’t such a farfetched ordeal. Perhaps even the dead long for Phagousa’s promise of gratification and delight.

Every day since the first, you began visiting the secluded shore in hopes of getting a glimpse of that literal sea of souls. Sometimes, they light up the sea like specters bathed in moonlight, but most of the time, it’s just you. 

Always just you. 

“Big Sister? You’re dozing off again.”

You’re not sure how exactly your mind managed to register the fact that you’re being scolded, but you jolt awake anyways. Eyes darting around, you grasp at the information available—who are you with, what are you doing, what’s going on—and visibly relax when you remember that you’re with your sisters in the pavilion, feasting on today’s breakfast after a rather long night.

Iris stares at you with a concerned look. “Is the food not to your liking?”

“Of course not!” you insist before shoveling a spoonful of eggs into your mouth and biting down on a piece of flatbread. “Breakfast is especially appetizing when you’re the one making it for me.”

“So it’s not the case if I’m the one cooking?” 

At the sound of Elena's sulking, you have to stifle a groan. The head of the House could be such a child at times, despite already being a mother herself. But then again her petulance knows no bounds. Elena joins you and the rest of your sisters at the dining table, depositing some of Iris’ cooking onto a plate before taking a seat. Though you try your best to avoid her gaze, it’s a bit difficult when the person in question is quite literally next to you.

You’ve been with Elena for so long that you don’t even have to look at her to know whenever she’s scheming something. 

“I’ll be heading up to the overworld today,” she imparts the information casually before popping a blueberry into her mouth. “Nikolas has been meaning to join the Academy that trains the Holy City’s guards. Unfortunately, those scoundrels have rubbed off on my boy.” 

Despite your caution, you let slip a soft laugh. “Well, whenever we take some guards as clients, they have no one to talk to in the lobby apart from other patrons and Nik. You trained him to be too good of a conversationalist for a fourteen year-old.” 

“This is what we get for those god-awful waiting times we subject them to,” Penelope chuckles. “But look at the bright side: the city guards are the least rotten of the bunch. Nik at least chooses his heroes wisely.”

“I wouldn’t call Officer Theodorus a hero,” snorts Alexandria. “He has a wife and two children yet he goes down here to ask for me at least once a fortnight! Men are all the same, no matter what job they have.”

You don’t blame your sisters for feeling the way they do. Working as prostitutes in the underground had little benefits. But people with nowhere else to go don’t have much of a choice. It’s just nice to be able to air all these frustrations out as freely as you all do now. 

Unlike before…

All of a sudden, Lyra pops into the discussion, snapping her fingers. “Remember that man who pretended to be an envoy from the Grove? I still wonder why he thought doing that to curry Elena’s favor would give him any discounts. Not even Chrysos Heirs can haggle with her.” 

At the mere mention of that title, you feel several eyes on you at once. Just great.

“I thought we all agreed not to bring him up again?” you groan.

“Bring who up?” Elena muses with a whimsical tone that annoys you a little. “I didn’t know you felt so strongly about that fake scholar, Thalia.”

You know damn well it’s not about that impostor!

“U-Um, would you like some more juice, Big Sister?” Iris, ever the last to play the devil’s advocate, offers with a wobbly smile. You nod all too quickly before she refills your cup with enough pomegranate juice to last you until the end of your meal. Still, the sweet drink doesn’t stop you from glaring daggers at Elena and your other sniveling sisters. 

After breakfast, you all do your share of the housework. Elena wasn’t very strict, but she did have a rule that you should all have at least one designated chore for each day.

Today, you’re in charge of the dishes.

For some reason, it’s everyone’s least favorite. Most of your sisters didn’t like it when their fingers pruned up after washing over twenty sets of plates and silverware after every meal. But fortunately for you, you grew up in a place that requires more than just your hands to get wet for prolonged periods of time. 

“Are you coming along?”

Cue Elena’s timely entrance once again. Sighing, you cast her a sidelong glance as you finish up rinsing the cups you all used for breakfast. “Do I want to know what this is about?” 

“I already told you this morning.” She smiles. “I’m enrolling Nikolas into the Academy. I haven’t been to that part of the city, so I would appreciate some company.”

“Elena, you know I don’t like coming up to the surface,” you grumble. 

“Yes, and I also know it’s high time we broke you out of that shell of yours,” the older woman encourages. “The Okhemans aren’t as bad as you think they are, Thalia—”

“Maybe to you, they aren’t,” you snip back curtly. “But me? They know where I’m from, Elena. They know the face of the girl that Agamemnon stole from the Island of Debauchery.” 

Your voice still trembles with each word, but you find peace in the fact that uttering that man’s name no longer strikes fear into your heart. From the soft set of Elena’s brow, you know she notices this as well. The faucet creaks when you twist it to turn off the water. You hear nothing over the sound over your heart pounding in your ears. 

“But Agamemnon is no longer with us,” Elena reminds you quietly. “I’m not telling you to forgive the man who ruined our lives, but you shouldn’t let the ghost of him dictate the course of your life. If he found out how much of a hold he still has on you, that monster would be coming in his own grave.” 

As twisted as it is, you find comfort in the way she speaks of the old head of The House with as much disdain as you do. It’s been a while since he’s been taken care of, but the scars he left will never really fade. 

No matter how badly you want them to.

“Nik and I will leave in half an hour,” she continues after a few moments of silence. “Come with us to the surface, please? I promise that if your experience is anything less than stellar, I’ll never ask you the same thing again.”

The sincerity in her plea is far from Elena’s usual cheekiness, which makes you think that she might be getting a bit desperate to get you to agree. At that moment, you parse through dozens of possibilities as to why Elena thinks it’s such a good idea to bring you to the surface on such short notice. The other girls might be more amiable to the idea, whereas you are perfectly content with your life here in the undercity with other outcasts just trying to make a living. 

…Sure, you kind of want to visit the cafes at the Marmoreal Palace that Phainon told you about whenever he visits, but that’s besides the point!

When you first set foot in Okhema as the newest addition to Agamemnon’s collection, you weren’t gazed at with disgust because you were a prostitute. It was because you were Lethian—people widely known as swindlers who used Phagousa in their blasphemous schemes to sap people of their hard-earned money. Those revolted stares haunted you well into your dreams for months. So even if the person who dragged you across the ocean under the false pretense of protection is gone, there are some things that you cannot move past so easily.

“Big Sis Thalia? Are you— oh! Mother, hello.” 

Just your luck, Nikolas chose the perfect time to pop into the kitchen. You notice that he’s all dressed up—robes all pinned in place, brass wrist bands and other pieces of jewelry glinting in the light of the lanterns. You can’t help but gush about how proper he looks. 

“Stop,” he groans, cheeks all dusted pink as you ruffle his hair. “Mother told me to make myself presentable…whatever that means. I must’ve done a good job if you’re doting on me like this.”

“You sure did,” you coo. 

“So you’re coming along with us then?” Nikolas segues with raised brows. “Mother said she’ll try her best to convince you to go to the surface. Did she?”

From the expectant twinkle in the boy’s eyes, you figure that he must’ve been really looking forward to you chaperoning them to the Academy. You heave a deep sigh before your gaze flickers to Elena, who simply grins at you like the angel she is. 

Hook. Line. Sinker. 

“Yeah, just give me a few minutes to get ready.” You force out a smile of your own before pinching the tip of Nikolas’ nose. “I might need some sunlight after all this scuttling in the dark.”

Nikolas stares at you with his mouth agape, then at his mother, and back at you again in mere seconds. “W-What? Really?”

“ Really ,” you say, hoping you sound as sure as you hoped. “I’ll see you in half an hour, okay?”

The grin that stretches across his chubby little face is so wide, it makes your heart hurt. How in the world are you supposed to say no to him? 

When you head up to your quarters, the curtain of seashells parts at your entrance with a characteristic clinking sound. You don’t usually rush inside this fast, but time is of the essence when you agree to go to the surface even if you only planned on finishing a novel today.  You’ve never been as particular with what you wanted to wear as you are now. Most of the dresses in your wardrobe are meant for work—meaning, they’re far too revealing to wear in the streets of the Eternal Holy City. The last thing you want is to get arrested for public indecency.

Thankfully, you manage to spot some rather pristine robes that probably won’t get you kicked out of the Academy in the back of your closet. You try it on without another thought, smiling to yourself in the mirror when you find that it’s still a perfect fit. The rest follows swiftly after. Minimal makeup. Nothing too extravagant for jewelry. Comfortable sandals. You’re pretty much all set. 

But then you make the mistake of thinking, I wonder if I’ll run into Phainon today, which then makes you think about him. 

Mydeimos.

Truth be told, the thought of that name incites an even more volatile reaction out of you than that of Agamemnon’s. Even if he’s a prince, he should be nothing but another name on your neverending list of clientele. 

Before meeting him, you never quite understood prostitutes who hanker for certain patrons more than others, who even go as far as to fall in love with them. The next thing you know, their rooms in The House have been emptied and news of them being bought out by said patrons starts to spread. You’re happy for them, of course. But the thought of having any sort of affection for a man who only used you for your body was near-unfathomable for you for a long, long time. 

Until you met Mydei. 

“Big Sis, are you ready?” 

The sound of Nikolas calling out for you down the hall dispels any and all thoughts of a certain Kremonan Prince. You shake your head, staring at yourself hard in the mirror as if wanting to remind you of your place. What’s done is done. They say you need countless lifetimes of fate to meet a person even once in this life. If you miss it when it brushes past, that's the end.

Right?

“I’ll be down in a minute!” you shout back. “Sorry for the wait!”

With that, you set off for your first excursion to the surface in a good while—praying to the heavens above. You’re not even asking for a good day. You just need to be able to get through this without getting traumatized into hiding again.

Please. Just this once. 

There are no gods left that would heed your plea, but it costs nothing to hope. 

The air in Okhema feels different today. 

Maybe because it’s been months, maybe longer, since you last walked these streets. Yet the weight of it all—the towering marble spires, the golden banners, the bustling crowds—clings to you like a second skin. You feel alien in a place that should have welcomed you. But instead, it’s the echo of past insults, cold stares, and harsh judgment that rises to the surface. It threatens to choke you, but you do your best to overcome it. You can’t afford to lose face where Nikolas can see. 

As you walk through the city’s grand streets, the young boy skips ahead, eagerly pointing out the towering buildings and guards marching in formation. Elena walks beside him, hands on his shoulders, keeping him grounded as she smiles proudly at her son. There’s a quiet confidence in Elena’s step, the kind of strength that you find yourself envying. Despite claiming otherwise, she knows this city well, knows how to navigate it, and how to move among the people. But for you, every step feels foreign, like an outsider trying to be something she’s not.

You eventually reach the Academy without much spoken word. Nikolas is excited, tugging Elena’s arm, eager to begin his training, while his mother smiles, giving him a gentle nudge toward the entrance. You linger a few paces behind, staring at the stone-carved doors before feeling a slight knot in your stomach as the reality sets in. This is where Nikolas will learn to become something great, something noble. And here you are, a shadow in the background, caught between worlds.

Elena turns to you, her smile faltering slightly. “Thalia,” she says, voice soft but firm, “Are you all right?”

You blink, as if snapping out of a daze and before attempting to force a smile that only feels hollow. The words you’re looking for stick in your throat, tangled with the memories of your time in Okhema—the judgment, the whispers, the pain of feeling like you didn’t belong here, like you were nothing more than an outcast.

“I’m fine,” you reply, though the words feel like a lie. You can’t bring yourself to say more. 

The city around you feels suffocating, its beauty just a façade for all the ugly truths beneath. Your gaze drifts toward the golden banners fluttering in the wind, the bright, polished marble reflecting the sun. It all feels too perfect, too pristine. But there’s no life in it, no warmth. Just cold, glittering stone.

Nikolas notices the quiet tension between you. His youthful face scrunches in confusion, then concern. “Big Sis Thalia, you look sad.”

You’re quick to shake your head, as if to push the feeling away. “It’s nothing, Nikolas. Just…” A pause. “It’s a lot to take in.”

Elena watches you for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly as if she can see right through the carefully constructed farce. “You don’t have to linger if you don’t want to. I promised I wouldn’t ask you to come again if it was too much, didn’t I?”

The offer hangs in the air, a lifeline thrown your way, but you refuse it with a sigh. “No. I’ll stay. I’ll wait for you two.”

Elena gives you a thoughtful look but doesn’t press further. She turns back to Nikolas, her voice warming as she speaks to him again. “Come on, Nikolas. Let’s get you settled in.”

You watch them go, feeling like an outsider once more. 

Eventually, you find yourself leaning against a nearby stone pillar, trying to push away the gnawing unease. As the sounds of the city swirl around you—laughter, the distant clatter of metal, the hum of conversation—you find yourself yearning for the stillness of the undercity. For the quiet comfort of familiarity, even if it was painful. 

Here, in Okhema, there’s nothing but unfamiliar faces, bright lights, and the weight of expectations. The city feels too big, too cold, too far removed from everything you’ve known.

Your eyes catch the glitter of the golden sun off a nearby building, and you swallow hard. Somewhere, deep down, you know that this is what you should want. This is where Nikolas will build a better future. This is the world of the privileged, the elite.

And yet, all you can think of is Lethe—the island you came from, where the waves washed away the weight of the world for a time. Where you could drown your worries in song and drink, forgetting the ugliness of life. But even there, you were no stranger to suffering.

You blink back the feeling of helplessness that threatens to overwhelm you. For a brief moment, you wonder if you’ll ever be able to escape the shadows of the past—if you can even reconcile the girl who once wanted more with the woman who knows she’ll never have it all. The silence between you and the world around you stretches on, heavy like the weight of a thousand unspoken thoughts. You don't know how long you stand there, watching the bustling crowds of Okhema, feeling the chill of being far from home—far from Lethe. The sharp, rich laughter of the city mocks your uncertainty.

But just as you’re about to let yourself drown in it, a voice cuts through the air, low and familiar.

“Lady Thalia?”

You jerk upright, eyes snapping toward the source. Standing a few paces away, tall and unruffled, is Phainon. His wide shoulders are relaxed, his posture easy, yet there's something about him—his unwavering calm in this sea of chaos—that makes him seem like an anchor in this storm of unfamiliar faces.

"Phainon!" you breathe, voice laced with surprise. 

You hadn’t expected to see him here. He’s usually a fixture in The House, checking in on you, Elena and the others. But here? In the heart of Okhema? It’s a little too much to process.

Phainon smiles, his eyes soft with something between surprise and delight. “I didn’t expect to find you in the overworld, let alone at the Academy of all places. This is a first.”

You laugh quietly, though it’s a hollow sound, like the air leaving a balloon. “Yeah, I guess I didn’t expect to be here either,” you tell him, gaze flicking to the Academy’s entrance. You can feel the weight of the city press against you once more, but Phainon’s presence is like a breath of fresh air, grounding you in the moment.

He tilts his head, a glimmer of something thoughtful in his eyes. “So what brings you here? Nothing bad, I hope?”

You nod, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “I’m waiting for Elena and Nikolas. They’re just finishing up inside. Little Nik has been accepted into the Academy, and I’m just here to provide some moral support.”

For a moment, you pause, gaze wandering again to the grand doors of the Academy—the same door Nikolas will walk through everyday. It feels like the world is turning a page, and you’re left on the outside, watching it all happen.

Phainon studies you, sensing the flicker of doubt in your eyes. “Well, that’s quite an accomplishment,” he says, his tone warm, though his voice drops a little, as though trying to lighten the mood. “And who knows, maybe you’ll find your way around the city in time. Okhema isn’t so bad once you get used to it.”

You offer up half a smile, though the sentiment doesn’t quite ease the discomfort curling in your chest. “I’m not so sure about that. It’s just... I’m not sure I fit in here.”

Phainon’s expression softens, the playful energy draining from his face. “You don’t have to fit in, Lady Thalia,” he says simply. “This city doesn’t get to dictate who you are. You’re the one who decides that.”

Before you can respond, the doors of the Academy finally open, and Elena and Nikolas step out. The former beams at you and Phainon, her proud smile lighting up her face. On the other hand, Nikolas is glued to her side—his eyes wide with excitement.

“I still can’t believe it,” he exclaims, his youthful energy spilling over. “I’m going to be trained to fight! I’m going to be a guard just like the ones we saw earlier!”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “You’ll be great, Nik. You’ll make us all proud.”

Elena looks over at Phainon, offering a warm smile as well. “I see we have company.”

Phainon grins back at her. “You could say that. And what a pleasant surprise it is. I didn’t expect to find Lady Thalia in Okhema, let alone in the Academy district.”

That makes you roll your eyes, but there’s a warmth that you haven't felt since you set foot in this city. “I didn’t expect it either,” you mutter, though there’s something almost comforting in Phainon’s presence.

“Well,” Phainon continues, his voice taking on a playful note, “since we’re all here, why don’t we make the most of it? I was just on my way to the Overflowing Bath, and I’d be more than happy to invite you all for a little dip.”

Your expression shifts, surprised by the offer. “The Overflowing Bath?” 

Phainon’s mention of it stirs something in you—a memory of tales passed among your sisters, of how the bath is rumored to have healing waters, soothing both body and spirit. The waters, blessed by Phagousa, the Titan of the Ocean, have long been a comfort to those who sought solace in their depths. 

It was in those very waters that you had found a semblance of peace after all those years you spent with Agamemnon, your scars slowly healing under the gentle flow of the blessed stream. That was the closest you’ve been to the Titan who you used to believe in. Yet, despite the healing they offered your body, the scars of your heart have never quite mended.

Phainon notices the faraway look in your eyes and softens his tone. “The Overflowing Bath is a place of peace,” he says, “blessed by Phagousa herself. You’ve heard of it, I’m sure. It’s a place where you can leave your burdens behind, even for just a little while.”

You nod slowly. “Yes, I’ve heard of it. In fact, that’s where Elena brought us first after you freed us from…”

The thought trails off, but the rest of them catch the unsaid message regardless. Elena smiles gently before placing a hand on your shoulder. “I know the bath has helped you heal before,” she says softly. “You’ve earned some time for yourself.”

Phainon’s grin is wide and inviting. “Come with me, then. There’s no rush, and no need to worry about anything for a while. I had the bath reserved for the morning if being in the company of strangers bothers you.”

That makes you scowl. “You booked an entire bath for yourself?” 

“...More or less.”

Elena shakes her head, laughing lightly. “As much as I’d love to join, Nikolas still has to get his uniform made, and that will take some time. But you two go ahead. This one deserves the break she needs.”

Nikolas pouts. “Aww, we can’t go?” 

“I’ll take good care of her, Elena,” Phainon assures, his voice light yet sincere. “I swear it in the name of the Flamechase Journey.” 

“What a tall oath,” the head of the House chuckles before egging you on. “Go ahead, Thalia. It’s a rare moment of peace. Take it.”

You look between them with evident hesitation, a quiet thanks in your eyes as you finally nod in agreement.

“Alright,” you say, your voice steadier than it has been in a while. “I’ll go.”

Phainon’s grin widens as he leads the way, the sunlight glinting off the gold-tinted streets of Okhema. The city fades behind you as you walk, the towering structures and polished marble giving way to the softer, more tranquil atmosphere of the Overflowing Bath. Phainon’s presence, calming and steady, makes you feel like you can breathe again, if only for a moment.

When you reach the specific area that Phainon reserved, he pushes open the ornate doors with a flourish. The sweet scent of warm water and incense wafts out, drawing you inside. Your eyes search the steamy, serene atmosphere, until your gaze catches on a figure lounging on one of the ledges of the bath.

You freeze in place, breath catching in your throat. Mydei, who you haven’t seen or heard from in weeks is here. Of all the places. Of all the times.

Phainon, oblivious to the shock written on your face, smiles warmly. “Ah, Mydei, I see you’ve already made yourself at home.”

Mydei looks up, his lips curling into a small, knowing smile. “I thought I’d get a head start.” His gaze shifts towards you, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something unspoken in his eyes—a softness that immediately makes your heart flutter.

“Thalia,” he greets, his voice low but warm.

You don't know what to say. How do you speak to someone you tried so hard to forget, but whose presence still calls to you in ways you can’t ignore? Sure you’d only seen Mydei once during that fateful encounter, but your sisters can attest to the fact that the Prince has affected you in ways no man has ever done before.

“I—didn’t know you’d be here,” you murmurs, your voice betraying the swirl of emotions you’ve been hiding for so long.

Mydei’s smile deepens, though it holds a trace of sadness. “I didn’t expect to be, either.”

As the water of the Overflowing Bath beckons, you can’t help but feel like the healing waters won’t just soothe your body this time—but perhaps, for better or worse, it will stir your heart once again.

The soft murmur of the stream fills the gaps in between your conversations. Phainon has settled into the pool with his usual ease, splashing the water lightly as he leans back with a relaxed grin. You, however, feel every drop against your skin as if it's a reminder of your discomfort. Coupled with Mydei’s presence, it’s difficult to maintain your composure.  You lower yourself into the water slowly, trying not to meet the prince’s gaze. His figure is hard to ignore—his chiseled form outlined in the glow of the bath’s warm light. He’s right there, and yet, the space between you feels as vast as the ocean.

“What compelled you to rent out an entire bath?” you ask more to settle your nerves than anything else. You then turn your eyes to Phainon, finding something familiar in his carefree demeanor. 

The Chrysos Heir lounging with his eyes half-closed, simply shrugs, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “I do have a tendency to pull off stuff that others least expect. Keeps things interesting, don’t you think?”

You try to laugh, but it sounds hollow, even to your own ears. Mydei, on the other hand, remains quiet, his gaze shifting from Phainon to you, his expression unreadable.

“I... didn’t think I’d find you both here, together,” you add, fingers trailing lazily through the water, finding solace in its movement.

Phainon glances over at you, his eyes sparkling with his usual wit. “Well, you know Mydei. He’s always full of surprises.”

Mydei shifts slightly but doesn’t respond, his silence more eloquent than any words could be. You are acutely aware of the space between you—how small, yet how loaded it feels. It’s not the first time you’ve felt something unsaid lingering in the air, but somehow this time feels different. More fragile. You find yourself stealing a glance at The Prince as he speaks with Phainon about some uproar in the Marmoreal Market. His broad shoulders are relaxed, his wet hair framing his face in a way that, for a moment, makes you forget the tension in the air. You quickly avert your eyes, ashamed of the way your heart flutters, even now.

“What about you? What are you doing here?” 

The sound of Mydei’s voice startles you, low and deep—like the distant rumbling of thunder. You know he’s talking to you because his words carry a characteristic softness that you don’t really hear when he’s conversing with Phainon.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” you murmurs, trying to fill the silence with anything. “I’m just...passing the time.”

Mydei gives a low hum of acknowledgement, but it’s clear he’s not about to press you for more. Instead, he turns to you with an almost imperceptible nod. “This place... it’s been known to heal more than just wounds,” he says casually, his voice laced with a tone you can’t quite place. “If you’ve been carrying scars... the water here helps.”

“I’ve heard,” you say, voice low enough to be a whisper. “When I first arrived here... I thought it was too good to be true.”

He looks at you then, his gaze softer than it has been before, but still guarded. “It’s true. The waters here have a way of healing what’s broken. And they don’t ask for anything in return.”

You dip your hand further into the water, feeling the warmth seep into your skin, almost as though it could wash away everything you’ve tried to forget. You hadn’t realized how much you needed this peace until you found it, in this strange, blessed space.

“I think I’m used to broken things,” you tell him quietly, unsure whether you mean it for either of them to hear. “But maybe... some things can be fixed.”

Mydei, still sitting near the edge of the bath, shifts slightly, but doesn’t respond. There’s a weight in his eyes as they meet yours, and for the briefest of moments, it feels like the world outside of the bath has ceased to exist. There are no words for the thoughts passing between you—only the water’s gentle rhythm and the faint echo of an old song neither of you dares to sing aloud. Just as the silence begins to feel suffocating, Phainon rises from the water. 

“I’ll leave you two to talk,” he says with a grin, clearly not fooled by the unspoken tension. He starts moving toward the exit, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder as he passes. “Enjoy the waters. Don’t forget, you two—rest is as important as duty. You’ve earned it.”

You watch him leave, feeling an inexplicable weight lift off your shoulders. Alone now, you’re left with the gentle pull of the water and the quiet, watchful presence of Mydei. The space between you has become an almost tangible thing—fragile and full of unspoken possibilities.

When he speaks again, it’s only after several moments have passed, as if he’s still choosing his words carefully. 

“Does it get easier?” he asks.

“No,” you reply, your tone matching his. “It doesn’t.”

And with that, the silence returns, but this time, it doesn’t feel quite so heavy.

You don't know how long you sit like that—still, silent, steeped in the warmth of the water and the ache of unspoken words. Around you, the sacred scent of herbs mingled with steam rises from the surface, curling in the air like incense in a forgotten temple. Somewhere beneath the hush of the baths, you can almost hear the pulse of the city—distant bells, murmured prayers, the echo of footsteps beyond the marble walls. You shift slightly, drawing your knees closer to your chest beneath the water. Mydei remains at the other end of the pool, his arms draped over the edge, head tilted back, eyes closed. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was asleep. 

“Did you mean it?” you ask, soft but sudden. “What you said... about the water not asking for anything in return.”

He opens his eyes, but doesn’t look at you right away. “Yes,” he says after a pause. “Not everything here is like the rest of the city.”

You let that sit for a while. “That’s rare,” you murmur, brushing your fingers over the surface of the water. “Things that don’t take something from you.”

At that, Mydei deigns to look at you. His gaze isn’t sharp or probing—it’s quiet. Careful. Like he’s trying to read a page you haven't decided to turn yet.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment. “For what you were put through.”

The words catch you off guard—not because of what they are, but because of how gently he says them. Not as a prince, or a warrior, or a man trying to soothe his conscience. Just...a person who sees your pain. You don't respond right away. You can’t. Your throat tightens in that way it sometimes does, where it feels like if you say anything at all, the mask you’ve carefully kept in place will crumble.

Instead, you swallow it down with a minute nod.

“I know,” you finally say. “But it wasn’t your fault.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t carry it.”

The water laps quietly between you as you close your eyes. You’re not supposed to be kind, you think bitterly. You’re not supposed to see me.

But he does. You know he does.

Just then, Nikolas’ laugh echoes faintly from the corridor beyond the marble walls. Elena must have found something to delight him on their way here—his joy is unmistakable, pure and bright. It makes something ache deep in your chest. A reminder of why you’re still here. Why you’re trying, even if you haven’t figured out how to start healing yet.

You open your eyes and let your gaze sweep across the bath. Mydei is watching you again, but there’s no expectation in his molten gold irises. In spite of this, you manage a small, wry smile. “You’re quieter than I remember.”

He gives a faint, sheepish shrug. “I talk less when I don’t know what to say.”

“I thought princes were trained to always know what to say.”

He huffs softly—more breath than laughter, but it’s genuine. “Maybe I missed that lesson.”

You surprise yourself by laughing too, and for a moment, it’s easy. Light and fleeting as it is, it lifts something heavy off your chest. The two of you don’t speak again after that—not because you’ve run out of things to say, but because silence feels safer now. More honest.

When you finally step out of the bath, wrapping yourself in one of the palace’s pale linen towels, you feel... lighter. The pain hasn’t gone. The past hasn’t changed. But for a moment, the weight is a little easier to carry. Mydei stands as well, quiet and respectful, and doesn’t look at you until you turn to him.

“I’ll see you around,” you tell him. Not a question, not a promise—just something that hangs in the space between maybe and someday.

Mydei nods. “You will.”

And then, as they part ways, the steam rises behind them, curling upward toward the sky where the temple windows open wide, letting in the late morning light. Lethe’s daughter walks beneath it.

And for the first time in a long while, she doesn’t feel like she’s drowning.

That night, sleep finds you gently in your room at The House.

It’s quiet—unusually so. The murmurs and laughter from the halls have faded, and even the candlelight flickers soft and low, as if unwilling to disturb you. The sheets smell faintly of lavender and mineral salts still clinging to your skin. For the first time in a long while, your body feels light. Almost whole. But the moment your eyes close, the world begins to shift and suddenly, you’re in Lethe again.

The air smells like salt and fruit wine. Music drifts down cobbled streets, bright and winding, and laughter spills from open balconies. The sun dips low, spilling honey-colored light over everything. You remember this part—how beautiful it always looked from the outside. A paradise that asked nothing of you but to smile, to dance, to forget. You tried so hard to forget.

The tide starts to rise.

Your bare feet slap against wet stone. The cobblestones fade beneath a creeping tide of black water. The music warps, slows, becomes something hollow. You try to run, but the water climbs higher, dark and cold, and from its depths emerge faces.

Wandering souls. Pale, half-formed, drifting just beneath the surface. Eyes like moons, wide and lost. You saw them once—back on the shores of Lethe, before Agamemnon took you away. Now they’re reaching for you. Calling for you like sirens. But before you can answer, the dream fractures again.

You’re in the undercity.

A lantern swings overhead, casting jagged light along damp stone walls. You hear sobbing from behind closed doors, moans of pain, the dull thud of fists against flesh. You know these sounds. They followed you for years.

He is here.

Agamemnon’s voice slithers through the dark, oil-slick and indulgent. 

“You’re lucky,” he says, “A beauty like yours shouldn’t be wasted in some seaside slum.”

“You’ll be taken care of. Treasured.”

“You’re mine.”

You see him again—his eyes devouring, hands like shackles dressed in gold. He touches your chin. You want to spit. You try to scream.

And then—light.

Like a blade cleaving darkness, you see Elena. Bent over, cradling a crying baby, shielding him from a world that wants nothing but to unmake him. Her eyes—tired, fierce, filled with love. Nikolas. His cries cut through the dream like a signal fire.

You run.

Through water, through shadow, through screams and shattered laughter. You don’t know if you’re chasing something or fleeing from it. But the sea rises. The souls call. The walls bleed gold. And then—

You gasp awake, heart jackhammering in your chest. Sweat clings to your back, and the cool, sacred air of the overworld feels far too still. For a moment, you forget where you are.

Then you remember the bath. The light. The gentle way Phainon laughed. The quiet look Mydei gave you, unreadable and tender. You remember the promise of healing, the way the blessed water wrapped around your wounds like a whisper. But even the kindest waters cannot drown what lives inside you.

You wipe your face with trembling fingers. The night is silent, but your pulse is loud in your ears. Though the blessed water may have healed your body, the scars inside you still sing.

The ghosts are quiet now.

But not gone.

The sun never sets in Okhema.

By late afternoon, the light should have softened, dipping into that gentle hush before dusk—but here, under the watch of Kephale’s Dawn Device, the city remains suspended in a perpetual golden hour. 

It’s beautiful in a way that makes your skin crawl if you think about it too long. The warmth feels artificial, borrowed. Like the heavens forgot to turn the page. You step onto the polished stone streets, the hem of your cloak catching faint glimmers of light. The satchel you carry is light, barely filled with anything but a half-eaten persimmon and a cloth to wipe Nikolas’ ever-sticky hands. Still, its strap rests against your shoulder like something heavier—something earned.

The walk to the Academy winds through quieter neighborhoods, far from the towering temples and the chatter of merchants. The air smells like crushed citrus and dust. You keep your head down. You always do, even now, even when people don’t seem to look at you with the same venom they once did. 

It’s been some time since Agamemnon fell, but his ghost lingers in certain corners of your mind, like mildew that clings no matter how many times you scrub.

At the gates of the Academy, you pause, eyes tracing the archways carved with symbols of Kephale’s divine mind—logic, clarity, vision. It’s meant to inspire discipline. You’ve never been particularly fond of order, but something about Nikolas in this place makes a strange kind of sense. He deserves more than survival. The gates creak open and children spill out like laughter, sharp and careless. Your eyes scan for him.

And there he is—Nikolas, his hair a wild crown of dark curls, cheeks smudged with ink, a leather-bound workbook clutched to his chest like a badge of honor. His smile is wide when he spots you.

"Big Sis Thalia!" he calls, breaking into a run. He nearly barrels into your legs, arms wrapping tight around your waist. You let out a soft laugh despite yourself.

“You’re filthy,” you murmur, brushing ink from his cheek. “Elena’s going to think I dragged you through the gutters.”

“She always says that,” he shrugs, then looks up with that disarming earnestness only children possess. “Did you wait long?”

You shake your head. “Only a little. Come on. Let’s head home.”

But he doesn’t move. Instead, Nikolas digs his heels into the stone, tilting his head back with a grin that already spells trouble. “Wait—Thalia, can we go to the Hall of Respite? Just real quick? Please?”

You raise a brow. “Why so suddenly?”

He bobs his head eagerly. “They have those honey-glazed flatcakes I like—the really soft ones! And I got a perfect score today. Ask anyone. Master Irenas even patted my head. That never happens!”

You blink. “A perfect score?”

He puffs out his chest, smug in the way only little boys who’ve just conquered the world can be. “I studied really hard. Even Lord Phainon said I should treat myself more. He did!”

You sigh, but it’s mostly for show. “I doubt he meant ‘bribe your guardian into feeding your sweet tooth.’”

Nikolas clasps his hands together dramatically. “Please? I’ll even save you a bite.”

You glance down at him—the sunlight caught in his lashes, the pink blooming across his cheeks from too much running, the way he’s still slightly out of breath and doesn’t care at all. The kind of breathless you used to be, back when days were filled with sea spray and laughter and song.

“Alright,” you sigh again, and this time it’s gentler. “But only one. And don’t think this means I’ll cover for you if you throw up before dinner.”

He whoops with victory, grabbing your hand and tugging you toward the Hall of Respite, where the scents of warm milk, nutmeg, and golden syrup linger in the air like an embrace.

You follow, the goldlight casting your shadows long behind you—but for now, you don’t look back.

The Hall of Respite is a marvel in gold and gentle laughter. Soft harp strings hum in the background, accompanied by the distant trickle of a fountain somewhere beyond the marble colonnades. You and Nikolas sit tucked near one of the arched windows, bathed in dappled light as he gleefully tears into his honey-glazed flatcake, cheeks sticky with syrup and joy. He talks between bites—fast and animated—his voice barely able to keep up with his thoughts.

“—and then he flipped Cassander over with just one arm! Just one! Like this!” Nikolas throws his arms out, nearly knocking over your cup of mulled cider. “And he made us practice breakfall drills until our backs hurt. But he said it was so we wouldn't crack our heads open later, which makes sense, right?”

You blink at him, smiling despite yourself. “What happened to that gentle etiquette instructor you said reminded you of a housecat?”

“Oh, Master Aetius?” Nikolas waves him off. “He’s still there. But this new guy—they say he was a real warrior! Like, a real real one. He's a little scary. But… he’s kind too. He taught me how to breathe when I'm scared.”

Your smile falters just a little.

“You’re scared?”

“Sometimes,” he says plainly. “But not with him around. Master Mydei’s really strong. Like Lord Phainon—but sharper. And he never talks down to us. Even if he looks tired sometimes.”

The name settles in your chest like a dropped stone. Your cup stills in your hands, forgotten. You’re about to ask—Master Mydei?—but before the words even leave your mouth, Nikolas is already wriggling around in his seat, eyes lit with recognition.

“He’s over there! Hey! Master Mydei!” he shouts, waving one syrup-slicked hand in the air.

You nearly choke.

Across the hall, seated near a towering ficus and sipping from a ceramic cup with a journal open beside him, a figure turns his head. And the moment your eyes meet—those same sunlit-gold irises now caught in the warm light of the Hall—time slips. Your breath stutters. He doesn’t look surprised.

A flicker of something unreadable passes across his face before his mouth curves into a small, polite smile. He closes the journal softly and stands.

Nikolas is already halfway out of his seat, grinning from ear to ear. “He’s the one I was telling you about! He—he taught us how to roll without breaking our necks! And he gave me a second try when I tripped the first time!”

You, however, are frozen.

Of all the faces to find in the afterglow of a sun that never sets, it had to be his.

“Master Mydei, this is Big Sis Thalia!” Nikolas beams, tugging on the hem of your sleeve like he’s about to introduce a treasured friend to a local god. “She picks me up after class now!”

You feel your heart thrum a little too hard at that name spoken aloud. Mydei is already making his way toward your table, each step measured and unhurried. He moves like he always does—like someone born of silence and gravity, like someone who’s learned the value of taking up just enough space. He stops just beside the table, gaze dipping to meet yours.

“It’s good to see you again, Thalia.” His voice is smooth and composed, but not cold. There’s a flicker of something warmer under the surface—familiarity, perhaps. Or curiosity.

You rise a little from your seat, unsure whether to bow, curtsy, or offer a nod. You settle for a soft, polite greeting. “Likewise, Lord Mydei.”

He waves the title away. “I’m only ‘Master’ here in the Academy halls, and only because the instructors insisted.”

Nikolas clambers back onto his seat, already patting the bench beside him. “Come sit! You’re not gonna leave already, are you?”

Mydei glances once at you, as if gauging your comfort, then back at the boy. “Only if your guardian doesn’t mind.”

Your mouth feels dry, but you manage a nod. “Please. We were just having a small treat before heading home.”

“Then I’ll join you for a moment.” He lowers himself gracefully onto the bench beside Nikolas, placing his journal aside, hands folded neatly on the table. “You’ve had quite the day, haven’t you?”

Nikolas puffs out his chest. “Got a perfect score on our formations quiz. Even the scary second-year instructor said so.”

“Impressive,” Mydei says, tone light but sincere. “Maybe you’ll be teaching me something before long.”

The boy snickers proudly, and conversation carries on easily enough—for him, at least. You sit across from them, quietly, sipping from your cooling cider and watching the exchange. But before you can get lost in your thoughts, Nikolas looks between you both, his brows furrowing with curiosity.

“Wait... Do you two know each other?” he asks, his voice suddenly serious, as if he’s stumbled onto something important.

You freeze for a split second, unsure of how to answer, but Mydei simply smiles—an easy, natural smile that doesn’t reach too far into anything personal.

“We’ve met a few times,” Mydei says smoothly, his eyes flicking over to you briefly before returning to Nikolas. “Mostly through your mother’s good work.”

Nikolas’s eyes narrow as he looks between you both. His lips quirk, understanding settling in like a quiet revelation. He’s been around enough to know the weight of that phrase, to know what it means when someone mentions meeting through his mother’s “good work”.

A subtle, knowing look passes between the two of you, and you can see Nikolas’s mind working. He doesn’t press it, though; instead, he just nods as if he’s pieced things together in that young, perceptive way of his.

“Got it,” Nikolas says with a slight grin, his voice dropping to something quieter. “Well, anyway... Master Mydei’s pretty cool, right?” He sounds more casual now, as if the conversation’s already shifted away from anything that’s uncomfortable for him. But he’s not blind—he knows.

You meet Mydei’s gaze, and for just a moment, the question lingers in the air between the two of you. But for Nikolas, it’s already passed. He’s not going to make things harder for you. He’s just glad to have his perfect score to boast about.

Nikolas chatters on beside you, still glowing with excitement from his day at the Academy, especially now that he’s seen his new instructor outside the training halls. You try to listen, but your eyes keep drifting toward the man standing before you—Mydei, now dressed in a much more practical outfit than when you last saw him, though no less composed. His gaze doesn’t linger on you long, but when it does, it feels as if he sees far too much.

“Well,” he says at last, with a polite nod toward Nikolas, “I’ll leave you two to enjoy your treat.”

There’s nothing overt in his tone, but something in the weight of those words sticks with you, and you find yourself offering a small nod in return, though your chest tightens.

Nikolas, thankfully, doesn’t notice the shift. He keeps talking, something about how Master Mydei demonstrated a maneuver with a practice spear earlier. You murmur something in response, but before you can fully catch your breath, Mydei is at your side again. You feel the brush of his hand—light, fleeting—guiding you a few paces away from Nikolas and the noisy crowd of the Hall. You don’t resist. The moment feels suspended in air. He leans in, just enough that you feel the warmth of his breath against your ear.

“I’ll see you again tonight,” he whispers, his voice low, meant for you and you alone.

Your heart skips. You’re not sure what you expected—if you expected anything at all—but that wasn’t it. Before you can gather a reply, he’s already stepping away, his touch gone, his presence retreating with effortless grace. You stand there, the din of the Hall slowly returning around you, and wonder if he knows just how much weight his words now carry.

Nikolas tugs at your sleeve, oblivious. “Are you okay?”

You manage a soft smile, though your thoughts are still chasing after the shadow of a prince disappearing into the golden light.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Let’s finish that snack.”

You shouldn’t be fussing this much.

You tell yourself that as you smooth the silken sheets for the third time, as you adjust the folds of your robe for the third time, as you dab perfume just under your jaw, though it’s not the kind you ever wore for clients. It’s subtle, something like rosewater clinging to the memory of seafoam.

Your sisters have noticed. Of course they have. Fewer and fewer names on your ledger, fewer nights where you let your hair down for anyone but him. They don’t say it outright, but you catch the glances. The knowing smirks. A gentle elbow here, a raised brow there. Elena says nothing, bless her, but there’s a glint of worry behind her eyes.

Because girls like you are not meant to hope.

The fourth hour comes, quiet as a whisper. Mydei doesn’t knock. You just know when he’s arrived. The door creaks open, and there he is—bathed in the low amber light of your chamber, looking more god than man. His hair is like a flame pulled taut into a low tie at his nape, loose strands catching the light like cinders. His golden eyes find yours, but they don't linger in lust—they search. For what, you aren’t sure. Answers, maybe. Or something you’ve tucked too deep to name.

Red markings glisten faintly across his skin, crawling down the ridges of his arms, over the firm landscape of his torso. Not painted. Not cosmetic. They pulse faintly with some inner rhythm, as if alive with meaning. You’ve traced them before. With fingers. With lips. But you’ve never asked about them. And he’s never offered.

You rise from the bed.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d come,” you say softly, trying to keep your voice level. “I said I would.” He closes the door behind him. He walks with the silence of someone used to being watched. Every step deliberate—quiet, measured. “I didn’t want to disturb the others.”

You nod, heart beating like a drum. For a moment, you hesitate. This is the part where he usually takes off his cloak. Where hands meet skin. Where everything unravels into motion. But instead, Mydei says, “I don’t want that tonight.”

“...You don’t?”

He shakes his head, steps closer, his expression unreadable—but not cold. “I just want to sit. With you.”

Your body stills, breath catching. No man’s ever said that before. Not in this room. Not with that look in their eyes.

“Why?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just walks past you and sits at the edge of your bed, elbows resting on his knees, eyes watching the floor like it might swallow him whole. “When I’m with you,” he says at last, “I remember I’m still human. That I haven’t been swallowed yet by the weight of everything waiting outside.”

You take a slow breath, and then, you join him.

Silence stretches between you for a while, warm but unfamiliar. You’ve never had to fill it before. Not like this. Not with someone like him. So when you speak again, your voice is careful, hushed. “What did you want to talk about?” You look down at your hands as you say it, suddenly aware of how tightly you’re wringing the fabric of your robe. “I’m… not very good at small talk.”

He glances your way, not with judgment, but with something quieter. Gentler. “Neither am I.”

There’s a pause—he leans back slightly, gaze on the ceiling for a heartbeat, as if weighing the shape of the question he’s about to ask. Then, softly: “Phainon.”

You blink. “What about him?”

“I was just… wondering,” Mydei says, his voice measured but curious, “why he’s always around. Why he’s so close to everyone here. It’s unusual.”

You study his expression. There’s no accusation behind it, no jealousy or condescension. Just a quiet sort of puzzlement. You suppose that makes sense. Mydei walks through the world like a figure carved of duty and divine weight—philos, strategos, prince. A man raised in marble halls where power is either taken or inherited, never simply given away.

So you exhale and say, “Can I tell you a story?”

He nods once.

“There was a man,” you begin, fingers tracing invisible lines along the embroidered edge of your sleeve. “A wicked man. Not in the way people always expect—he didn’t shout, didn’t strike in public, didn’t bare his teeth. He wore silks. Spoke softly. Promised the world.”

You glance up, briefly, and find Mydei’s gaze hasn’t wavered.

“They said he had a collection. Not of art, or relics, or trinkets. But of little dolls. Girls, mostly. Women from across the land. He wandered far—coastal villages, mountain towns, the wine-soaked islands. He’d find the ones with songs in their hearts and stars in their eyes. The beautiful ones. The dreamers. The desperate.”

Your voice drops. “He would say, ‘Come with me. I’ll give you a place to shine. A home. A future. A better life.’”

“But the moment they stepped into his palace, they were no longer people. Just property. Stripped of name, of will, of voice. He dressed them up. Painted them pretty. Locked them behind velvet doors, and called them his treasures.

“And if they cried, he’d say they were ungrateful. If they fought, he’d punish them. But if they stayed quiet—if they obeyed—he’d smile and say they were his favorite.”

You fall silent then, and the memory of it coils like smoke in your throat. The sweet, rotting scent of those early days in Okhema. The illusion before the trap snapped shut.

Mydei doesn’t interrupt. But when you look at him again, there’s a new sharpness in his gaze, tempered only by a sadness you didn’t expect to see. Like the weight of your story has settled somewhere behind his ribs. “And what became of the wicked man?” he asks softly.

You offer the ghost of a smile. “A good man drove a sword to his chest.”

The corners of Mydei’s lips twitch ever-so slightly. You like to think that he was proud. You go on, voice low but even. “When the wicked man still ruled the undercity, we weren’t anything more than possessions. Broken things, caged and bruised, prettied up for those who could afford cruelty. He was cruelest of all.”

The words are flat, almost clinical. It’s easier that way.

“Phainon was sent to take him—dead or alive. I don’t know who gave the order. But when he found us, locked behind his velvet curtains, we weren’t his mission. Just… collateral.” You draw in a breath, remembering the blood, the broken door hinges, the weight of Agamemnon’s silence as it fell to the floor.

“But Phainon didn’t walk past. He stayed. He broke every lock. Carried the ones who couldn’t walk. He helped bury what was left.”

You glance at Mydei now, his golden gaze unwavering.

“That’s why he’s always around. Because even after that day, he never left. Never once tried to collect on our gratitude. He just… checks in. Makes sure the water still runs. The food still comes. That we’re still whole.”

A silence settles between you again. You didn’t mean to say so much. But somehow, with him, the words come easier than you expect. And still, you’re not sure what he’s thinking. Not yet.

But he nods, slow and solemn. “He’s a good man.”

“Better than most,” you murmur, softer still. “He never wanted anything from us. Not even a thank you.”

You don’t say the rest. That in some ways, Phainon taught you that not all men come bearing knives beneath their smiles. And maybe… maybe Mydei could be one of them, too. “Enough about me,” you say after a beat, forcing a lighter tone. “I bet you have stories that are far more worthwhile to hear.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes flitting down for a moment as though considering it. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, lips curving. “Depends on who’s listening.”

You raise a brow at him. “That sounds like a prince’s way of dodging.”

“It’s worked so far,” he admits, unapologetically amused.

But you catch the glint in his eyes—the kind that speaks of walls he’s not quite ready to lower. He’s not being cruel. Just careful. You know that kind of silence all too well. So you pivot, gently.

“Fine,” you say, leaning back on your palms. “Then let me ask you something real.”

That gets his attention.

“Is it true?” you ask. “That you don’t die?”

His expression shifts, just slightly. Not alarm, not defensiveness—but something older. More tired. You continue before he can pretend ignorance. “They say you walked away from death. That not even blades or poisons or the sea can keep you.”

For a moment, Mydei says nothing. Then—

“No,” he says, voice like flint striking stone. “It’s not true.”

“I do die,” the prince adds, and there’s a strange stillness to him now, like a sword balanced on its edge. “Just not permanently.”

“I’ve been killed before. My lungs have filled with blood. I’ve drowned. I’ve been burned. I’ve been sent to the nether realm where the dead drift, where the living are not welcome. And every time—” He tilts his head slightly. “—I’ve clawed my way back.”

“Clawed?” you echo.

He nods ever-so slowly. “The nether realm is not a quiet place. It’s full of things that shouldn’t be remembered. Things that don’t forget. I kill whatever stands in my way. Until the path home opens.”

You can hardly breathe for a moment.

“Sounds lonely,” you whisper.

“It is,” he says simply.

But there’s no sorrow in the way he says it. No anger either. Just the truth. Heavy and hard and worn like old armor. And suddenly, you understand the look in his eyes—the way it always seems like he’s staring through time itself. Because maybe he is. Maybe he’s already lived a hundred lifetimes. Maybe the only thing that’s ever tethered him back to the present… is the choice to return.

“Can anyone else just kill their way out of the nether realm?” you ask, the words half a jest, half wonder.

Mydei's lips twitch, but his gaze doesn't waver.

“…If there was,” he murmurs, “I think I would’ve run into them by now.”

You fall into silence at that, eyes dragging over the lines of him—his broad shoulders, the golden hue of his skin kissed by something celestial, and the red marks that wind down his arms, chest, torso. Not scars. Not tattoos. Something older, etched into him like language itself. Wordlessly, your hand lifts. You rest your palm lightly against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath warm skin. He doesn't move, doesn't flinch. Just watches you. Your fingertips trace the red markings slowly, following the curl of them as they wind over muscle and bone.

“This body is special, then,” you say, voice almost reverent. A beat passes. His breath hitches—barely—but you catch it.

“Cursed,” he says quietly. “Or blessed. Depends on who you ask.”

“And if I ask you?”

His gaze flickers down to where your hand rests, still trailing those strange, divine brands.

“…Ask me later,” he says, softer now.

As though he’s not ready to name what he is. As though something about your touch is unraveling the edges of him. You don’t move your hand from his chest. You feel the warmth of him—too alive for someone who’s clawed his way back from death. Too human for a man on the precipice of godhood. He looks at you, eyes shining gold even in the low light, flickering with something he doesn’t say.

You tilt your head, your voice barely above a whisper. “Later, then.”

And you should’ve pulled away. Should’ve stepped back and said goodnight, like the polite fiction you both pretended to believe in. But you don’t.

Instead, your hand slides higher, fingers grazing his collarbone, resting against the side of his neck. You’re closer now. When did that happen? His breath mingles with yours, his lips parted slightly, like he’s on the edge of a word he can’t find.

Then it happens—slow and inevitable.

He leans in first, but it’s you who closes the gap.

The kiss is soft the moment your lips touch. Careful. Testing. The kind of kiss that asks a question neither of you can put into words. His hand finds your waist, anchoring you like you’ll vanish, like maybe he already thought you would. It’s only when you deepen it, that he lets out the faintest sound against your mouth—half a sigh, half a surrender. And for a moment, there’s nothing holy or tragic about either of you. No gods, no ghosts. Just this. Just now.

You forget what it means to be someone broken, and he forget what it means to be someone burdened. You just feel. Your lips part just barely from his, breath catching between the narrow space that remains. His hand still rests at your waist, his thumb moving in slow, lazy circles against the fabric of your robe. You search his face, trying to decipher if he means to pull back or dive in again.

“I thought you weren’t here for this,” you whisper, your voice trembling not with fear, but the weight of wanting.

His eyes flicker down to your mouth, then back to yours, and a soft laugh escapes him—low and rich, like the crackle of embers.

“Yes,” he murmurs, “but what sort of man would I be if I left you wanting?”

The corner of your mouth lifts, not quite a smile—more like something delicate unraveling. His words coil around your ribs like silk, tightening gently, beautifully. You should say something clever, something to keep this from slipping too far.

But your mouth finds his again before you can even try.

The quiet between you lingers after the kiss, but it’s not empty. It thrums with something unspoken, something deeper than words. Mydei’s breath brushes against your skin, warm and steady, his hands still resting at your waist as if anchoring himself in your presence. You don’t say anything when you lean in again. You don’t have to. The moment folds in on itself, soft and slow, like the hush before a storm. Your fingers trace the red markings on his chest again, not out of curiosity this time, but reverence. There’s something sacred about the way they wind across his skin, the way he lets you touch him like this—open, unguarded.

He follows your lead, hands gliding up your spine, over your shoulders, until they frame your face. When he kisses you again, it’s not with the urgency of want, but with the ache of longing. As though he’s been waiting to do this properly. As though he knows this might be the last night he’s allowed to feel human. The world outside your room fades, replaced by the rhythm of shared breath, the brush of skin against skin, the silent promises made in the space between heartbeats. The weight of your histories—his battles, your chains—falls away for just a little while.

What remains is tenderness.

Your clothes fall away one by one. Amidst the passion that seeps into your very bones, you find it in you to make a quip about how much easier things are when he’s not wearing his armor. Mydei scoffs, but there’s no sign of annoyance on his face. Just the subtle endearment for something—someone he never knew he could connect with so deeply. 

He’s careful with you, even when your hands wander, even when your heartbeat quickens under his touch. There’s a reverence to the way he holds you, like he’s afraid to break something delicate, even though you’ve long since learned to be unbreakable. His fingers slide into you with perfect precision, the slick between your legs granting him enough lubrication to make you feel every sensation there is to give. Your velvet walls clamp down on him with fervor, curling into the heat of his indestructible body as he spreads you open for him. 

“You’re so good for me,” he whispers. “Too good for me.” 

There’s an undertone of something you can’t quite name that accompanies his words. But the notion is lost on you when he curls his fingers just so. A broken whimper escapes your lips, unable to stifle it as Mydei continues to hit that sweet, sweet spot inside you. You feel it far too soon—that telltale sizzle of release. It bides its time, tying your stomach in knots until the pressure in your navel becomes too much to bear. Mydei growls into the curve of your neck when he feels your body spasm beneath him; having given into the pleasure so easily, it awakens something primal within him. It’s like your body is on fire. Sensitive to the touch wherever his skin meets yours. Part of you wants to recoil, to beg for respite. Too much, too much, too much— 

Sensing how deeply he's unraveled you, Mydei tempers the urgency of his touch into something gentler—tender strokes that barely skim your skin, grounding you, reminding you he's still here. That he's not going anywhere. As if in silent apology, he presses a kiss to the tip of your nose—soft and reverent.

“All I want,” he breathes, his voice rough with restraint, “is for you to feel good. Do you trust me?”

You know he already holds the answer in his hands, but still, you blink through the blur of your tears until his face comes into focus—fractured by light and emotion, and yet still so beautiful. With a shaky breath, you reach up, fingers weaving behind his neck, and pull him into a kiss that speaks the answer for you.

“Yes,” you whisper into his mouth, like a vow you’ve been holding your whole life. “I trust you more than anything. More than anyone.”

This kind of vulnerability is something you never imagined you could offer so freely. Not after everything. Not to anyone. But with Mydei, it doesn't feel like surrender. It feels like remembering something you thought you'd lost: the ability to feel safe in someone’s arms, to be seen without shame, to be held without fear. Despite yourself, heat flares in your cheeks at the sight of him—aroused and aching. His leaking cock strains against his abdomen, flushed with a need so primal, he practically grinds the throbbing shaft between your supple thighs. 

“I need you,” you breathe, voice trembling, desperate. Your hand slips between your thighs, guiding him with aching intent. “Please, Mydei… just—please.”

He gives in to your wishes—he’s starting to grow much too weak against them. Mydei guides his length into your dripping heat, the head of his cock penetrating you with the same cautious anticipation he exhibited during your first night together. 

And then, inch by inch, you feel whole again.

For a while, the two of you remain tangled in that moment—heat blooming between your bodies, thick and breathless. The stretch of him should’ve been too much, but all you can feel is how right it is. How perfectly he fits, like he was always meant to be there. He groans, a proud lion reduced into nothingness when you purposely clench the walls of your cunt around his poor length. You find yourself grinning mischievously when Mydei starts speaking in that language long lost to time. You should ask him about that sometime—when your heads aren’t clouded with sheer desire. But for now, you live in the moment. 

“I regret not finding you sooner,” he admits with a quiet laugh. A moment of clarity hovers across your mind, and your first instinct is to tease. “Why? Would you have bought me out of this brothel if you did?”

“Perhaps,” Mydei murmurs before suckling a band of hickeys above your collarbones, initiating slow yet languid thrusts that have your toes curling with bliss. “But if I had found you sooner, you never would have had to live the life you lead. I would’ve stolen you away from Lethe myself.” 

You know those are just the words of a man lost in the throes of pleasure. Men tend to start running their mouths whenever they’re high on the feel of your cunt pulsating around their cocks. But Mydei has a knack for being candid about all sorts of things.

“Would you—hah! W-would you have put me in a cage too?” you taunt and it gets you the exact reaction you want. Mydei snaps his hips harshly, nearly punching the breath from your lungs. “Dress me up in the f-finest of silk and flaunt me to the world?” 

“No. Never.” He grits his teeth so tightly, you swear you hear the strain in his jaw. “I’ll make you mine, but only on your terms. Only if you want me to.”

Even in the haze of desire, he manages to remain the most honorable man in all of Okhema. The thought of it, the weight of his words, makes something warm well up inside you—so overwhelming you could weep with joy. His raw honesty encourages you to wrap your arms around his broad back—holding him so close that he can’t ever hope to slip away. The heat of his skin against yours is grounding, a reminder that, despite everything, you’re here together, tangled in this moment. When his calloused fingers find the sensitive bud of your clit, you jostle beneath him in surprise. You were so focused on how good he’s giving it to you, that you failed to notice his hands wriggling down to your thighs. 

“M-Mydei—!” you gasp, but he only fucks into you harder. 

Mydei’s breath stutters in quiet, devout gasps, the edge of release so close he could reach for it. But he holds back. Draws out the moment like a hymn. He could stay like this forever—just to savor the weight of your body beneath his, just to feel the hush between you stretch into something timeless. You memorize the feel of him—not just the way his body fits against yours, but the quiet sighs that escape when your lips find the hollow of his throat, the way he lingers on every touch like he’s afraid to let go. 

He’s fire and gold and thunderstorms, and yet he looks at you like you’re the miracle.

Mydei spills into you with reckless abandon, canting his hips with clockwork precision as he fills you to the brim. For a moment, the world quiets—like the tide pulling back before the next great wave. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, breath hitching, arms locked tight around you like he’s terrified of the space that might form between your bodies.

You feel him trembling, not from exhaustion, but from the gravity of it all. As if something in him has broken loose—something raw and sacred and entirely yours. But it doesn’t end there.

You don’t realize what he’s doing when he swiftly breaks free of your embrace. But when his face hovers across your soiled cunt, you make the motions to pull him back up—only for your beast of a lover to devour the mess he’s left in his wake.  Mydei laves at your hole like he intends to feast on you for the rest of his life. He scoops his own cum out with his own fingers, slurping your mixed essence with so much depravity shining in his golden eyes, you can hardly believe he’s a prince. No sane man would look so blissed out whilst doing something so—

“I can feel you,” he growls. “Need you to come for me.”

The words are spoken with such authority, it sends a guilty thrill straight to your throbbing cunt. Mydei latches his lips onto your sensitive nub, fucking his cum back into you with those godlike fingers. You thrash around beneath him, but Mydei keeps you in place with a steady grip–making sure you feel everything he’s willing to give. Your body trembles, overwhelmed by the relentless tenderness he wields like a weapon. Every curl of his fingers, every flick of his tongue draws out a fresh wave of pleasure that crashes through you with no mercy. Your cries are half-muffled by the pillow, but he hears them all the same—drinks them in like a sacred prayer.

“Mydei,” you sob, unable to do anything but hold onto him. Your legs shake around his shoulders, your hands tangled in his hair like lifelines.

He doesn't stop. He won’t—not until he’s certain there’s nothing left unsaid between your bodies. Not until your body recognizes him as deeply and completely as your heart already does. When he finally slows, it’s not because he’s spent, but because he’s sated. Because he knows you are too. And as he pulls you into his arms, nestling your exhausted form against the warmth of his chest, you realize—this isn’t just release. It’s devotion. A vow whispered into your very bones.

Time passes strangely in the dark. You don’t know how long the two of you stay like this, curled in the comfort of each other’s warmth. His hand is cradling the back of your neck, his breath evening out as you rest your forehead against his shoulder. There are no declarations. No promises. Only the quiet understanding between two people who’ve found something rare in each other—if only for a night.

And that, somehow, is enough.

You are back on the shores of Lethe yet again. 

The scent of the ocean is heavy in the air, salt mixing with the sweetness of the breeze. The horizon stretches wide before you, the sea infinite and restless, each wave a soft whisper against the shore. But there’s something else—something familiar, something that stirs deep within your chest.

The souls.

They drift across the water, gliding in and out of the mist that rises from the waves, countless and silent. At first, you don’t see them clearly. They’re indistinct forms, like smoke or vapor, just the shape of something that used to be. They are lost, wandering. Some of them move in clusters, others alone, each drawn to the sea like they were always meant to be here. It’s always been this way. You’ve seen it many times before. The souls spill from the nether realm, drawn across the waters, stretching between Lethe and Styxia. You’ve stood here before, in this same silence, watching as they passed by.

This time, though, there’s something different. One soul catches your eye. It’s faint at first, barely distinguishable among the others, but it glows—a soft, golden light, faint but warm, as if it’s radiating from deep within. You’re drawn to it without thinking. The pull is gentle, but it grows stronger the closer you get. The light flickers in the mist, barely visible behind the shadows of the other souls. But it’s there, unmistakable.

You take a step forward, and the light grows, a shining ember in the endless grey. You know, without a doubt, that this one is different from the rest. It moves with purpose, not like the others who are aimless, lost in their endless drift. This one seems... aware. Alive, somehow.

As you move closer, the light brightens, and you catch glimpses of a shape, a form within it. At first, it’s unclear—blurry, indistinct, like the edges of a dream. The golden light wraps itself around a figure, but it’s not fully defined, not yet. You reach out toward it, a quiet yearning stirring in your chest. Then the figure shifts slightly. You feel it, a subtle movement in the water, and your heart skips. The golden glow swirls, growing stronger, as if it recognizes you, as if it’s meant to find you. The warmth radiating from it is overwhelming. It's like sunlight after rain. You step forward again, closer, closer still, the feeling of it wrapping around you, pulling you toward the shore.

But then, just as quickly as it appeared, the light begins to fade. The soul drifts away, slowly at first, and then faster as the current pulls it back. You reach out, desperate to hold on, but your fingers touch only the mist. The light dims, vanishing into the expanse of souls, swallowed by the sea.

You stand still, the warmth that had filled you fading like the last embers of a fire. The mist thickens again, and the souls continue their endless journey, their forms lost to the distance. But something lingers. The feeling. The warmth. The sense that you’ve witnessed something important, something that has been waiting for you all along. You don’t know what it means, but you know, somehow, that it’s a connection you’re not meant to forget. 

Not yet.

The bells of the Academy chime across the courtyard, clean and melodic like everything else in this part of Okhema. As the students depart for dismissal, you wait by the marble fountain just a ways away from the main entrance. A tree that curls over it offers ample shade beneath the unchanging light of the Dawn Device above.  Nikolas emerges from the throng of students scurrying out. He doesn’t run to you anymore, but his steps are quick, a little uneven, like he hasn’t quite grown into his legs yet.

“We talked about the Titans after our drills today,” he says after giving you a quick hug. “One of my classmates asked if Kephale ever puts the Dawn Device down. Master Theon said, ‘Not once in all of history.’”

You smile faintly, brushing a curl from his temple. “That sounds like something you’d ask.”

He grins. “I would’ve made it sound smarter. And I did 'cause Master asked us to make an essay about it.”

Nikolas tries to sound casual, but the way he looks at you afterward like he’s waiting for you to be proud makes your heart twist a little. It’s only been a few weeks since he first walked through the Academy gates—still all knees and elbows—but he’s already grown so much. They don’t ask for perfect speech or polished manners here. Just grit, and enough fire to stand when the Black Tide comes crawling. This isn’t the Grove of Epiphany, where scholars chase after the elusive truth and speak in riddles. Here, boys and girls are shaped into the last line between the dark and everything worth saving.

You have half the mind to ask if Nikolas wants to make another detour to the Hall of Respite. To treat him to some of his favorite flat cakes. But then an unwelcome voice slithers into the quiet moment. 

“Well, what do we have here? The whore walks in daylight.”

It takes effort to turn, to meet the man’s eyes without flinching. He’s older now, more jowled than you remember, but the silk of his robes and the stink of indulgence are the same. Aeson. One of the men who used to come slinking through the undercity when the sun was too high for shame. He once asked you to sing for him while he undressed. Said you had a voice like smoke, a body like borrowed gold. He was never violent, just entitled. And worse, comfortable.

“I suspected that it was you for a few weeks now but even I knew how much you despised the overworld,” Aeson says, condescension dripping from every word. “Then again, you always did love playing mother to that stray.”

You hear Nikolas bristle at the man’s words, and you put out a hand to keep him from doing anything rash. Even at his young age, he’s seen how men treat you and your sisters like gunk beneath their sandals. And you’ve seen how a boy, raised with so much love even in the dark, has tried to give it all back—to protect the women who became that love for him.

But you’re not in some smoke-choked alley of the undercity. You’re in the pristine courtyard of the Academy itself. And there’s no way in hell you’re jeopardizing Nik’s education just to put some pompous old coot in his place. Elena would never forgive you.

Instead, you give him a flat look before saying, “Go pester someone who’s desperate.”

But the man steps in closer, a haughty look painted high on his wrinkly face. “I remember you desperate, girl. I paid for it. You should be grateful that anyone still looks at you nicely, knowing you're old Agamemnon’s trash.”

And that sinks teeth into you. The insult doesn’t surprise you. You’ve heard worse from softer lips. But it stirs something darker: the memory of what it cost you to not belong. The long, awful ache of surviving by grace of what others wanted from your skin. The truth of it is what burns most. Because Agamemnon did claim you. And now his name clings to you like grease you can’t scrub off.

You square your shoulders. You won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing it land. But before you can speak, the air shifts like something heavy has entered the scene.

“I’ll give you one chance to take that back.”

The voice is low, deliberate. Not loud, but heavy with promise. You and the nobleman both turn. Mydei stands at the edge of the courtyard, backlit by the cold radiance of the Dawn Device. His armor catches the light like forged fire, making his presence all the more unmistakable. There is no rage in his face, only clarity. The kind that makes cowards remember their manners.

“Prince Mydei,” Aeson stammers, dipping into a mock-bow. “I’m afraid I didn’t see you there.”

“No,” Mydei replies. “You only saw who you thought you could speak over.”

He draws up beside you, a hand hovering—not touching—but near enough that you feel it like heat through fabric. Similarly to how you did with Nikolas, however you did that to prevent. Mydei does so to protect. “You said too much,” Mydei says, voice iron-flat. “And the next time you think of talking to a woman like that, remember this moment.”

A pause. You don't think you remember how to breathe, not in the face of Mydei's quiet fury. Then, as sharp as a blade, he grates out,

“Leave.”

Aeson recoils—stammers something too low to hear—then stumbles back into the crowd, his velvet trailing like a cloak of rot. You follow his hunched form until he disappears completely out of view. Only then does the tension in your shoulders ebb away. Nikolas looks between you and Mydei, uncertain.

“Was that one of the city’s... uh, patrons?” he mutters.

You exhale slowly, shaking off the sting. “You could say that.”

Mydei’s eyes don’t leave your face. Not even as Nikolas tries to catch his attention with a look.  You don’t meet his gaze, but you feel it—the weight of what he didn’t say. The rage he carried in like a blade still sheathed. “Old men like that never forget a girl they once thought they owned,” you say softly, reassuring Nikolas with a smile that takes more out of you than you thought. “Doesn’t mean they matter.”

“You matter,” Mydei says, quiet but unflinching. It startles you only because you didn’t expect for him to put in another word. “They just don’t know what that means yet.” And for a breath, the city stills around you. Not in reverence, nor silence. But in recognition. “Thank you,” you whisper, not knowing what else to say. “Nik and I will be off now.”

The prince’s gaze doesn’t shift. His hand lingers near yours, and when you hesitate, he takes a half-step closer. His voice is firm, though his tone softens just slightly. “I’ll walk you back to the undercity.”

You open your mouth to refuse, but the remnants of the encounter with Aeson hang over you like a heavy fog, and the words fall flat in your throat. There’s a pull in your chest—a need for distance from everything that just transpired—and you find yourself nodding before you can think better of it.

“Alright,” you murmur.

Nikolas watches the exchange quietly, still unsure of the silent tension between the two of you, but he follows nonetheless, his footsteps light against the cobblestones. Mydei falls in step beside you, his presence unyielding but steady, like the silent promise of protection. The city stretches out before you, its lights distant and hollow beneath the unblinking gaze of the Dawn Device. The hum of Okhema fades into the background as you walk. 

You don’t speak, but you don’t need to. His proximity alone quells any lingering fear, and you find comfort in the silence that comes with it.

Since that day in the courtyard, walking home together just started...happening. 

Mydei never asked. He simply waited outside the gates of the Academy, where the marble gave way to cracked stone and the air grew thick with real life. Nikolas would spot him first, sometimes with a grin, sometimes pretending he hadn’t been looking for him.  It was a strange little ritual, but one that settled into place before you realized it. Nikolas walking beside one of his instructors like it was the most natural thing in the world. And you beside them both, listening, nodding, adding the occasional remark when Nikolas recounted the latest training mishap or philosophical disagreement with a teacher.

It wasn’t how these things were supposed to go—not a prince, not a prostitute, not a boy from nowhere—but it worked.

And then, over time, Mydei’s steps carried him a little farther. Past the alleys you knew like breath, and the entrance to the undercity that you insisted was far enough for a chaperone. 

Today is one of the two rest days that Nikolas has within a school week, and you spend a chunk of your time helping around The House. It always feels different on slower days like this. Softer, almost. Less like a cage and more like a secret place between worlds—where laughter could still echo against peeling walls, and perfume hung in the air like memory. You hear the rustling of his armor before you see him—familiar now, no longer something that makes the girls stiffen or reach for the knives tucked beneath silk pillows. Just outside, the lanterns have begun to glow gold, and from the hallway, a voice calls out:

“Thalia, your knight’s here again!”

You roll your eyes as you round the corner, but you can’t stop the smile that forms at the sight of him. Mydei stands in the foyer with a small basket of fruit in one hand—dates, you guess, or maybe honeyed apricots from the upper district market. He's still donned in his armor, though he’s unstrapped the shoulder pauldrons. Less imposing that way. Still unmistakable.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be busy,” he says, a touch uncertain, as if his presence might overstep.

“Penelope’s braiding Iris’ hair,” you reply. “The rest are pretending not to peek.”

As if on cue, the door behind you creaks. Penelope leans out, a wry grin curling at her lips while Iris stammers out apology after apology for eavesdropping. 

“Thalia, really,” Penelope says, mock-scolding. “You keep bringing in decent men and setting the bar too high for the rest of us.”

You snort, and even Mydei’s mouth twitches in something that’s not quite a smile—but it’s close. “I can leave the fruit and go,” he offers.

“No,” you say too quickly. Then, gentler, “Stay. They like you here now, but don’t let it go to your head. Elena’s already figured out how to turn your visits into good business.”

Mydei nods with half a smile gracing his face. He steps further in, letting the warmth of The House wrap around him. One of the younger girls, quiet Calliope, flits by and steals an apricot from the basket. He lets her. 

Later, you find him sitting cross-legged on the floor while Penelope retells some outlandish story about a drunk client who mistook her for a goddess. Mydei doesn’t laugh, not loudly—but there’s light in his eyes. One you don’t often see up in the sanctified marble of Okhema’s spires. And maybe—just maybe—The House feels a little safer with him in it.

The following morning, the sky in the overworld is bleached bone-white. The unsetting sun hums high above, softened by distance and with it, Okhema shines, immaculate and hollow. Despite your more frequent visits due to your new job as Nikolas' guardian, you haven't grown to like it much. Too polished. Too sanctified. But today you’re not alone.

Mydei walks beside you, his long stride unhurried, matching yours. He carries your satchel without needing to be asked. You’ve got a list—written in Alexandria’s looping hand—and a basket slung over your arm. There’s something gently absurd about it all. You, running errands in the overworld. Choosing peaches. Haggling for bath oil. The sort of thing the other girls usually do. But today, you offered.

You’re not sure what’s more startling: that no one questioned you, or that you meant it.

The Marmoreal Market is alive. Vendors cry out over pyramids of citrus and hanging lanterns of glass. Incense smoke curls in lazy spirals above marbled stalls. A bard plays something languid on a flute near the olive barrels. The air tastes of brine and roasted almonds. It should be overwhelming. Once, it might have been. But today you just walk. Mydei doesn’t fill the silence. He lets it breathe between you like he always does. You pause to examine a twist of lavender soap. He waits patiently while you hold it to your nose, frown, and mutter, “Too much oil, not enough flower.”

When you change directions suddenly to get to the honeyed fig vendor—the fig vendor, the only one who doesn’t cheat the glaze with sugar water—he follows without question. You almost feel normal. Not broken. Not fallen. Just here.

“Thalia?”

You turn. And it’s like the sun tilts sideways. Daphne.

She looks... different. Or maybe not. Maybe you’re the one who’s changed. Her hair is coiled into a gold-pin bun, her robes the sort nobles wear when they want to look effortless. There’s a softness around her now—a shine to her skin, a plumpness to her face, like love and safety have filled her out. Her bracelets tinkle when she steps closer.

“Gods,” she breathes, laughing. “I almost didn’t recognize you. You look... good! Healthier than I remember. And your hair—still doing that wave in front, huh? I always said it made you look like one of those Lethean sirens.”

You manage a thin smile. “It’s you.”

She steps in like she might kiss your cheek, and you let her, though every inch of you braces like it's being touched with salt. “It’s been what—two years? Maybe more? I kept asking Elena about you, but she always just smiled and changed the subject.” Daphne’s eyes flick to Mydei, then back to you with a teasing grin. “And here I thought I was the only one who came out of that place lucky.”

She twirls a lock of hair around her finger, feigning modesty. “Did I tell you? No, of course I didn’t—you’ve been hiding down in the bones of the city. Well, you remember Heron, don’t you? The grain magnate with the crooked teeth and all the rings? Turns out he wasn’t just talk. Married me proper.” She lifts her hand, lets you see the band. “I’ve got a little garden now. A cook. We’re thinking of getting a dromas of our own, but I thought that would be a bit too much!”

You say something. You think you do. It sounds like “That’s nice,” but your mouth feels numb. Daphne laughs again, easy and breezy as a woman who’s forgotten how deep The House used to cut.

“I still remember how Agamemnon used to spoil you, you know. Oh, don’t look at me like that—it’s not jealousy. I used to think, ‘She must have Lethean blood in her veins to bring a man like that to his knees.’” She tilts her head, studying you. “Funny how things turn out, huh?”

Your grip on the basket tightens. Mydei hasn’t moved. You don’t have to look to know he’s watching her. Watching you. You lift your chin. Even if you know the man keeping you company is more than capable of stepping in like a guard dog, you don't let him. There are some things in this world that you'd rather not rely on Mydei for.

“I should get going,” you say, and your voice doesn’t crack. “We’ve got things to pick up.” Daphne blinks, surprised. “Oh. Of course. I didn’t mean to—well. You look well, Thalia. Really. I mean that.”

You nod once and turn. Mydei doesn’t speak until the crowd swallows her up behind you. His voice is quiet, but certain.

“Are you all right?”

You keep your eyes forward. “She didn’t mean it cruelly.”

“No,” he agrees. “But she still cut you.”

The fig vendor appears ahead. You make a beeline for it, needing something solid to do with your hands. Something to hold onto. Mydei doesn’t press. He stands beside you as you weigh fruit and speak numbers and pretend the world didn’t just tilt under your feet. And when you walk away, his hand grazes yours again. Not demanding, but simply offering.

It pains you to pull away—to refuse something he's always given freely—but you avoid his hand altogether. You turn the corner, pushing through the crowd, trying to breathe again. The air feels tight, sharp, as though the weight of everything that just shifted in your chest is pressing down on you. Daphne. A wife. She’s happy now. And yet—something about her—something about the way she carries herself now, so light, so untethered—bothers you.

The House. Agamemnon. The way the air used to feel thick, like every breath was a crime, and the walls hummed with all the things people would never say. Did the time away make her forget the way he used to drag you through rooms like cattle, like property? The way she’d walk in and out of those same halls, always knowing the price of every touch, the cost of every whispered word?

You shake your head. It’s not her fault, you remind yourself. Daphne’s not the one who held your body hostage, not the one who let it break beneath the weight of his need. But...why does it feel like she’s forgotten? A soft laugh. A garden. A gods damned dromas. And in her voice, in her smile, you hear the echo of a life away from all of that. As though the past was just something easily shaken off. It gnaws at you, that inconsistency. The way she walks with ease—like she didn’t have to bleed for it, didn’t have to drown in every unspoken rule of The House, its suffocating power, its price.

You feel it again, in your chest. A tightness, a rawness. And as you push your hand against the basket's rim, trying to steady yourself, the question lingers, still unanswered:

Did Daphne truly forget? Or is it just that she’s moved on, and you... you’re still here, carrying pieces of it, like shards of glass you can’t pull from your skin? You don’t realize how tight your grip’s gotten on the basket until Mydei speaks—softly, like the sound might startle you if it were any louder. It didn't occur to you that even if you evade him, he'll follow you like a shadow either way. 

“Do you want to go home?”

You glance at him, caught between the din of the market and the roaring in your own head. His eyes are steady. Not prying. Just there. Like a door already open, waiting for you to step through. He takes the basket from your hands without asking. The tension eases just enough for your fingers to ache. He doesn’t rush you. He stays close as you weave through the crowd, his presence a quiet shield against the glances, the voices, the past. He doesn’t say anything about Daphne. Doesn’t ask what she meant or what it meant to you. And that’s what makes you want to cry.

Not because he doesn’t care, but because he does—and he knows better than to pick at a wound that's still bleeding.

By the time you make it back to The House, the light above has cooled to its twilight hue—soft gold thinning into rose where it filters through the grates. The sun doesn’t set in Okhema. It only shifts, like a watchful eye half-closing. The undercity glows beneath it, wrapped in the kind of light that feels like the end of a long breath.

Inside, things are loud again. Familiar. One of the girls calls out about a client who tried to pay with temple scrip. Someone else has braided jasmine into the worn curtain rods, and the scent clings stubbornly to the air. You smile when you need to, nod when you must, and brush off any lingering edges from earlier like it’s routine. Because it is. No one notices the way your shoulders hitch too quickly when you laugh. Or the way you avoid the looking glass near the stairs. No one, except the man who’s still standing by the door like he doesn’t quite belong—but doesn’t want to leave just yet.

Mydei shifts slightly, readying himself to depart, the way he always does once you’re safely home. But something in you rebels at the thought.

“If you’re not busy,” you say, quieter than you intend, “could you stay? Just for a little while.”

He pauses, brows rising ever so slightly. “You want me to?”

You nod. “Only if you want to.”

A beat of stillness. Then: “Then I’ll stay.”

You turn before your face gives you away. You don’t lead him to the front parlors where guests are meant to lounge. You don’t steer him toward the back alcoves where girls entertain more private company. Instead, you climb the stairs. Past chipped paint and perfumed cloth. Past laughter behind closed doors and one girl humming a tune you haven’t heard since Lethe. You walk until you reach your room.

Your room.

You’ve never brought anyone here apart from your sisters and Nikolas. Phainon’s the only outsider who’s ever crossed its threshold, and even then, only when you couldn’t stand to be alone. This room is yours. A sanctuary carved from hand-me-downs and half-stolen quiet. The walls are soft with age, the bedding faded but clean. There’s a tiny dish of dried figs near the window, even though you'll never finish them. They don't taste the way they do back at Lethe.

There are no doors to your room. Only a curtain of seashells—bright, iridescent, strung together in delicate strands. A gift from Elena, thoughtful as she is. It reminds you of home, of the sea, of the ebb and flow of tides. It’s not a door, not really, but it’s enough to separate your space from the rest of the world.

You open the curtain, casting a sidelong glance at Mydei in a quiet invitation. He hesitates only briefly as his eyes scan the room before he steps inside. The prince says nothing. Doesn't gawk or wander. He simply stands in the middle of there like someone waiting for permission. You amble across the wooden floor, the tension finally unspooling from your spine. Mydei stays close—but not too close—and it strikes you again, how careful he always is with you. Not delicate. Just…respectful and measured.

“Not what you expected?” you ask, gesturing vaguely at the modest space.

“I wasn’t expecting anything,” he says softly. “But it suits you.”

You look down at your hands, then up at him. “I didn’t want to be alone,” you say. The words fall like something confessional.

“I’m glad you called for me,” Mydei tells you, honesty bleeding into his voice, and there’s something in it that makes you look at him again.

In the silence, you walk over to a shelf in the far end, one that the prince has been eyeing since he stepped inside. A small, eclectic collection of trinkets are lined up together on its surface. You can feel his gaze touch each item, but there’s no judgment in it—only quiet wonder.

“These are the pieces I kept,” you murmur, and his eyes flick to you as if waiting for a story, a reason.

A small glass vial, still corked, filled with syrupy red wine the color of dusk. “From the lushest vineyard in the entire island. I stole it,” you say with a faint smile. “Ran all the way down the hills with red hands and a mouth stained purple.” Beside it, a faded ribbon, sea salt-blue and frayed at the edges, tied in a lazy bow. “For the dances,” you murmur. “We wore them on our wrists, so even the shy ones could be pulled into the revelry.”

Next, a small, tarnished flute—its surface dulled by time, but the carvings of swirling waves and grapevines still visible. “It only plays when the wind is right,” you say, lifting it briefly to your lips. A single note spills out, thin and wandering. “My mother bought it for me. Said no Lethean should be without music.”

There are seashells, of course—real ones, not like the ones strung in your curtain, but pale and pink and lavender, collected from the shallows. One of them still smells faintly of brine when warmed by your palm. Another is cracked down the middle, but you never threw it away. “The ugly ones are often the ones that lived longest,” you explain, as if it matters.

And then, near the end of the shelf, sits a delicate pendant, the size of a coin, fashioned from mother-of-pearl and set in brass. Its surface has worn smooth from years of handling, but if the light catches just right, the faint outline of a chalice brimming with waves and fruit still glimmers—the old symbol of Phagousa, the Titan of Plenty. You used to wear it around your neck. Now it just rests there, like something left at an altar. You don’t explain that one.

Mydei is silent, not out of discomfort. He watches you with a strange, quiet intensity, as though your memories hold a significance beyond words. His hand brushes lightly across the ribbon, then rests on the shelf’s edge.

“You brought Lethe with you,” he says, almost to himself.

You nod, slowly. “I didn’t want to forget. Even if everyone already did.”

In that moment, everything floods back. The deal you made with Agamemnon. How you packed what little you could into a single satchel and left behind the life you knew. How you walked away from the island you once called home without so much as a goodbye to your mother. But it doesn’t matter now. Agamemnon is dead, and Lethe is gone. Not wanting to spiral back into what Mydei did his best to haul you out of, you walk towards your bed, patting the space beside you.  Oddly enough, he joins you without complaint. Not touching. But close enough that if you shifted an inch, you would. You both sit in silence, the air between you warm, but not heavy. The soft flicker of twilight outside dances across the walls, casting long shadows that stretch with time. The quiet is comforting. It doesn’t feel like the heavy silence of distance, but something closer, like the stillness of two souls finally aligning.

Mydei’s presence in the room feels different now. Less like a visitor and more like someone who belongs here, who fits with the gentle rhythm of your life. His armor clinks softly as he shifts to make himself more comfortable, but there’s nothing forced about the movement. You look up at him, your gaze tracing the familiar red markings on his arms and chest—his half-worn robes draped in a way that speaks of battles fought and distances traveled. 

He doesn’t try to hide anything, not the weight of what he’s carried, not the quiet strength that lingers in every measured movement. His stillness is calm, but you sense the storm just beneath it, the tumult that never fully goes away.

You can feel the question in the air—the unspoken one, hanging between you, something about where this moment will lead. But neither of you needs to speak it. You’ve crossed unspoken lines before, danced on edges, and tonight, the edge feels softer, more accepting. You shift a little, a quiet invitation—your leg brushes his, just enough to send a ripple through the calm. 

Mydei doesn’t pull away. 

Instead, his hand shifts to the space beside you, fingers barely grazing the fabric of your bedding, as if this is something he’s always respected. Your eyes meet, and there’s a quiet understanding there, a promise wrapped in the kind of intimacy that doesn’t demand. He moves slowly yet deliberately. When his hand finally meets yours, it’s as if the world outside this room falls away, and all that’s left is the soft brush of skin against skin, the way your breath hitches when his thumb runs over your knuckles, grounding you in the here and now.

The space between you disappears with that small touch.

Mydei doesn’t rush. There’s no hunger, no desperation—only the kind of stillness that comes after a long journey. You feel it in the way his fingers thread through yours, slow and certain, like he's holding something precious. Like he’s afraid if he holds too tightly, you’ll vanish. Your other hand lifts without thinking, drawn to him as if by instinct, fingertips brushing the line of his jaw. He leans into it, and you can feel the weight he carries, heavy beneath his skin, and still he lets himself soften here, with you.

His forehead presses against yours. Neither of you speak. His warm breath fanning against your face tells you enough. The silence between you isn’t empty—it’s full. Full of the things neither of you could say before. Of every stolen glance. Every almost. Every ache that built into this moment. When he kisses you, it’s not a question. It’s an answer. Warm, unhurried, and steady. His lips taste like memory and promise all at once. And when Mydei pulls you closer—closer still—it’s not possession. It’s presence. It’s the quiet vow that, here in this moment, he is entirely yours.

You fall into him like tide to shore. And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like something adrift. You feel found.

Sounds of lovemaking fill your room in a way that has never happened before. It's a given that privacy in The House is close to none, but all the girls who managed to catch you bringing your fiery-haired lover into your sacred space knew better than to intrude. They also told the others that upstairs is off-limits until either you or Mydei emerged again. What they don't know is that with Mydei, sex takes a very good while.

He starts the way all men usually do—missionary. Simple, straight to the point. But where you'd often just lie there and let your patrons take you sloppily, Mydei grounds you beneath his weight like he wants you to remember the moment. He doesn't piston his hips with the intent of chasing after his own sweet release. But lets that gaze of molten fire seep into your very bones, his girth spreading your aching walls far apart with each thrust.

You moan his name like you're stringing a litany of prayers. Mydei is all too happy to heed each desperate plea. He hoists one of your legs over his shoulder, tilting your body just several degrees sideways. The angle confuses your brain for a moment, unused to being positioned in such a way. But your thoughts are eventually lost to pleasure when his cock breaches your wet heat once more—bullying past gummy walls that yield all too easily to his touch alone.

"More, more, more," you dole out mindlessly, tears catching in the corners of your eyes. "I need you more."

You're not sure if any of your words even make sense, but Mydei reads between the lines anyways. He slants your lips together, like stars melting into each other. His kiss swallows your cries, tender and consuming all at once—like he’s trying to hold you together with his mouth alone. His hips roll deeper still but slower now, savoring the tremble in your thighs, the desperate way your fingers clutch at his back.

“I’m here,” he murmurs against your lips, voice frayed with restraint. “I’m always here.”

The words break something in you. Maybe it’s the past you’ve tried so hard to outgrow, or the girl who once believed no one would ever stay. Either way, she shatters—and in her place is a woman who is being seen, held, loved in a way that feels like becoming. Mydei presses his forehead to yours, breath uneven. The rhythm of your bodies is a language now, spoken in heat and motion, in the slick slide of skin and the muffled gasps you share like secrets. 

And when you come undone, it isn’t with fireworks—it’s with something quieter. A tremble. A sigh. A sense that, for once, the ache inside you has been met with something that understands it.

He's carrying you by your thighs before you can even form another thought. You think you bleat out a weak protest but Mydei presses your back against the nearest wall like he didn't hear a thing. You feel something dig into your spine, but the pain is eclipsed by raw ecstasy when he slots himself inside you again—a shuddering gasp stolen from his chest while he noses at the crook of your neck. Your nerves are still burning with sensation, but the slide of his cock makes you want him more. Desire him deeper. You're past the point of caring whether or not he'll break you, because you know he will and he'll do it deliciously. 

"You're more than what your past made you out to be," he huffs hoarsely, teeth scraping across sweat-slicked skin. "You're more than just some dead monster's favorite."

Your breath catches as his words sink into the tenderest part of you, far deeper than where his body touches. It makes your pulse throb in places untouched, makes your body arch for more of him, for all of him. Ever since the first time, Mydei has never made you feel like some sort of commodity. 

He makes you feel human. Always. 

His hands are rough where they grip your thighs, but there’s reverence in the way he holds you open, like you’re nothing short of a miracle even now, especially now. His pace slows, deepens. Not to tease—no, it’s devotion. Every thrust says, I see you. Every breath he steals from your lungs is a promise that he’s not here to use you—he's here to worship what's been denied worship for far too long.

"I don’t care what they called you,” he murmurs, voice ragged, forehead pressed to yours as if he needs to feel your thoughts against his. “You're mine now. If you’ll have me.”

And gods, you do.

You meet him stroke for stroke, mouth chasing his with a hunger that borders on holy. There’s nothing soft left in the room—not the air, not the wall, not your shared breathing—but there is something real, raw, and rising fast. Like the sea in a storm. Like love, if you're brave enough to call it that. His lips find your throat, trailing heat and tremble in their wake. He doesn't kiss you like you're fragile. He kisses you like you're fire—meant to be burned by. Tongue and teeth dragging along the slick curve of your collarbone, he groans your name like it’s some sort of invocation he’ll never stop repeating.

“You take me so well,” he breathes. “Every time.”

And Titans, you do—greedy and trembling and insatiable, taking all of him because you can, because you want to. Because his desire doesn’t just touch your body—it drenches it, floods it, marks you in places no one else has ever dared to reach. The rhythm builds again, languid and punishing in its control. He doesn’t fuck like a man trying to get off—he moves like he’s trying to memorize you from the inside out. Etching himself into your marrow, into every twitch and gasp and please. He cups your face with one hand, forcing your eyes to meet his. The look in them nearly undoes you.

“You’re not allowed to forget,” he growls, lips brushing yours with maddening restraint. “Not how this feels. Not what you are to me.”

You nod before you can speak, the sound caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. But he sees it. He feels it in the desperate flex of your hips, the trembling grip on his shoulders, the way your mouth parts for his without needing words. You don’t forget—how could you, when he’s everywhere? Inside you, around you, underneath your skin?

His kiss turns hungry again, all heat and tongue, no gentleness this time. Just raw need—his and yours, tangled and indistinguishable. You drink each other in like you’ll never have another chance. His thrusts deepen, rougher now, but still precise—his cock dragging just the right way, hitting every spot that makes your eyes roll back and your breath shatter in your chest. Your thighs start to shake around him, and he feels it, curses low under his breath as shifts your weight to tether further against the wall. One of his hands slips between your bodies, fingers finding that slick bundle of nerves already pulsing.

“Come for me,” he murmurs, and it’s not a request. It’s a command, one laced with reverence and heat and a promise that he’s going with you.

The pleasure rips through you—white-hot and blinding. You shatter around him, trembling and crying out, clinging to him like he’s the only real thing left in a world gone molten. He follows with a broken sound, burying himself to the hilt, forehead pressed hard to yours as he spills into you with a groan that sounds like it’s been clawed from his soul.

For a long moment, all you can do is breathe together, chests rising and falling in the same rhythm. Your skin sticks where it touches, but you don’t pull away. He doesn’t either. Mydei's thumb brushes your cheek, catching a tear you didn’t know you shed.

“I meant what I said,” he whispers. “You’re more than what they made you believe. So much more.”

And somehow, in the quiet between heartbeats and aftershocks, you believe him.

The morning carries a softness that feels borrowed—like it wasn’t meant to belong here, but slipped through anyway. At breakfast, the House begins to stir fully, louder with each passing minute. Girls laughing down the hall. Doors creaking open and shut. Water being drawn. Someone tuning a string instrument with off-key determination.

And Mydei is still here.

You spot him in the tiny galley kitchen, sleeves rolled up, red markings stark against the pale curve of his forearms as he folds dough with a focus that borders on reverence. His half-worn robes are still askew from the night before, hair tousled but face composed. You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching as he flips a pan with entirely too much grace for someone who used to command legions.

“Didn’t think you’d stay,” you murmur.

“I said I would,” he says, not looking up. “Besides, Elena refused to take any money as payment for...”

He pauses, face flushing only for a moment. You feel like he's embarrassed by the prospect of paying for what you suppose was a rendered service, but you're past the point of caring about those little nuances. Elena clucks approvingly as she bustles by, balancing a tray of sweet tea. “This one’s more helpful than half the men who’ve ever darkened our doorstep,” she says. “You sure you’re not already married, Mydei?”

He almost smiles. “Wouldn’t want to subject anyone to that.”

Calliope, who's lounged in a chair with her legs over the armrest, perks up. “I heard a rumor once,” she says, grinning, “that the Crown Prince of Kremnos has a secret love of cooking and baking. Thought it was ridiculous, but…” She gestures at the evidence: golden pastries cooling by the window.

“It wasn’t a secret,” he says, quietly. “Just not something I could do often. Before.”

The mood shifts for a moment. A faint shadow touches the edge of his voice. But it’s gone as quickly as it came. Shortly after your sisters and Nikolas have helped themselves to Mydei's surprisingly good cooking, you find two clay cups. Inside, you pour the pomegranate juice from the jug Elena leaves on the counter before offering one to Mydei. He takes it and raises a brow when you offer him a pitcher of milk.

“Try it,” you say, smirking. “It cuts the tartness.”

He mixes the two with a flick of his wrist and takes a cautious sip. Blinks. “…Better than I thought.”

That draws a laugh from you. “Funnily enough, there's actually a story about that.”

He glances over curiously as you cradle your cup in your palms, leaning against the counter. “The legend says Phagousa offered pomegranate juice to Nikador after he emerged from the battlefield drunk on the blood of his enemies. Said it would calm the fire in him—make him less likely to kill the wrong people. He took it. Said it tasted like war and sweetness in equal measure.”

Mydei is quiet. He drinks again. “A Lethean offering peace to a Kremnoan,” he says after a pause. “Fitting.”

You smile around the rim of your cup. “And did it work?”

“For Nikador?” He shrugs, then looks at you. “Maybe not. But I think it’s working on me.”

You don’t say anything, just nudge your foot against his under the table. You’re still smiling when the kitchen curtain rustles—and someone stumbles in, awkwardly frozen mid-step. A young man, clearly from Kremnos by the style of his cloak and the glint of bronze on his collar. His gaze darts from Mydei to you, then back again. His face drains a shade paler.

“My—uh—Master Mydei. Sir.” He clears his throat, eyes flicking quickly away from your legs, bare beneath a short sleeping tunic. “I—I didn’t realize you were… here.”

“You are?” Mydei asks, calm as ever.

“Andreas, sir,” the man says too quickly. “I-I'm a patron here. Not often. Just…sometimes.”

You exchange a look with Mydei. He doesn’t smirk, but his silence feels like one. The soldier straightens with a snap. “A-Also, General Krateros is looking for you, sir. Told the entire battalion to let you know it was urgent if we ran into you.”

Mydei nods once. “Tell him I’ll be there.”

The man retreats in a flurry of embarrassment and half-bowed apologies. You and Mydei are left alone again, the moment suddenly fragile with the knowledge that it’s ending.

He sets his cup down. Then, without ceremony, leans in and kisses you. Not a lingering promise—just enough to make you feel like you’re being remembered. When he pulls back, you catch the brief return of that storm behind his eyes.

“I’ll see you soon,” the prince says.

You nod, but your gut twists. You’ve seen too many men vanish behind words like that. And this time… something in the air tastes different.

Like milk stirred into blood.

They meet in the outer sanctum beneath the Marmoreal Palace, where gold and obsidian twist in solemn pillars, and the air always tastes like old fire. Mydei stands alone, back turned, watching the Dawn Device cast long beams across the chamber floor.

“You’ve been difficult to find,” Krateros says, voice echoing off stone. No preamble. Just that.

Mydei doesn’t turn. “You found me.”

Krateros crosses the room in measured steps. His armor creaks with each movement—clean, precise, like the man himself. “That’s not an answer.”

“You vanish for days at a time,” Krateros continues, quieter now. “And when you return, you say little. No reports. No council. You’ve always kept things close to your chest, but this…” He trails off, the restraint in his voice pulling taut.

Still, Mydei says nothing.

Krateros studies him. The faint burn of the Dawn Device catches the edges of Mydei’s profile—the worn robes, the exposed red markings pulsing like coals. He looks less like a prince, more like a relic. A weapon waiting to be wielded.

“I know what you’re doing,” Krateros says. “I know where you’ve been.”

Now Mydei turns. There’s no guilt in his expression, only that cold, unreadable stillness he wears when he’s weighing whether or not to unsheathe something sharp. Krateros doesn’t flinch.

“I’m not here to scold you,” he says. “But you are a Chrysos Heir. The last son of Kremnos. You carry the blood of kings and the fire of a dying god in your chest. You don’t get to drift like this.”

A pause. Then:

“Distractions,” he says, “will cost us more than time. You know this.”

Mydei’s gaze narrows, unreadable. “And what would you call your lectures, Krateros, if not a distraction?”

“I call them necessary,” Krateros replies, jaw tightening. “You think I don’t understand? That I haven’t been tempted to take some warmth where I can find it? But we don’t have the luxury of choosing comfort over cause. Not with the Coreflame waiting. Not with the Black Tide pressing in on all sides.”

He steps closer now, not as a soldier, but as something older—friend, brother-in-arms, the last remnant of a broken home trying to hold what’s left together. “You led us here,” he says. “We followed you. Through fire. Through exile. Through the death of everything we once knew. Don’t let your crown slip now, Mydeimos.”

There’s a long, brittle silence. Mydei’s jaw ticks, something flaring behind his eyes—anger, maybe, or something far more human. And when he speaks, his voice is low and measured.

“I haven’t forgotten who I am,” Mydei answers, low and steady.

Krateros watches him. “Yet you act otherwise.”

A beat passes, and he feels like the entire world has tilted several degrees off its axis. “I don’t begrudge you wanting something that’s yours,” his general adds, quieter now. “But you don’t get to lose yourself in it. Not when all of Amphoreus is watching.”

For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then Mydei lifts his chin, that same old stubborn steel in his voice. “I know what I’m doing.”

Krateros stares at him for a long moment, then nods once. “Then don’t make the rest of us pay for it if you’re wrong.”

And with that, he turns and walks away—boots echoing through the temple like the sound of time running out.

When you go to pick up Nikolas with the intent on celebrating his first quarter at The Academy, he tells you something unusual. 

“Master Mydei wasn’t there today,” the boy says, even before you can ask how his lessons went.

You pause, blinking. “No drills?”

Nikolas shakes his head, scuffing the ground with his heel. “He hasn’t been there all week. The other instructors are taking over, but it’s not the same. Master Mydei made the exercises feel like... like they mattered.”

He says it lightly, already moving on to recount how one of the boys tripped over his spear and brought the whole line down with him. You smile when he looks up at you, but your thoughts lag behind. You try to brush it off. It’s not like Mydei’s vanished—he still comes to The House often enough. Still lingers in the quiet hours when the world outside feels far away. But… you realize that it's been a while since he last walked the two of you home. Since you last saw him leaning against the sun-drenched pillars while waiting for Nikolas' day to end.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. He’s a Chrysos Heir. Of course he has other things to tend to—greater things, things that were always meant to take him elsewhere. And yet, a small, unwelcome unease begins to settle just behind your ribs. Not loud, not sharp. Just there. Your fingers curl a little tighter around the strap of Nikolas’s satchel as you walk, listening to him talk and laugh beside you.

Something had shifted. You just don’t know what yet. And it’s not just at the Academy.

Mydei still visits The House—but not like before. The frequency of it has thinned, like footsteps fading further down a hall. And when he does come, he doesn’t stay long. Sometimes, he barely speaks. Sometimes, he stands in your doorway for all of two minutes before offering some small, unreadable look and leaving again. He doesn’t touch you anymore. Not like he used to. Not with that quiet hunger that made him feel almost human. He doesn’t reach for you in the way a man reaches when he’s afraid he might fall apart if he doesn’t. He used to take comfort in the simple closeness—in being held, in pressing his brow to your shoulder and saying nothing at all. Now he barely lingers long enough to sit.

You try to rationalize it. Maybe he’s tired. Maybe he’s too burdened, too pulled in a dozen different directions to find room for softness. You tell yourself that. Again and again. But the warmth is waning, and with it, something unnamed and precious slips quietly from between your fingers. That golden silhouette in the Sea of Souls has begun to plague your dreams again, despite having nothing but peaceful sleep weeks before. And day by day, it's slowly beginning to resemble Mydei—drifting further and further from the shore. 

You're still lost in that thought when the sound of soft footsteps pulls you back. Elena approaches you at the foyer, her gaze steady as ever, but softer than most get to see.

“Come,” she says gently, placing a hand at your back. “Let Iris fetch Nikolas today.”

You open your mouth to protest, but she shakes her head—just once. “You need a moment,” she adds, lower now. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”

You don’t argue.

You let Elena guide you, her hand steady between your shoulder blades. She doesn’t speak again as she leads you through the quieter halls, past the small garden and into the corridor at the back of the House—the part that used to feel off-limits, even if no one ever said so aloud. She opens the door without ceremony. You realize where you are only once you're inside.

Agamemnon’s old quarters.

No—Elena’s room now. The heavy furnishings are gone, replaced by soft lamplight and shelves lined with small comforts: books, folded blankets, glass jars of dried herbs and sealed ink pots. The walls still wear the same paint, but the presence in the room is wholly different. The old chill that once haunted it is gone. She took it back. Firmly. Like reclaiming stolen ground.

She gestures to a cushioned seat in the corner, and you sink into it, your limbs suddenly heavier than they ought to be. She doesn’t sit—not yet. She pours a bit of warm tea into a cup and sets it on the table near your elbow. “You’ve always been good at reading people,” she says, tone gentle but without pity. “But you never let anyone read you.”

You don’t respond right away. The room smells faintly of citrus peel and ink. You stare into the steam curling from the tea. “There’s nothing to read,” you murmur.

Elena lets out a quiet, unimpressed sound. “Then you won’t mind if I guess anyway.”

You almost smile. Almost. She finally settles across from you, folding her legs beneath her like she has all the time in the world.

“It’s about him,” she says. Not a question.

You close your eyes. “He still visits.”

“Mhm.”

“But it’s different. He barely stays. Doesn’t even—” You stop yourself. The words catch on something sharp. “He used to reach for me like he was trying to stay tethered. Now he comes and goes like... like it’s a task.” Elena doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers drum once against the arm of her chair. “It’s always hardest to hold onto something when it stops reaching back,” she says finally.

You nod, just once. You can’t bring yourself to say more than that. “I don’t think it’s because he doesn’t care,” Elena adds. “But whatever path he’s on now… it’s pulling him somewhere you can’t follow.”

You stare down at your hands. “I know. But it still feels like losing something.” She leans forward, brushing her thumb briefly over the back of your hand—a rare gesture of softness from her. “Then mourn it,” she says. “And if it comes back to you, you’ll meet it where you stand. Not where you’ve been.”

You don’t cry. Not here. Not in this room reclaimed by strength and memory. But you let yourself be still for a while, with Elena beside you, the tea growing cold between you, and the truth settling like dust in the warm silence.

No matter how much you hoped, the distance just widens—slowly, then all at once.

At first, it’s just a missed day. Then two. Then a week, and another. Until eventually, Mydei stops coming to The House altogether. No familiar footfall. No pause outside your curtain. No voice saying your name in that low, quiet way that once felt like it belonged only to you. You try not to let it bother you. You tell yourself he’s busy. That he’s important. That you were foolish to expect anything different.

There, you try to return to old rhythms—take patrons again, smile when you need to, pretend your body is yours to give rather than a thing left behind like an empty shell. You let your sisters dress you up in gold and laughter, let yourself be seen again, touched again, admired again. But nothing fits quite right anymore. None of them are him. None of them have his silence, his gravity, the way he made you feel like you were the one thing in the room that mattered.

You should’ve known better. He’s a Chrysos Heir. The future of Okhema. He carries burdens most men would shatter under. You had no business placing your heart in hands already full with destiny. Mydei is not like the others—you know that. He didn’t use you. He didn’t forget you. He just… had somewhere else to be. Something bigger than you to answer to. But that doesn’t make the ache any smaller.

In a moment of foolish desperation, you even try to reach out to Phainon. You think maybe he’ll know something. Maybe he’ll tell you what happened. Maybe he’ll offer some sliver of truth that makes it easier to bear. But Phainon, too, is gone. Not a whisper of either Chrysos Heir's presence left to trail after. And for the first time in a long while, you start to wonder if you're the one being left behind—not because you were unworthy, but because some things aren’t meant to stay.

Just like that, you’ve slipped back into your old life.

The one you had before Mydei ever crossed The House’s doorway. Silk draped over your shoulders, bracelets tinkling at your wrists, voice low and teasing when it needs to be. You smile the way you’re meant to, laugh when it’s expected. To anyone watching, you’ve returned to form—graceful, poised, untouched by the ache he left behind. But in private, you still let the pain simmer.

You still wake in the middle of the night, clutching your sheets, heart thrumming with the echo of dreams you can’t fully name. Always the same: a golden silhouette adrift in the Sea of Souls. Always just out of reach. Always walking away. And still, you go on.

Tonight is no different. One of your regulars has come by—a young man, handsome in that polished, golden-boy way. Elena says he likes you. Really likes you. She catches the way he watches you like you’re more than just a passing indulgence, like he wants something real. Something lasting. But you’ve already gone down that road. You know better now. You light the lamp. Offer him wine. Let your fingers graze his shoulder as you guide him down the hallway—not to your room, never your room—but to one of the House’s standard chambers. Comfortable, detached, forgettable. Just how it should be.

You’re halfway through undoing the knot at your shoulder when the front door slams open. Not gently. Not cautiously. It’s the kind of sound that slices through everything—through music, through laughter, through the sighs of someone trying to forget. It echoes down the halls, startling a few girls into silence. The hush that follows isn’t just surprise. It’s recognition.

You barely hear Elena’s voice from beyond the corridor, sharp and uncertain: “Thalia.”

You pause. The young man on the couch shifts, half-rising, brows furrowed. You don’t give him a word of explanation. Just press your robe back into place, step out into the hall, and follow the tension crawling down your spine. You round the corner. And there he is.

You’ve seen him in lamplight before, cloaked in shadows and quiet rage. But this time—this time he looks like something pulled from another realm entirely. His hair has grown longer, burnished gold streaked with fire, one side neatly braided, the other loose and tangled like he hasn’t slept for days. His skin is dusted in sweat and ash, and the red markings on his arms burn brighter now, like veins of molten ore running beneath his flesh. His eyes find you. And gods, they’re tired. Not in the way of men worn down by time, but of someone who has looked too long into a fire he could not escape. There’s distance in them now. Not coldness—but something deeper. Like he’s gone someplace you can’t reach, and left the door half-open behind him. He doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t need to. Because standing there in the House's low flickering light, Mydei looks nothing like the man who used to listen to your stories in the quiet after midnight.

And yet, for one awful, aching second, you wish he did. You don’t know what he’s lost. What he’s won. Only that whatever road brought him here, it was not kind. You want nothing more than to throw yourself into his arms. To forget the silence. The ache. The long, hollow stretch of nights he wasn’t there. But time has carved you into someone sharper. Someone careful. And when you finally speak, your voice is cold enough to frost over the doorway. Whatever softness once lived in you for him has learned to hold its breath. You’ve patched yourself up too many times to tear open at the seams now.

So when you speak, it isn’t tender. “What are you doing here?” Your voice echoes in the narrow hall, too poised for how fast your heart is beating. You don’t give him time to answer. You straighten your shoulders, glance behind you at the door you just stepped out of. “I’m busy tonight. With a patron.”

The words taste sour, but you say them anyway. You watch the shift in his face, subtle but unmistakable. His gaze hardens, jaw tightening like he’s biting something back. There’s a fire in him—there always was—but now it crackles at the edges, no longer tempered by gentleness. Not rage, not quite. But something close. Still, you hold your ground. You won’t let him look at you like that. Like he still has the right. You’ve taken yourself apart piece by piece to survive without him, and now he shows up—unannounced, unchanged in all the ways that still hurt. You clench your fingers in your robe, exhale through your nose. “You don’t get to come back and expect everything to be the same,” you say, quieter this time.

He doesn’t respond. Just watches you with eyes that have seen too much, and a silence that says he knows it. But you’re not ready. Not yet.

For several days, Mydei attempts to reach out, and for several days, you refuse him. 

Elena constantly tells him that he's the last person you need to see. But Mydei has Kremnoan blood running through his veins—stubborn, unyielding, relentless. He doesn't take no for an answer. His presence lingers like a shadow, and it becomes a silent war of wills. Finally, Iris, sweet, gentle Iris, who’s always been the heart of this place, is the one to snap.  You hear it from the hall—a raised voice, sharp with frustration, followed by silence. The next thing you know, Iris is standing between Mydei and the door, her face flushed with the strain of trying to be firm.

“If you don’t leave now,” she warns, voice trembling with quiet fury, “I’ll call the guards.”

It’s a rare thing to see Iris so resolute. But you know she’s doing it for you, for the pieces of you that have been broken and scattered too many times. Later, you overhear the girls talking, gathered in hushed voices. You stand just out of sight, pretending to be absorbed in something else, but the words sink into you like a slow poison.

“I never wanted to turn him away,” Iris whispers, the sound of her voice raw with something you can’t quite place. “But... If he left and vanished without a trace, maybe... maybe that would be better for her. He was the one who made her happy once. I haven’t forgotten that. But now...” Her voice cracks. “Now, he’s the reason she’s in so much pain.”

You feel the weight of her words like a stone in your chest. And for the first time in days, you allow yourself to feel the ache of it all—the loss, the betrayal, the gaping hole that used to be filled with his presence.

Is this all that's left between the two of you after all?

The next morning, The House is quieter than usual. Even the laughter from the girls seems dulled, as if they, too, are caught in the fog of yesterday’s storm. You wake early, before the sun has fully risen, and the weight in your chest hasn’t left. If anything, it has settled deeper. The ache is no longer sharp. It's something quieter now. Constant. You leave without telling anyone. No makeup. No disguise. Just a long shawl draped over your shoulders and sandaled feet slapping against cold stone. You don't know where you're going until you're already there.

The Marmoreal Palace gleams under the light of the Dawn Device, pristine and untouched. Here, the world feels distant—like something imagined rather than lived. Inside, the air is warm and still, a mix of sea-salt and something floral you can’t place. Steam curls in lazy tendrils around the painted columns. You disrobe in silence and slide into the water with only the barest splash, letting it cradle you like a memory you can’t shake. The baths are quieter than you expected. Until they aren’t.

“You’re here,” comes a familiar voice.

You flinch, not because you’re afraid, but because you weren’t prepared to hear him. Phainon stands at the edge of the pool, looking only mildly surprised to find you already there. His long white hair is damp at the ends, his robe half-slipped from his shoulders. He hasn’t changed, not much—but your heart clenches anyway.

You narrow your eyes. “You disappeared too.” He blinks at you, as though he hadn’t expected that to be the first thing you’d say. “I did,” he admits, quiet and unapologetic. “I had to.”

“Of course you did,” you murmur, sinking further into the water. “Everyone has to.”

A silence stretches between you. You’re too tired to keep the edge in your voice, but it’s there nonetheless. The warmth of the bath does little to ease it. Phainon doesn't enter the water right away. He sets his robe aside and sits on the pool’s edge, feet dipping into the blessed waters. “I go here a lot when I need to get something off my mind,” he says instead of answering. “I suppose the same is true for you as well?”

You don’t respond. You don't trust your voice not to break. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks again. “The Black Tide started rising faster than any of us expected. We had no choice but to act—quickly.” You shift, water rippling around your shoulders. “So you just vanished.”

“I told him we should say goodbye to you first,” he says softly, finally looking at you. “He wanted to. But there was no time. We left at dawn the next day.” You don’t realize you’ve curled your fingers into fists until your nails bite your palms beneath the surface. “So where did you go?”

Phainon exhales. “Castrum Kremnos.”

Your gaze snaps to him. He continues, slowly, like the words are stones he must carry across a river. “Mydei needed to reclaim something that was lost. Something his people had forgotten. Nikador’s Coreflame. The power that was once theirs before the Titan fell into madness.”

“He fought for it. We all did. The Coreflame is back where it belongs now, in the Vortex of Genesis. Waiting for someone worthy to take it up.” You look away. Your voice is thin when it finally comes. “So that’s why he left.”

“He’s not just trying to be a prince anymore,” Phainon says. “He’s preparing to become something else. A protector. A demigod. The Bastion of Okhema.” You close your eyes, letting the steam soften your expression, though it can't quite dull the ache in your chest. “And you?” you ask. “Are you becoming something too?”

Phainon smiles faintly. “I’ve always been someone in the background. That hasn’t changed.”

That's not an answer. You want to laugh. Or cry. Or both. Sensing your unease, he leans forward slightly, voice lower now. “I just didn’t want you to keep waiting in the dark, thinking he abandoned you. He didn’t. Not really.”

You don’t respond right away. You’re still trying to fit all the pieces together. The silence stretches again—only this time, it doesn’t feel so lonely. Outside, the golden light deepens, catching the mist like spun thread. You don’t feel lighter, not yet. But at least now you understand what happened. The mist swirls around you both, catching golden in the morning light. For a long time, you say nothing. Just the sound of water, soft and steady, and the occasional hush of distant footsteps echoing in the marble halls. Then, finally, you speak—your voice low, but clear.

“I was cruel to him.”

“I didn’t see him,” you go on. “Not once. Not when he knocked. Not when he waited in the hall. I made my sisters turn him away. I let Elena speak for me. I didn’t even... I didn’t even ask why he left.” Your voice catches. “I didn’t want to hear it. I was too angry. Too hurt.” Phainon looks at you, not with pity, but with something gentler. Something like understanding. You draw in a breath, steadying yourself. “He tried. And I—I let my silence answer him. I thought it would protect me. I thought... if I didn’t open the door, it wouldn’t hurt as much when he disappeared again.”

“But it still did,” Phainon says softly.

You nod, just once. “And now I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance to say anything to him again.” Phainon’s expression is hard to read. The bathwater reflects golden across his features, giving him a soft, solemn glow. “He wouldn’t fault you for it,” he says at last. “He doesn’t carry anger the way most people do. But he does carry weight. The kind that never really leaves you.”

You let the silence stretch again, letting his words settle in the spaces your regret has carved out. “I thought he was choosing something else over me,” you admit, your voice almost a whisper. “But it was never about that, was it?”

“No,” Phainon murmurs. “It was about all of you. All of us. The people of this city. The ones who still believe in something better.”

You lean back against the stone, letting the warmth seep into your bones. The water may have been blessed by a goddess, but it can’t wash away everything. Still, it helps. “I think,” you say after a moment, “I just wanted to feel like I mattered. Like I was worth saying goodbye to.”

“You were,” he says simply. “You are.”

You don’t thank him for the words. But you don’t argue either. Phainon stretches his legs out into the water, letting the silence settle between you again. There’s something almost peaceful about it now—like the ache has found room to breathe. Then, casually, as if he’s commenting on the weather, he says, “If you ever want to get away from the city... there’s a spot by the eastern slopes. Hardly anyone goes there. You can see all of Okhema from up top. Even the Dawn Device looks small from there.”

You glance at him, narrowing your eyes slightly. “That sounds oddly specific.” He just shrugs, the corner of his mouth curving. “Just thought you’d like the view.”

There’s something veiled beneath the words—something left unsaid. But Phainon is too practiced at deflection. You don’t press him, but the suggestion lingers in your mind like a note in a half-finished song. One you intend to see through until the end.

Later that afternoon, after making Phainon swear he won't disappear without a trace again, you leave the marble gates behind. The route he mentioned winds through the less-traveled parts of the city—stone paths lined with ivy, stairways sun-bleached and cracked, quiet courtyards where birdsong carries between empty alcoves. The air feels different here. Less ostentatious. More honest. The slope rises slowly, and the buildings thin out. Eventually, you're left with wildflowers brushing your ankles, old roots breaking through forgotten stones, and a sky that feels far too big.

And then you see it.

Tucked into the edge of a cliff, half-forgotten by time, is a small, crumbling terrace. Vines have crept through broken latticework, and moss clings to the faded stones. There are remnants of garden beds—empty, but outlined lovingly, like someone had once planned to grow something beautiful here. It would’ve made a lovely garden. And standing at its edge, back turned, bathed in gold and shadow, is Mydei.

He’s not in armor. Just loose robes, wind-tossed, the markings on his skin catching the light in flickers of red and copper. There’s a weight to his stance—heavy, as if he might as well replace the Titan who bears the world on his back. But there's also a quiet sort of anticipation lingering there. As if he’s been waiting. You stop. The wind carries the scent of dried leaves. And in that instant, all the breath you’d held over these past weeks escapes you.

He turns—slowly, carefully, like the world might shift beneath him if he moves too fast. And when his eyes find yours, they soften. He looks like someone who’s walked through fire just to make it here. Someone who never stopped hoping you would come. You don’t say anything, but your feet carry you forward. Because he’s here. And somehow, so are you.

He watches you approach. Still, unmoving—as if the moment might scatter like birds startled from branches. But you've committed enough mistakes to know when you're supposed to make up for them. 

“Mydei,” you breathe, unsure if you even want to say his name. It tastes like salt and grief on your tongue.

His eyes meet yours, steady. He doesn't address you with Thalia like the rest of the world, but with a name you trust only his voice to say. The sound of it makes warmth simmer beneath your skin, slipping into the cracks that time has broken into your soul.  You stop a few steps away. Mydei doesn't come closer. He just stands there, hands at his sides, waiting. You try to hold it in, all of it—the storm, the ache, the betrayal you swore you'd buried. But it frays at the seams. And once it starts, it doesn’t stop.

“I was cruel,” you say. The words come through clenched teeth, tears spilling even as you try to swallow them. “You tried to see me. I wouldn’t even look at you. I didn’t let you speak. And now…” Now you’re the one standing here, hoping he’ll listen to what you have to say. “I thought you left me,” you whisper. “Not just me. Everyone. But especially me.”

It sounds selfish, yet he doesn't deny it. He doesn’t make excuses. He just lowers his gaze, jaw tightening for a breath before he says, quiet as dusk, “I should’ve told you.”

You shake your head hard. “I didn’t make it easy.”

“That’s not why.” He looks up again. “There wasn’t time. It all happened fast. The Coreflame… Castrum Kremnos…” His fingers curl slightly at his sides, like he’s reliving it. “I didn’t want to go without saying anything. But I had to.”

Your chest caves, air escaping you like a punctured wineskin. “And when you came back…”

“I didn’t know where to start,” he says, and his voice carries the sort of quiet that borders on sadness. “You looked at me like I was a stranger.”

“Because you were.”

He accepts that. Just nods, slow and quiet. You glance around the terrace, at the garden-that-never-was, and back at him. “This is where you’ve been?”

He gives a small nod. “There’s a place just down the slope. An old house where it’s quiet enough for me to hear my own thoughts.” He looks out toward the city. “I didn’t want to stay in the Marmoreal Palace. It’s… easier to think here.”

You wipe at your face again, suddenly self-conscious about how much you’re crying and how dry his eyes are.

“So you’ve been alone all this time?”

His voice is soft. “Not really.”

You look at him again, confused. Finally, Mydei steps forward—not all the way, just close enough that you can hear the breath he takes before he says, “You were always with me. Even when you hated me.” Your mouth trembles from his honesty, and you don't know what to make of it. He challenged a god and won, yet his thoughts still drift to you?

“That doesn’t make this hurt less,” you whisper.

“I know.”

In the silence, he doesn’t ask if you want to come with him. Mydei just starts walking down the slope, and when you don’t stop him, when your steps fall in beside his, it’s enough. Your footsteps fall quietly along the worn path. Behind you, Okhema glows with its usual light—soft and steady, as it always is. The sun never sets here, but the city feels quieter now, like it knows to dim its voice when the world needs rest.

The place he stays in is small. Unremarkable. Worn wood creaks beneath your feet, and the stone floors have seen better days, their surface chipped and cracked in places. The room is sparsely furnished, without any of the pomp you might expect of someone of his lineage.

There are no guards. No banners. Just a kettle by the hearth, a narrow bed with a folded blanket, and a half-finished meal on a plain wooden table. It feels like a room for someone who wants to be forgotten. Or perhaps just needs the space to remember.

He pours you water from a ceramic jug and offers it to you wordlessly. Your eyes catch the bottle of wine sitting beside his bed—an afterthought, a companion for moments too heavy to be filled with words. You take it, uncork it with a quick twist, and drink. The liquid is sharp, its warmth moving down your throat like a slow burn. Mydei doesn’t comment.

His gaze lingers on you, and in the quiet of the room, it feels heavier than any words could be. You sit on the edge of his bed, and it’s strange, the intimacy of it. The way it feels small beneath you. The way his presence feels familiar enough that it cuts deep. He stays standing at first, watching you for a beat too long, before slowly sitting beside you. 

"Phainon told me about the trial," you say, your voice unsteady, more vulnerable than you mean it to be. Your fingers curl around the neck of the bottle, your eyes still not meeting his. "Nikador’s Coreflame. That you’re going to take it."

He nods, barely a movement. “I am.”

“When?”

A long pause hangs between you, thick with things neither of you can say.

“Tomorrow.”

Your chest tightens. You close your eyes for a moment, as if trying to gather the pieces of yourself back together. “Of course.”

It should have been easy to accept. Yet you swallow hard, the words tasting like ash in your mouth, and your hands tremble slightly as you take another drink from the bottle. He watches you quietly, and for a long moment, you just sit there, caught between the past and the future, each breath heavy with things you wish you'd said earlier.

"It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Mydei murmurs, his voice heavy with the weight of all the things he’s already lost.

You laugh, but it's bitter, a raw sound that catches in your throat. "It never was, but we're here anyway." The wine burns as it slides down, but it feels like nothing compared to the burn in your chest, the ache that’s been there since the first time you pushed him away. The silence between you isn’t sharp anymore. It’s softened, worn, tired. And you know it’s not just the long day that’s tired. It’s you. It’s him. It’s everything in between.

“You know," you begin, your voice quiet now, more frayed than angry, "we could’ve had more time. All those days you waited outside, and I—” Your voice cracks on the last words. "I thought pushing you away would make it easier. But it didn’t. I just...wasted what little we had left."

His eyes are soft when they meet yours, as always, there’s no judgment in them. Just understanding. And maybe that’s worse. Because understanding makes the hurt feel heavier.

“I would’ve waited as long as it took,” he says, and his voice breaks, just a little. It’s the quietest thing, like he’s afraid you might shatter if he speaks too loudly.

You meet his gaze, and for a moment, you forget how heavy it all feels. The reality of what you both are about to face. The gravity of your mistakes. You look at him, really look at him. Not the demigod. Not the prince. Just Mydei. The man sitting right next to you, exhausted and hurting, full of things he’s never said, and so much he’ll never get to. And then, almost without thinking, you cross the space between you.

The distance doesn’t feel right. It never does. So you reach out and kiss him. Not out of desperation. Not even out of need. Just out of acknowledgement. Of everything you were. Of everything you are. And everything you’ll never get to be.

The kiss is tender, slow, like you’re both trying to savor it before it slips through your fingers. His hands come to rest on your back like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. Your fingers tangle in the fabric over his shoulders, and you feel the rough texture of the red markings beneath your touch.

His body is warm, solid against yours, like the only thing holding you together in the midst of the unraveling. But in spite of it all, you climb on top of his lap and his hands meander to your hips like clockwork. Mydei breathes out your name again—your real name—and it takes every ounce of self-control to not unceremoniously spear yourself on his hard, leaking cock.

Instead, you hold on to the tenderness in his voice, guiding his length slowly into you as you sink yourself inch by inch. His golden eyes observe in quiet rapture as you envelop him in the heat of your cunt. And for a moment, time stills. It's only you and him in this world. No higher calling. No inescapable destiny.

Just two lovers entangled in each other's embrace. 

You both linger not because you have to—but because neither of you can bear to end it. When you kiss him again, his mouth tastes like grief and gratitude, like unspoken apologies and quiet forgiveness. When you finally part, it’s not with a gasp, but a breath.

“I should’ve told you sooner,” you whisper, your voice shaking against his skin. “That it wasn’t just comfort. It wasn’t just—just survival. I chose you. Even when I pretended I didn’t.” Mydei lets out a quiet exhale, one that sounds like it’s been locked in his chest for too long. “I know,” he murmurs. “And I chose you too. Every time.”

You swallow hard, and it burns. Like all the things you’ll never get to say are rising up at once. “But you have to go,” you say, and you hate how much it sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself.

The prince nods. Not because he wants to. But because he has to. There’s no anger in it, no bitterness—just that quiet, devastating calm he always wears when the world asks too much of him. And this time, it’s asking for everything.

He brushes his knuckles along your cheek, trailing them down to your jaw, memorizing the shape of you like it might be the last time. Maybe it is. “I’ll come back,” he says, softly, reverently. “Even if I’m not the same. Even if I come back a god, or a shadow of one—I’ll still find a way to be yours.”

You shake your head—wanting to refuse, wanting to insist that he shouldn't choose you over the rest of the world. But your voice fails you when you bring your hips down once more and the tip of him kisses a spot inside you that makes you see stars.

“Just… don’t forget this,” you manage, struggling with sincerity when your mind is overloaded with pleasure. “Don’t forget who you were before.”

His lips press to your brow—firm, steady, lingering—and the warmth of it spreads like a vow you’ll carry in your bones.

“I won’t,” he says, a shadow of regret already flitting to the surface. “Because you’ll be the part I remember most.”

You want to say more. You want to tell him that remembering won’t be enough. That memory is fragile, easily rewritten by divinity or time or duty. But instead, you stay there, wrapped in him, letting the silence fall like a shroud around your tangled limbs. Words feel too small now, and besides—he’s still human. For just a little longer.

You lie against him in the quiet, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, his warmth grounding you. The world outside doesn’t shift—there’s no setting sun, no stars to blink into view. Just the bright, aching stillness of Okhema, stretching on like it always has.

Mydei shifts slightly beneath you, his voice low and gravelly. “What do you want most in the world?”

You blink, not expecting the question. The wine dulls the edges of your thoughts, but not enough to soften the truth. You tilt your head up, looking at him. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes search yours like he needs an answer—one that matters.

“In this moment?” you whisper. He nods once. You swallow. The answer feels foolish, but it’s the only one that comes.

“You.”

Something flickers across his face—regret, maybe. Longing. Love, too, but buried beneath it all is something heavier. Something finite.

He shakes his head slowly, gently. “That’s not something I can give.”

It doesn’t feel cruel. Just honest. You exhale, the breath shaky, and let your gaze wander to the walls, the table, the pale jug on the hearth. The silence presses in again, not oppressive but inevitable, and you dig past the ache, the wanting, to something deeper.

So, softer now, more to yourself than to him, you say,

“A fig tree.”

Mydei's golden eyes startle as he tilts his head. “A fig tree?”

“Mm,” you nod, eyes still on the ceiling. “A big one. Sweet fruit, low branches. Shade so thick, you could sleep under it all day and no one would find you. And it’d be mine. Just mine. Not in someone else’s garden. No clients, no watchers, no debts.” You smile, but it barely lifts your lips. “I’d name it something stupid. Figgy, or Kephale’s Ass.”

That gets a laugh from him—low and surprised. But when you glance his way, he’s already watching you differently. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of the wish beneath your joke.

“You’re serious,” he says.

You shrug. “I’m tired of wanting things that cost too much.”

He doesn’t answer. Just reaches for your hand where it rests between the folds of the blanket, his fingers brushing yours—tentative, warm. You don’t pull away. And in the silence that follows, you both know: he’ll claim Strife's Coreflame tomorrow, and you’ll remain here with this—this moment, this ache, this impossible tree blooming behind your ribs.

You close your eyes. And when you finally sleep, it’s not peace that cradles you—it’s the ache of knowing morning always comes. Because when it does, nothing will be the same.

News of a new demigod spreads like wildfire.

Trumpets blare from the upper terraces, their notes caught and carried by the ever-blazing sun. Laurel garlands are tossed from balconies. The Kremnoans, long-suffering and scattered, gather in droves across the plaza steps of the Marmoreal Palace, crying and singing in a tongue most in Okhema don’t understand. But you recognize the shape of it—reverence. Relief. Rapture.

Their king has risen.

The rest of the city does what it always does when faced with something greater than itself: it hopes. Whispers pass from market stalls to sun-washed colonnades. He’ll stop the Black Tide. He has to. He has the strength now. Maybe the nightmares will end. Maybe the tide will be driven back into the deep where it came from.

But you don’t go aboveground to hear any of it.

For a long time, you don’t leave the undercity at all. The lamps still flicker, The House still bustles, Alexandria still braids jasmine into the curtain rods. Everything is exactly the same. Except it isn’t.

You don’t read the news scrolls. Don’t look at the mural of the Dawn Device glowing gold above. You pass the stairs leading up without a glance. And when others mention the name Mydei, you simply excuse yourself, as if you’ve grown bored of the story.

But Elena notices. She always has. The way you pause by the seashell curtain longer than you mean to. The way your makeup is lighter these days, your smile more practiced. How you move through the House like you’re carrying something delicate and heavy all at once.

She doesn’t say anything, but the tea she leaves by your bedside is your favorite kind. The chores she assigns are quieter, further from the crowd. On days when the sun feels too loud, she dims the lanterns near your corner without a word. Nothing big. Nothing obvious. Just the kind of help that doesn’t ask you to admit you need it.

And then, one day, Phainon comes.

He doesn’t knock—just waits outside your curtain, patient as ever. When you finally let him in, he looks older than you remember, like something behind his eyes has sunk deeper into itself. You sit on the floor. He doesn’t offer pleasantries, nor does he mention the revels or the rumors.

“Mydei’s gone,” he simply tells you straight away.

You say nothing.

“He left this morning. Headed east, back to Castrum Kremnos. There are reports of the Tide breaching the mountain passes. He’s going to defend the border.”

Still, the silence persists.

“He didn’t tell me where exactly. Didn’t tell anyone, really. Just said it was time.”

It’s that last part that does it.

Something in your chest—fragile and waterlogged for days—splits down the middle. The breath you pull in is shuddering, tight, and the laugh that escapes you is barely a sound at all. You press the back of your hand to your mouth like you can stop it from coming, but you can’t. Phainon stays with you. He doesn’t try to stop you from crying, nor comfort you with false words. He just sits there as you fold in on yourself, as your body heaves with the grief of it, the hollow and the heat of it. The kind of grief you only feel when you lose something you were never meant to keep.

He reaches over, quietly, and squeezes your shoulder. In the distance, the bells of the Palace ring again. Not for you. Not for him.

For the god they now call Strife Incarnate.

For the man you loved.

And ultimately lost.

Years pass in the blink of an eye.

Okhema, still burning beneath the tireless light of the Dawn Device, becomes a sanctuary for the displaced. City-states once proud and untouched by ruin collapse beneath the weight of the Black Tide. Their people arrive in droves—haunted, half-starved, wide-eyed with grief—and the city takes them in. The sanctity of its alabaster spires strains under the weight, but it does not break.

Mydei and the other Chrysos Heirs push back with fire and fury, golden shields against a growing sea of death. They are everywhere and nowhere—always spoken of, rarely seen. Even when they stem the tide in one corner of the continent, it seeps through another. Victory comes in fragments. Defeat is slower, quieter.

But still, life goes on.

Nikolas has grown into adulthood. Taller. Sharper. These days, he wears the armor of one of Okhema’s elite guards—the kind that gleams like polished sunstone. These days, he's too busy to live anywhere other than his company's assigned barracks. But he brings gifts sometimes—candied nuts, new thread, secondhand books for the girls. He doesn’t linger long, but when he sees you, his expression softens. He bows his head, always. Not with ceremony, but with something gentler. Something that says: I remember where I came from.

Down to the undercity. To the House.

The House that is much different now. No longer a brothel, but a resting place for the weary. At the start of the exciting change, Penelope asked, why didn't we turn this into an Inn the moment that old bastard died? A sentiment echoed by yourself and your other sisters. Elena answers simply.

"Because I wanted us to start, not from the wealth Agamemnon made off of our suffering, but with the money we all earned on our own terms." 

Rooms that once held secrets now hold stories. Travelers sleep beneath patched roofs, fed by kind hands that ask nothing in return. You stayed through every change. Through every wave of newcomers. Through every whispered prayer sent up toward the unblinking sky.

You haven’t heard from Phainon in years. The last thing you received was a letter, edges sun-bleached and curling. He didn’t say much—but what he did say stayed with you. That it was no small thing, to keep a soft heart in a world that rewarded hardness. That kindness, in hands like yours, meant more than most people would ever understand.

At the end of the letter, he told you: If you ever need a breath, a moment, a sliver of peace—go back to the eastern slope. The place where the light hits just right. Where hearts had once been laid bare.

You hadn’t thought of it in a long time. But today, while clearing out a drawer, you find it again. The edges of the paper are curled. The ink faded in places. But the words remain. You read it three times before setting it down. Then you pack a small bag with water, a slice of flatbread, and nothing else.

The walk is longer than you remember—not because the distance has changed, but because the world has. This part of the city, once overgrown and forgotten, is no longer deserted. Homes have been built into old stone. Children run barefoot down winding paths. Lanterns hang from beams softened by age, and laughter drifts like wind through the open spaces.

You almost turn back, unsure if this place remembers you.

“Are you lost?” a voice calls from the side of the path.

You turn. An older man with silver in his beard and a scar across his brow stands beside a cart of firewood. His sleeves are rolled up, arms weathered from work. Not a soldier anymore, but something about his posture says he once was.

“I’m looking for an old terrace,” you say. “The one that looks over the eastern rise.”

He studies you. Something flickers in his expression—recognition, maybe, though you don’t recognize him. Still, he nods and sets down the bundle he carries.

“This way,” the man says, ushering you further.

You follow him in silence. Through quiet lanes. Past gardens planted with practiced care. The city didn’t build these homes—people did. Survivors. Settlers. Refugees who carved something that's now theirs from the wreckage.

“The people of Castrum Kremnos live here now,” the man says, almost offhand. “Most of us settled after the last wave several years ago.” He glances back at you. Slows. “Rumor has it that this is where Mydeimos spent his last days as a man. Before he crossed the threshold into divinity.”

You say nothing, despite that same exact scene flashing behind your eyes, but the bitter memory is cut short the moment your eyes find the once-abandoned terrace.

The garden plot is still there—but it’s not wild anymore. It's thriving. Every inch of soil breathes with care, with memory. Herbs spill over low stone borders, blossoms lean into the sun, and trailing vines curl like quiet laughter around hand-hewn posts. It doesn’t shout its beauty—it hums with it, steady and sure.

And at the heart of it all stands a fig tree.

Tall and deeply rooted, its bark dark and knotted with age, its limbs outstretched like open arms. The leaves catch the wind with a soft rustle, and from its branches hang ripe fruit—heavy, sweet, and low enough to reach.

A big one. Sweet fruit, low branches. Shade so thick, you could sleep under it all day and no one would find you.

And it’d be mine. Just mine.

The man slows beside you. “That tree’s been here a while now. We were told to plant it. Given seeds and a spot. It was the prince's final order before leaving for Castrum Kremnos.”

You look at him. “He… Mydei asked for it?”

He nods. “Didn’t say why. Only that it had to grow. That it mattered because it belonged to someone important.”

You step closer to the tree, fingertips brushing the bark. You recount the past several years, where it always felt as if you were wading through a sea of mist. You would even think to yourself that maybe you're becoming one of those wandering souls in your dreams. But this very tree that was planted here on the whims of a man who still thought of you even past his divine countenance.

It mattered... 

Even after all this time. Even after he became something more than mortal. This fig tree—this patch of earth—tells you he remembered. That part of him stayed.

You stand beneath its branches, and for a long while, you say nothing at all.  The wind rustles the leaves above you. The figs hang heavy in the warm light—sweet and low.

Here, at last, something is yours.

Something he left behind.

When you return to The House, the sun is still high above Okhema, as it always is. The basket in your arms—given by that kind old stranger who you know now as Krateros—is heavier than you remembered, brimming with ripe figs, their skin warm from the walk.

Nikolas is the first to spot you. He bounds over, looking like he was still fourteen despite being in full uniform, and snatches one from the top before you can say a word. “These are real?” he says, mouth already full. “Where’d you get ‘em?”

Your other sisters drift into the foyer like petals on a breeze, drawn by the smell, the sight, the rare smile tugging at your lips. They ask what the occasion is. You shrug, setting the basket down where everyone can reach.

“No occasion,” you say softly. “Just… felt like it was time.”

You don’t tell them about the eastern slopes. Or the fig tree. Or the man who once stood beneath that sky beside you, heavy with a goodbye neither of you could speak. You don’t need to. Because for the first time in your life, you are not looking back.

You're no longer the girl from the sea, from an island long lost to time. The one who only lived out of fear and anger at the city who made her the way she was. You like to think it was Mydei's presence who made you realize all the things you're not, but part of you knows he would say something along the lines of, No. This was all you. 

And it was. 

You sit among your sisters and the boy you all raised together, the sweet taste of fruit on your tongue, and let the moment hold you—not as someone who was left behind, but as someone who still remains.

And in the warmth and laughter around you, you begin to understand:

Some loves don’t end.

They simply grow roots in the quiet parts of you.

...and keep on living.

© cryoculus | kaientai ✧ all rights reserved. do not repost or translate my work on other platforms.

[phoenixrisingastro]

ASTRO OBSERVATIONS VIII: “The Manipulation Edition”

1. Aries Mars: They thrive on your rage. Push your buttons until you explode, then tilt their head and ask, “Why are you acting crazy?” You’ll believe them.

2. Taurus Venus: They starve you of affection just enough to make you beg for their love. Then, when they finally give it, you’ll be so grateful you won’t even notice you’ve lost yourself.

3. Gemini Mercury: They plant one little doubt in your mind and let you destroy yourself. They never lied. They just didn’t correct your assumptions.

4. Cancer Moon: They don’t fight fair. They cry, shake, look you in the eyes—make you feel like the worst human being alive. You will apologize even when they are the ones who burned you alive.

5. Leo Rising: You are a pawn in their grand, dramatic love story. They are the main character. If you don’t play your role right, they’ll find someone who will.

6. Virgo Sun: They don’t argue. They diagnose. They break you down, flaw by flaw, with precision so sharp you won’t even realize you’re bleeding.

7. Libra Mars: You won’t see the knife until it’s already between your ribs. And when you finally open your mouth to scream, they’ll convince you it was your fault.

8. Scorpio Venus: They don’t fall in love. They devour. And if you ever try to leave? They won’t chase you—they’ll just make sure you never love again.

9. Sagittarius Moon: They will always belong to the wind. But they will leave just enough of themselves behind to haunt you forever.

10. Capricorn Mercury: They never lose control. They make you feel so small, so ridiculous, so weak—and they do it with three well-placed words.

11. Aquarius Sun: They make you want them so badly it hurts. And just when you think you have them, they disappear, laughing.

12. Pisces Venus: They will never be yours. You will spend your entire life chasing a version of them that never existed.

13. Pluto in the 1st House: You don’t realize you’ve been under their control until you’re staring at yourself in the mirror, wondering who the hell you even are anymore.

14. Mars in the 8th House: Sex is a weapon. And once you’ve had them, you will never be satisfied with anyone else.

15. Neptune in the 7th House: You will fall for their illusion. You will fall for them over and over again, even as they destroy you.

16. Saturn in the 5th House: You will never feel like you’re enough. You will chase their approval like a starving dog.

17. Venus Square Pluto: Love should not feel like death. But it does. And you wouldn’t want it any other way.

18. Mercury in the 12th House: They know what you’re thinking before you do. And they will use it against you.

19. Sun Opposite Neptune: They never actually lie. They just let you build a fantasy so beautiful, you would rather die than let it go.

20. Moon Square Pluto: They will shatter you, then offer you comfort while you bleed out in their hands.

21. Jupiter in the 8th House: Your suffering is their enlightenment.

22. Lilith in the 10th House: They don’t chase. They just exist. And that’s enough to make you fall to your knees.

23. Uranus Conjunct Descendant: The second you expect them to stay, they’re gone.

24. Venus in the 12th House: You will never know them. They will love you in the shadows, and you will spend your life trying to drag them into the light.

25. Mars in the 3rd House: Their words will stick with you forever. They cut deeper than any blade.

26. North Node in the 8th House: You were never meant to live an easy life. You either evolve or die.

27. Pluto Trine Ascendant: They don’t need to say a word. You just obey.

28. Chiron in the 1st House: Their wounds are now your burden. You will spend your whole life trying to heal them, but you never will.

29. Mercury in Scorpio: They can kill you with a whisper.

30. Sun Square Pluto: You will either belong to them, or they will make sure no one else does.

If you read this and thought of someone else, you already lost...

© PhoenixRisingAstro, 2025. All rights reserved

[kdh-tally]

Have you ever thought about what a Swap AU would be like, where the Saja Boys would be the Hunters and the Huntrixs would be demons (and the boys would have that look of love, especially Mistery and Baby drooling when Zoey lets her hair down (I'm sure Zoey with her hair down must be a beauty and a sin, it's so beautiful)?

Yes, I think about this all the timeeeeeee. I also agree with the whole "Zoey looks fine af with her hair down" idea. Cause imagine she only keeps it up to maintain that bubbly energetic image. Hope i met your expectations :D

First Meeting!

Imagine the scene where the girls first meet the boys but its swapped 💀

The saja boys walking out of the scam doctor’s shop with a whole bag of fake throat juice ( i don’t remember what it was called-) just to come face to face with this duo. 

Zoey and Mira both walking down the alley way, their eyes just barely passing over the boys before refocusing on the path ahead of them.

Now imagine the look on Mystery’s face when he sees her. 

Jaw dropped, eyes wide, bro doesn’t even notice he’s staring till Baby elbows him in the side to pick up his jaw from the ground. 

Zoey is most definitely playing it up, doing a little hair toss as she gossips with Mira. 

Speaking of Mira

Let's say she’s ordering food off her phone 

Just cause she’s a demon and technically doesn’t need food doesn’t mean she won't take the opportunity to enjoy all the food provided.

Human food is better than the demon stuff.

She is listening to Zoey yap, a teeny smirk on her face as she thinks about how easy it’ll be for them to steal souls. 

Romance and Abby have never been so focused in their entire lives. 

Who is this girl? 

Why does her hair colour match??? 

Why is she everything I’ve ever dreamed of?

They’re very much drooling

The first two girls have already gone by, not that any of the boys notice as they’re still entranced. 

Jinu is side-eyeing his other members. “They’re just girls you guys-” his voice is then caught in his throat when he lays eyes on Rumi. 

Now Rumi “casually” passes by Jinu, accidentally brushing his shoulder as she does. 

Jinu, unfocused, gets knocked off balance and falls. 

He’s still staring when Rumi turns back in slow motion~

“Oh..” he hears her gasp innocently, hand reaching out to him, and Jinu swears he can hear his heart beating so fast. 

He reaches out to meet her hand, “Thank-“

She quickly moved her hand to brush off non-existent dust, “Watch where you’re going hm?” she says smugly.

My guy is shocked, watching as she walks of to meet with Zoey and Mira (they girls were most definitely watching in amusement)

“Damn,” Baby scoffs “You guys are down bad”

Finding out they’re demons

When the boys eventually find out the girls are demons, their first move of action is to remain in denial. 

“What do mean they’re demons?”

“Just because they have a dark girl crush concept doesn’t make them evil???”

“Okay so what if they have patterns? Maybe it’s a style choice ☹️”

“You can’t prove that they’re actually stealing souls…”

Romance and Abby definitely stream “Golden” in secret and everyone knows.

Watching the girls perform “How it’s done” set something off in their brain

Jinu glares at the guys whenever he catches them dancing to the song.

“We’re supposed to hate them!” 

The day of the fan sign? 

Mira sits between Abby and Romance (instantly stealing all their attention and distracting them from the fans)

I can see one of them accidentally signing the fans album with Mira’s name instead of theirs just cause they’re so unfocused 

Zoey is happily between Baby and Mystery. 

She’s probably having the most fun out of all of them. 

Instead of her and Mystery “arguing” like in the movie, I feel like Mystery would be too busy unconsciously doing everything to please her. 

This means Zoey is now arguing with Baby (the only Saja Boy who doesn’t seem to be hypnotized by the girls)

“What kind of stage name is Baby?”

“It’s better than your basic one 😒”

Jinu is just trying to live bro

Rumi, who found out about the whole “half-demon” thing earlier, makes it impossible for him to focus. 

She’s out here racing circles into his sleeve where his patterns would be. 

“You’re gonna have to tell them~” she reminds him of the truth he is definitely not ready to face. 

Fans obviously see these interactions and ship-wars ensue. 

Final Battle

Originally i was thinking the girls would sing “How its done” instead of “I’m Your Idol” but that song scratches something in my brain 🥰🥰🥰

Yes, they would sing “I’m your idol.” 

Yes, the other boys would be under their spell.

Baby would be fine  at first… “I won’t fall for this—” halfway through the chorus “...damn it.”

Zoey would 100% have her hair down during the performance.

Imagine her rapping Baby’s verse 😭 😩

Mystery just mumbles “She’s not real. There’s no way she’s real.” as he walks into Gwi-ma’s fire.

If Jinu had watched the performance from the start instead of popping up halfway to beat them he definitely would be under the spell too. 

The fight ensues.

Mira and Zoey are parrying the boys' attack with ease. 

They're almost winning when the fans souls begin to power the boys

Jinu is focused on defeating Gwi-ma but is losing.

And then

Rumi sacrifices herself for him.

Jinu is in tears

What do you mean the only person that understands me is dying???

Mira and Zoey see this and both decide to follow in her footsteps. 

Though they’re demons, I feel like seeing their leader willingly sacrifice herself would make them do it as well. 

They love her too much to live without her, you know?

[clockwayswrites]

Die Screaming, Live Laughing

Danny/Tim, Cyan, Wind through tree branches/Windchimes @wisteriavines @darkstarsapocalypse (I saw you before you changed that! Twins!)

cw:bar parent fentons, more temporary character death, bones

The faint, mechanical whir under his fingertips as he spins the camera lens comforts Tim. The fiddling is familiar from the years of following Bats and crime across the city. The rooftops of Gotham are an environment that he’s far more familiar with than here. Here is nothing but endless trees and leaves.

Well, somewhere here is also the campgrounds and Bernard, Ives, Steph, and Cass; but that’s far out of sight and almost out of mind. It’s easy, as he listens to the wind rustle through the trees, to feel like nothing exists but the trees and Tim and his camera.

He spins the lens again.

Ostensibly, the four of them are in these woods to find Mothman. Which would be cool! But even Tim, who proposed this whole thing, knows that it’s just an excuse for the four of them to do something away from Gotham. To do something to make actual use of their summer between high school and college.

If Tim went to college, that is.

He’d been accepted, sure, but he… he just didn’t know if he wanted to. It felt like there were more important things to be doing than college. College was sitting in a classroom and listening to someone drone on about a subject that Tim could crash course himself on with the right library access in a month. It also meant new people and new noises and maybe even a new home. None of that sounds great, really. Moving in with Bruce to Wayne Manor had been enough change, thank you very much.

Tim’s foot catches on something and he does a half step to keep his balance. He expects to see a tree root when he glances down. It’s bone instead. That’s not… unexpected. They had already seen deer in the woods, the creatures got stupidly close to the campsite. It would make sense that with the big rains the few weeks before, there could have been old remains uncovered. But there’s something…

The dirt brushes away easily from the surface of the bone and, with a little digging, Tim is able to pull it free of the earth.

This isn’t a deer bone.

Tim knows this shape.

This is human. A femur.

“You have to be careful where you’re walking out here.”

Tim stands and spins, the femur held like his staff would be.

The speaker is leaning against a tree several feet away. The golden, setting sun backlights them, making them look almost angelic with how they’re wreathed in light. They’re hard to look at.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Tim says, plastering on a nervous smile that was only half for show. How did they sneak up on him? That should have been impossible with the leaves and branches scattered across the forest floor. “Do you run into animal skeletons a lot out here?”

“Not really,” they say with a shrug before they start forward towards Tim. Their steps are silent. “I don’t really get around. And also, that’s not an animal skeleton.”

“No?” Tim’s grip on the femur tightens. “How do you know that?”

“How? Well, that’s because it’s mine!”

Tim swings.

The femur goes right through the stranger.

“Sorry! Little intense, I get it!” They back up a step and raise their arms. The dappled sunlight shines right through their hand. Shines right through them like the stranger is just made out of gossamer. “I get it, but be careful with that, please? It’s my arm! Or leg? No, leg.”

“Leg, it’s a femur,” Tim says, his mouth running without him as his brain works.

“Leg. Ancients, I miss having legs. And arms… and, well, anything solid really,” the stranger sighs. “I am sorry for scaring you. Just… it’s hard not to get a little intense when someone is holding one of my bones, you know?”

“Oh shit! That’s right, sorry,” Tim stammers as he hurries to put the femur back down on the disturbed earth. “Do you— I mean, should I rebury it? Did the rains washing away the earth, um, wake you up?”

“Kinda?” They tilt their head as they crouch down next to Tim.

It’s clear now, as they move a bit out of the light, how transparent they are. It’s like in the shadow they lose tangency. Their hair is still just as blinding, being bright white in a way that’s really beautiful. They reach out to touch the femur but stop short.

“I’m tied to my bones. It’s why they dumped them all the way out here. After they killed me, I mean, all the way killed me, I haunted the fuck out of them. And yeah, sure, they could hurt this form of me too, but I always found a way out and then it all started again. Burying my bones was the only way to get rid of me, and those fuckers didn’t even scratch me a headstone in the tree or anything. Some parents, huh?”

“Holy— yeah,” Tim says. Looking back down at the other partially exposed bones he has to swallow back a wave of sadness. “Is that a yes to covering them up?”

“Actually… I’d like you to dig them up. I’m not stupid enough to think I’ll get justice or whatever, but I’d… I’d like to be somewhere proper and under my name.”

“What is it? Your name?”

“Danny.”

“Okay, Danny,” Tim gives a little nod and starts digging. “My friends and I will get you somewhere you feel safe. I’m Tim, by the way.”

“Thank you, Tim.”

Danny doesn’t help dig. He can’t, he explains as Tim and him talk. While his bones are buried, he’s not able to interact with them or else he would have gotten them out of there a long time ago. They learn together that as soon as the bones are free and set gently aside that Danny can touch them.

Tim never thought he’d see someone so emotional over a tibia, but Tim can’t blame the guy. Tim figures he’d be emotional over his own bones too.

The big bones are the easiest. The ribs Tim is extra careful with. The fingers are weirdly like peanut shells in his hand. (He’s not going to eat pb&j for weeks now.) Danny chats the whole time, asking Tim about the world. Tim feels wholly inadequate to catch someone up like that, but when conversation turns to technology Tim settles into a rhythm.

It also lets them figure out that while Danny died just shy of nineteen, he’s apparently spent almost two decades in the ground. He still looks just shy of nineteen. He looks like he should be in the forest for the same reason that Tim is, celebrating the end of one era and the start of the next. Danny should be looking to the future, not mourning it.

It makes Tim pause when he finally unearths Danny’s skull. What would it have been like to see Danny smile? To hear him laugh without that faint echoing quality that he has as a ghost? To touch him?

“I’m sorry,” Tim says and holds out the skull. Danny’s skull.

“Thank you,” Danny whispers. His hands tremble as he reaches out towards the skull. He crumples forward before he can touch it, a sob tearing through him.

“I’ll make sure you’re somewhere nice.

“Thank you.” Danny lets out a breath he doesn’t have and sags forward the last inch. His forehead bumps against the skull.

Then he keeps going forward.

The world explodes into light.

-

“Tim?!”

“Are you sure he’s still alive?”

“You can see him breathing, Bernard.”

“Pulse.”

“Tim!”

Tim gasps awake and blinks rapidly to clear his vision. His friends and sister stand clustered above him. It has gotten dark and their flashlights are blinding.

“You okay?” Cass asks.

“Ow.”

“Yeah, he’s okay,” Steph sighs. “Hey Tim, who the fuck is that?”

“Wha—” Fuck his head hurts. Who the fuck is who?

Oh, the person laying in his arms. The person who’s solid and warm and alive.

Tim starts laughing.

“Okay, maybe a little not okay,” Steph amends.

“Is he ever?” Tim hears Ives mutter.

“Guys,” Tim interrupts them discussing his status once he can breathe again. “This? This is Danny.”

“Being alive again hurts,” Danny mumbles against Tim’s neck and Tim can’t help it, he just starts laughing again.

Being alive does hurt, but fuck if that isn’t wonderful sometimes.

---

AN: So this one got away from me a little but, uh... tada? I was planing to have it all explained more, but once Danny didn't purposefully do it, that didn't fit. Basically all if his frankly absurd powers and as a ghost got jump started by his skull and Tim's lifeforce and tada? 100% pulled some from Tim's Gotham Knights character where he's an awkward little bean who is so not neurotpyical. Him and Bernard taking a vacation to hunt Mothman is from that too.

Anyways, stay delightful, darlings!

[autistichalsin]

Analysis of each character's final words in the new Dark Urge evil ending

If you are romanced to a character, you have the option, when taking the new version of the Sins of the Father ending, to kill your partner in front of the others in your party, killing them with one last kiss. They then give their last words and pass away. I love each and every one and feel they are incredible characterization moments.

So let's break these down!

Lae'zel:

I... I am glad it was you. No other blade would have sufficed.

This is something that hammers home that, Vlaakith or no, Lae'zel deeply believes in all the ideals of a Githyanki. Life is a privilege for the strong, and death is the price of weakness. Further, if romanced, Lae'zel will affectionately call you "the source of my bruises" many times. If she has to die, if she has finally found the one person stronger than herself, then she is "satisfied" that it is you- who she both loved and admired. The only one she would ever consider worthy of besting her.

Karlach:

Fuck you.

Short, simple, and to the point, just the way Karlach does everything else. She's already gone through all her stages of grief with her engine- well, almost all of them. Anger still remains. She burns hot until the end.

Wyll:

I... I forgive you.

This isn't just Wyll being a good guy. This is heartbreak, and guilt. Guilt for not saving you from Bhaal's influence when he was so sure he had. Heartbreak that after he gave his literal soul to save as many people as he could, he couldn't save you- and couldn't save others from you, either. All he sacrificed, negated in an instant by the person he loved and trusted most. Of all the characters here, Wyll (tied with Halsin) sounds the most obviously broken, and it's easy to see why, given that he is self-sacrificing to a fault.

There was a set of scenes datamined from the game, where at the Morphic Pool, the Netherbrain would have taunted the players, causing them to hallucinate things related to their fears and insecurities. Wyll's would have been a vision of himself talking about how he was never a hero, how the Blade of Frontiers was a farce all along. One can't help but think about that scene here, wondering just how much blame, bordering on self-loathing, he might feel here.

Dark Justiciar Shadowheart:

I... I'm coming to you, Lady Shar.

Another short and simple one. By becoming a Dark Justiciar, Shadowheart has fully embraced the nihilism of Shar's teachings. Why be saddened or angry at her own death when this is just what she's embraced with all her sacrifices?

(Sidenote: this does also answer a question I had, namely, what was going to happen to everyone Durge kills. Thankfully it seems they aren't actually going to be sacrificed to him as such, and will indeed end up in the realm of their deities. This makes Bhaal's plan even DUMBER, because deities in DND lore need worshippers to have enough power to exist. Killing everyone at once just guarantees that soon after Durge dies as the last person alive, so too will Bhaal fade from existence.)

Selunite Shadowheart:

I... I thought we were going to save each other...

This Shadowheart rejected everything she knew. She was scared to defy her goddess, but worked up the courage- thanks to you. She thought you would have a new life together. She believed in you. She thought she would get to return the favor, and help you turn the page on Bhaal, too.

She's not just heartbroken for herself; she's heartbroken for you, too. Heartbroken at the life you denied both her and yourself.

Gale:

You made me want to live...

From the moment the orb entered Gale's chest, he knew he was at risk of dying. Then Mystra all but marked him as a dead man walking. But despite that, he finds love with you- and for the first time thinks maybe there is a purpose for him beyond Mystra. That he isn't more useful to the world dead. More than that, he wants to live to be with you, to enjoy your company and companionship. And then you kill him, and do the one thing WORSE than what would have happened if he'd never been pulled from that rock.

It almost would have been kinder to just hack his hand off the first time you met him, though Gale may or may not agree.

Spawn Astarion:

I should have killed you when I had the chance...

The angriest, most bitter response out of all the romanced companions, a step beyond Karlach's "fuck you." This is beyond "fuck you" and even beyond "I hate you." It's "I regret every moment I spent with you." You made him believe he could have better. That he could recover from what Cazador did. You even convinced him to spare the 7,000 spawn and that he could be something better than Cazador.

And now you reveal it was all a lie. Astarion is probably thinking that you talked him out of completing the ritual solely so he'd be easier to kill right here and now. How many regrets are flashing through his mind, how many moments where he wonders if things could have been different if only he'd done this or that, even aside from killing you?

All he wanted was to live as a free person. And then the first time he thinks he has that at last, he loses it as the world ends.

Ascended Astarion:

No... no, this can't be... I can't- you can't- no...

In contrast to spawn Astarion, ascended isn't angry, because he doesn't have the clarity, the ability to process what's happening. Spawn Astarion could tell he'd been betrayed.

But Ascended? Ascended, who went through so much to become one of the most powerful beings in the world, only to STILL lose without fanfare? And by you, his own spawn who he thought he had under his control? It isn't betrayal, because he is bluescreening; he can't comprehend what happened or how or why. How could he have been killed, and by you of all people? Was all he went through killing Cazador really for nothing? How could it be when he was supposed to be the most powerful? Was power actually meaningless all along?

He doesn't say anything of substance because he can't understand what's happening here.

Halsin:

Thaniel... goodbye...

Halsin is the oldest of all the companions. He's experienced the most loss of anyone; his birth family, his fellow Druids, and, for a time, Thaniel. He has had more than enough time to contemplate his own mortality, because he's already lived multiple lifetimes.

So here, two things are happening. One, he isn't expressing anger or betrayal at his murder- because he is more than wise enough, and humble enough, to understand that there are worse things than what has been done to himself. Instead of himself, he is thinking of the world he's leaving behind that is about to fall- and most of all, of his most important person, the one who gave him a purpose, who was there when no one else was, who he failed once and only just got back. The closest thing to a child he'll ever have. In his last moments, instead of himself, Halsin is thinking of those he loves.

And second, it's an almost deliberate snubbing of Durge. He willingly walked into that kiss, knowing full well it would be the last thing he ever did. He gave you his death, he pleaded with his own god to forgive you and him both. He gave you everything he felt he owed you, and no more- no begging or sobbing. Instead, he comes as close as he ever gets to selfishness, and spends his last moments thinking about the thing that makes him the happiest- which could have been you, in another life, if you hadn't done this.

Minthara:

No... we were meant to do this together...

Heartbreak, disbelief, and betrayal. You spent so many nights planning this out. She had been cast aside by her people, her goddess, and she was going to get the last laugh. She was going to crush them personally under her heel and prove she was the best (or second best, behind you) of all of them. She's devastated she won't get to help you torture all those souls and take what she feels was owed to her. But interestingly enough... no anger. Probably because it was overshadowed by the sheer heartbreak, but also a sign that even in those moments, she still admires you for your ruthlessness.