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aloudice · 11 days ago

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— 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.

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aloudice · 13 days ago

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THEY'RE SO PATHETIC I'M IN LOVE

ᯓ★ Your boyfriend had been busier than usual, with the burden and responsibilities of being a Chrysos Heir and all. You'd often watched how drained he looked whenever he finally made it home. This time was no different. He'd been out of the city for a week, pushing back the Black Tide. Still, you weren't too worried; he sent updates now and then. You believed in him, you always do! He usually comes home without so much as a scratch.

So, you decided to surprise him. He mentioned he'd be back at Curtain-Fall Hour, and what better way to say "Good work!" than by dolling yourself up just for him after a tough mission? Consequently, you bought a new set of lingerie...

The thought of your boyfriend getting flustered and caught off guard had you practically jittering with excitement. The moment you heard the front door open, you turned to the mirror for one last check. You adjusted your lingerie, fixed your hair, and then stepped out slowly, eager to see that stunned look on his face. But this time, you were the one left in shock. ᯓ★ Wc: 1,523 Cw: Fem!reader x Mydei, Fem!reader x Phainon, Suggestive, established relationship, mentions of injury, kind of OOC...? maybe (the boys are freaky). For plot reasons, let's just say Mydei's wounds don't heal instantly. Notes: Back from the dead to write this itchy drabble I've been thinking of... I'm so normal for Phainon and Mydei lol.

Mydei stood before the front door of your shared home, the familiar sight alone already easing the tension from his shoulders. His body ached, bandages wrapped across his torso, joints stiff with soreness, and a limp in his step from the lingering strain. He exhaled slowly, the weight of the day heavy in his breath. What would you think if you saw him like this? All bruised, battered, barely upright? Still, knowing you, he could already imagine it. You'd accept his vulnerability without question. You'd hold him in your arms without hesitation. The thought alone tugged a small, quiet smile from him. He stepped closer, pulling out the spare key, the cute lion key chain you gave him dangling. He unlocked the floor as it let out a soft click in the quiet. He pushed it open. "I'm home," He called out softly. The living room was empty... huh. You were usually sprawled on the couch, waiting with a smile. No matter, he'd remove his armor first and find you after. His hands reached up to unclasp the golden pauldron on his shoulder, fingers fumbling slightly from the fatigue. Then he heard footsteps. Yours. He barely had time to register them before the gasp that followed snapped his attention upward. Both of you froze, eyes wide, equally shocked. Clank! The pauldron dropped to the floor in the dead silence.

Titans. You looked breathtaking.

The red lingerie you wore was delicately revealing. It consists of two finely crafted pieces joined by loose strings along your sides. One pull, and the entire ensemble would fall away. It hugged around your body perfectly, accentuating the curves of your chest and just enough of your thighs to make his breath hitch.

And suddenly, miraculously, every ache in his body vanished. Well... almost. The ache had simply... shifted elsewhere.

"Mydei! What happened to you?!" Your frantic voice pulled him back to reality. He blinked, momentarily lost in your presence. He opened his mouth to answer, but only jumbled stammers escaped.

...what?

Why is he stammering? Alongside fear, stammering is not in the Kremnoan dictionary. He hadn't even known he was capable of stammering. Clearing his throat, he tried again. "The... the enemy- the Black Tide, they... they were..." He trailed off, the words slipping from him. Why was this so hard? His eyes flicked back to you, who was now approaching him with concern on your face. Titans above help this poor man. He focused, desperately, on your eyes. As if looking anywhere else might turn him into stone.

"Were they that aggressive?" You asked gently, placing your hands on his face.

Aggressive... Right... that was the word he was looking for.

"...Yes." He managed to say, still trying to collect himself.

"Why haven't you healed yet? Are you okay? Can you walk?" Your questions came all at once; panicked, loving, relentless.

He wasn't listening anymore. Not really. Not with your body barely hidden behind that tempting veil of red silk. If he could just... pull that damn string off.

His thoughts were tangled, his focus slipping again, especially when you got even closer. He cleared his throat, trying to stay composed.

"Uh... yeah." He said firmly, then paused, eyes scanning your form again. "You... dressed up for me?"

You froze in place, suddenly flustered and self-conscious. "Oh, Titans! I'm so sorry! I- I thought you'd be fine like always, and I wanted to surprise you, but you're hurt! I should change and help you-" You turned, ready to flee from embarrassment, but he caught your wrist before you could escape.

"No. Don't," he said, voice stern but laced with something tender, almost desperate.

"What?" You breathed, heart pounding.

"You went through all that trouble to make yourself look this beautiful," he said, stepping closer, limp and all. "I'm not about to let that go to waste." He was already pulling you closer to him, bodies pressed against each other. "Mydei, this can wait-" He was already leaning in. "You have to-" Your words were swallowed by your own gasp. Mydei's lips were at your neck, warm and hungry. His hands were now already on your waist, squeezing them, holding you in place. He moved them up and down your sides, making you squirm. The chill of his gauntlets made your skin spark, the metal adding a strange thrill to every touch.

"Please..." He whispered, his voice husky, pleading. His lips trailed lower, from your neck to your collarbone, before teasingly stopping just above your chest. You looked down into his eyes, half-lidded and full of heat, desperation, need. His fingers were already tugging at the strings of your lingerie. Perhaps they were also tugging at your heartstrings. Well, who were you to say no to the crown prince?

Phainon limped up the stairs to the front door, cursing under his breath. Why, in all of Amphoreus, had he thought the stairs to be a good idea in the first place? Every step felt like a personal attack. He should have them removed! Better yet, throw them into the River of Souls for the pain they brought him now.

...No.

He sighed. He was starting to sound irrational. He was probably just exhausted, his entire body screaming in protest. Still, the thought of you seeing him in this state worried him more than he'd like to admit. His head was bandaged, coat hung limply from one shoulder since his arms were too sore to slide into the sleeves.

With a twist of the key, he unlocked the front door.

"Sweetheart, I'm home!" He called out, wincing as his shoulder twisted while he pulled the door shut behind him. He shuffled toward the counter and leaned on it with one hand, trying to take off his boots without his body screaming at him.

He heard your footsteps approaching, light and quick. Still crouched over, fumbling with the straps of his boots, he heard you gasp. He sighed, preparing a reassuring smile. Until he looked up and saw you.

His breath caught.

"You're all bruised and bandaged! What happened to you?"

You stood there, eyes wide with concern, but that wasn't the main focus.

You were wearing baby blue lingerie, so delicate and ethereal you almost didn't look real. The fabric was thin and light, translucent enough for a clear view of the matching bra and panties. The sheer dress floated just above your thighs, the hem trimmed with soft frills that made it look like you were wrapped in clouds. The neckline sat off your shoulders, ruffled sleeves hugged your arms in a way that gave an innocent look. Though it was anything but innocent. And those garters. Titans, those garters. Those soft, tantalizing bands around your thighs made his thoughts spiral into dangerous places.

"Phainon?" You called out to him again, pulling him out of his daze. He stumbled, barely catching himself.

"Y-yes, Sweetheart?" He replied, voice slightly strained as he straightened up despite the protest of his wounds.

"Are you okay?" you asked, voice filled with genuine worry as you placed a gentle hand on his arm.

Titans, your touch felt like fire on his skin.

He suddenly felt guilty. You were so concerned, and all he could do was stare at you like a man starved. "I'm... okay. Minor injuries," he muttered, eyes flickering from yours to your chest and back again. "Even your head's wrapped in bandages..." You said softly, placing a hand on his cheek. "Did you get hit that hard?" Phainon could think of something else that was hard-

He cleared his throat quickly. "A little, yeah." He leaned into your touch, unable to contain himself.

"You look beautiful," he added with a teasing grin, hovering his hands just beside your waist.

You pulled back with a gasp, glancing down. "Oh, Titans- I forgot I was still wearing this," you laughed nervously. "I'll go change-" But before you could move, Phainon (even in his weakened state) caught your wrist and pulled you gently but firmly back to him. You stumbled slightly, only to find yourself trapped between him and the counter, your back pressed to his chest, your hands bracing on the surface in front of you.

His arms wrapped around your waist, and his lips brushed past your exposed shoulder. He trailed kisses to your neck, and a soft gasp escaped your lips when he found that one spot that always made you weak. "P-Phainon, you're hurt-" you tried to speak, but another gasp cut you off as his gloved hand slipped beneath your dress, gliding over bare skin. "Yes," he whispered against your jaw, "but my sweetheart dressed up so beautifully for me." His right hand then rose to gently tilt your chin, guiding your gaze to meet his. "Who am I to refuse a blessing from a goddess, hm?" You whine softly, "Your injuries, Phainon..." You tried to push him away, but he didn't budge. "Please?" He murmured, desperate in his voice, lips hovering just above yours. "I'll be good. I promise." His eyes burned with heat, pupils blown and hungry. This man was absolutely not good for your heart.

©salmonmakiii, do not steal my work or feed it to AI.

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aloudice · 19 days ago

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When the Cult of Nikador conquers your city and sacks your temple, you are captured by the Crown Prince of Kremnos and taken as his war prize. (Or: The fall of Castrum Kremnos, as seen through the eyes of an oracle held captive by Prince Mydeimos.) ← part one | masterlist

11.6k words of romance, enemies to lovers, and slow burn. Canon-adjacent (multiple timelines theory) with ancient Greek historical and mythological influences. Warnings for themes of war, slavery, and sexual violence (none from Mydei, none inflicted on the reader). MDNI. dividers by @/strangergraphics.

Castrum Kremnos will fall.

Gazing upon the polis from the balcony of your room, you are sure of it: this is the town that you had seen in your vision, the one that had been succumbing to a sea of darkness and flood of monsters. The sky had been pitch-black—both moons gone, every constellation shattered—and the only light had been from the blaze of the fire tearing through the streets. The roars of mad Titankin and dying men had echoed into that strange night, the savage city howling in its death throes.

Castrum Kremnos will fall. The Black Tide will swallow it, and you will have your revenge. Oronyx would never lie to you, so you understand this for a fact. And because she would never lie to you, you also know this:

Prince Mydeimos will save you as his city falls.

You do not know what to make of it. The warrior who led an army into raping and plundering Aurelia will protect its High Priestess. The general of a warmongering tribe will take your hand and flee from battle. The lost prince who longed nine years for his home will abandon it to save you.

And the heir to a millennia of Strife cannot stand the sight of your blood—not even from a shallow cut across your palm.

You wonder if you have somehow misinterpreted Oronyx. But when you glance at Prince Mydeimos and catch him studying you with concern, you cannot help but believe that your understanding of your visions is truthful, at least in part. Even that of the one that bothers you the most—the one with all the children.

“Do you like dromases?” you ask him, and he blinks. You'd just been speaking of the Black Tide—its encroachment from all directions, Kremnos’ millennia of struggle against it, the good fortune that Aurelia had in avoiding it—so you suppose it is fair that he's surprised by the question.

“Dromases?” he inquires.

“Yes. You know—the long-necked purple creatures? They’re rather big. Hard to miss.”

He tries—and fails—to suppress an irritated sigh. “I know what a dromas is. I simply wondered if I'd misheard. Why on earth would you ask?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes,” he replies, cataloguing you. “You have never asked about my personal interests before.”

Ever since Oronyx blessed you with prophecies several nights ago, your captor has been frustratingly suspicious of all questions you've asked—and with good reason. Nearly every single one has been related to your supposed future with Prince Mydeimos. However, you would rather die than tell him that you will, at some point in the future, blissfully feed a dromas together before a crowd of giggling children. Worse than the scene itself had been the unadulterated joy you’d felt in it: the genuine delight in seeing Mydei—not your captor, not Prince Mydeimos, but Mydei—so free of sorrow and so… safe.

Safe. You will be safe with Mydei in a beautiful city of eternal sun and cerulean baths. You will be safe with the Crown Prince who sacked your temple and burned your lands. You are safe with your captor who keeps you locked in his room, dressed in chains.

It sends you into such misery that you can hardly think of it, let alone admit to it.

“Nevermind,” you dismiss. “It isn't important.”

The Crown Prince gives you a long look, but you turn your gaze back to the city before he can search you too carefully. The silence that passes is so uncomfortable that you pray he will let the matter drop—but then he replies, “I have always found them curious animals, but I have not had much opportunity to interact with them.”

“Oh.”

You catch him watching you, expectant. “And yourself?” he prompts. At your blank look, he adds, “Do you like them?”

Does it matter? you nearly parrot, before you realise he must think you care about his opinions about dromases, and now he cares about yours. The Crown Prince of Kremnos wishes to know your thoughts about the silliest of all of Georios’ creations, and you can't decide whether to laugh or cry at this absurdity.

You choose to deflect, in the end: “They’re quite useful for trade, yet I hardly ever see them here.” You gesture at the streets, which are filled with soldiers and horses, but bereft of the great beasts that populate the rest of Amphoreus. “I was wondering if Kremnoans had something against them.”

“Not against them, precisely. It is just that they are not often used in war—their disposition is too docile. And the terrain surrounding Kremnos is often too hostile for trade caravans to cross.”

You frown. “Too hostile? How do you get food?” You glance at the plate in front of you, filled with honeyed sweets. “The ingredients that you use when you cook—they’re always fresh.”

“Helots till the land outside Castrum Kremnos in our settlements. Everything else comes from surrounding city-states.”

Prince Mydeimos looks away. So do you. The implication is clear: Everything else we steal. Everything else is plunder. Because the city runs on war, and you know this. You know this because you are no different from fresh food or fine wine. You are plunder just like the brown-sugared apples in your cakes and the warm spice of cinnamon in your dishes, and you will be devoured in the same way—sacrificed to Nikador by the future King of Kremnos.

Aquila’s eyes bear down on Prince Mydeimos in judgment, and your chains gleam in the harsh Kremnoan sun. Some time in the future, a strange, eternal dawn lights up Mydei’s gentle expression, your barren wrists. You can still hear your own laughter at the sight of him feeding a dromas. You can still hear yourself giggling as you are lifted onto one for the first time, a toddler squealing in the arms of her mother.

The truth is that you are painfully fond dromases. They were everywhere in Aurelia, and you loved riding them in the days before you were initiated into the Cult of Oronyx, before you became untouchable in her temple. The truth is that some day in the future, you’ll be elated seeing Mydei with one of those beasts, and you'll have the idea of getting him to take the Kremnoan children on rides—just like how you once were.

You take a bite of your pastry, its syrup cloying on your tongue, and you feel like a traitor.

One night, during the Hour of Curtain-Fall, you wake up with a knife to your throat and a hand over your mouth.

You do not recognize the intruder. He is clad in black, a shadow in the moonlight spilling in through the window. “Come easy and I won't have to hurt you,” he says lowly, and that's when you know that he doesn't mean to kill you, but it doesn't stop you from fighting anyway.

The intruder does not expect you to wield a knife.

The motion comes easily to you after all your practice with the golden dagger—obsessive, fervored, a nightly ritual after your dreams of being raped, of being torn apart by golden gauntlets—and blade runs into the flesh of the man before you, cutting without resistance. But your aim is clumsy, untrained; while the intruder curses and recoils, he is neither killed nor deterred. His hands crush your wrists, pinning you to the bed.

“Fucking whore,” he spits as you kick and squirm beneath him, his blood dripping onto your sleeping garb. “You think I won't kill you if you're more trouble than you're worth?”

It's happening again. Aurelia is burning again. Your ivory chiton is being stained red; your body is being grabbed by violating, pilfering hands. You are going to be dragged away and stolen. You are going to be raped, for that's what happens to women who fall into the hands of the enemy—the hands of Castrum Kremnos. And unlike the first time, you are all alone—no worshippers at your back, no altar giving you strength, no Crown Prince to protect you.

Here, all alone in the hands of a beast, you scream the first thing that comes to mind:

“Mydei! Mydei—help!”

You don't actually expect help to come. You aren't even fully aware of what you're saying, if it even makes sense. But after several moments of shrieking and struggling, the door is forced open and the intruder is being pulled off your body and skewered on a blade. You hardly notice it, though, heart seizing with fear and mind flooding with panic. All you do is weep, feeling the hands that dragged you from your altar, recalling the dreams—visions?—of someone forcing their way inside you, and it takes you several moments to realise you are sobbing into someone's chest.

Someone is holding you. Someone’s arms are cradling you, and they're so warm and firm and safe. You have not felt safe in months, not since the soldiers broke through your temple doors, and now you're pressing yourself into this warmth, clinging to it. You think you'll die if you let go.

“It's alright,” someone says. Their voice is a low rumble, but gentle. “It’s alright. I have you. I have you.”

You are too busy sobbing to reply. A hand rubs your back until you have calmed, your senses returning to you. You look up when you do—

And you panic.

The golden eyes that glared down so hatefully at you when you were stolen, the figure of Strife that will kill you someday—they’re inches away from you. So close. Too close. You flinch, tearing yourself out of the hands that sometime, somewhere in the Evernight Veil, are forcing open your legs.

Even in your fear, you can see the pain in Prince Mydeimos’ eyes when you look at him with such terror.

“It's alright,” he tries to calm you. “I won't hurt you. No one will hurt you. I—”

“I know.” You close your eyes, count to ten as you shudder. I'm not in the temple. I'm not in the tent. I am a hiereia, an oracle, a leader. I was raised not to weep. I cannot cry. I cannot cry. I cannot cry. “I know you won’t. I’m well now. I'm fine. I'm sorry.”

“There's no need to be sorry.”

Except there is. You are sorry for how weak you are. For how desperately you clung to your captor in your moment of disgrace. For how warm you felt, how safe you felt. If you could apologise to all the corpses on your temple steps, you would. You would place their bones upon your altar and prostrate yourself, and then you would beg Talanton to punish you for your injustice toward them.

How did you feel safe in the arms of a man who killed your worshippers?

“Why did you come?” you ask. Your voice is tight, your anguish barely contained. Why aren't you hurting me? Why are you protecting me? Why are you going to save me as your city falls? But you know the answer, know it before he even says it—

“I told you I do not wish to see you harmed. Not even by a hair.” His voice, calm and deep, is so comforting, like the warm spice of cinnamon. You look down, feeling like a traitor.

“But I thought you stayed at the barracks at night,” you say, desperate to change the subject.

“Normally I do. But King Eurypon called me on business here, and he bid that I stay the night.” His voice grows irritated. “How convenient it is that the guards disappeared and an assassin entered my room on the same evening.”

Even through the fear, your mind works through the implications. “You think he came for you?”

“I know it.”

Your brow pinches. “But he told me to come with him. He—he wanted to abduct me.” You stare at Prince Mydeimos, at the way his mouth tightens, at the immediate outrage burning in his eyes, and then you understand. “…they wanted to take me as a hostage.”

He nods. “I may not have been here, but you would have made for a fine consolation prize.”

It is a ludicrous statement—so naïve that it shakes you out of your fear. An Aurelian general once came to you for counsel on what to do about his most beautiful courtesan, who had been stolen from him by an Aidonian warrior. When you foretold her eventual location, he marched upon the enemy and sealed her fate as a casualty.

“I don't know about that,” you say, thinking of the poor girl, of her mother weeping in your temple. “Whores and slaves generally make for poor hostages. They are too disposable to provide any political leverage.”

“Men have been known to act unwisely for their favoured concubines.”

“I am not your favoured concubine.”

He gives you a wry look. “You are not, yet I act unwisely over you anyway.”

You can hardly argue with this. Prince Mydeimos should have killed you the moment you alluded to his plans of regicide—instead, he has kept you in his room, pampers you with sweets, and has you accompany him on long walks. It’s maddening.

“You should start being crueler to me,” you grouse. “Maybe then I will be left alone by your enemies.” And it would be better for my own sanity.

Prince Mydeimos is unamused. “Even if I had any inclination to hurt you, I doubt it will make things any safer for you at this point.” He stares at the corpse with irritation. “I will need to come back after dealing with this body.”

You blink. “Come back? You won't return to the barracks?”

“No. I would not leave you alone after an attempt to abduct you. I will return and stay here for the night.”

The look that you give him is so affronted that he immediately realises his error.

“Only to safeguard you,” he explains hurriedly. “I would sleep at the door. Leave you alone.”

“I do not think you should stay.”

“I would not hurt you—I swear it.”

“I cannot swear that I would not hurt you.”

“That’s fine. Do whatever you want. You may even kill me as you so often wish—as long as you are kept safe, I don’t mind it.”

You look away, utterly lost. Killing him used to be your fantasy, your only purpose for staying alive. Now, the words make you feel hollow. “You only don't mind it because you won't really die,” you accuse. Deflect.

“Strictly speaking, I would. It’ll just be impermanent. I'm sure it will be no less satisfying for you, though—you will still get to see me suffer in my death throes.”

You do like the idea of him suffering. He would deserve it. Still, you are not a sadist. “If you truly decide to stay,” you reply noncommittally, “we may see for ourselves.”

“I'm certain we will,” he says dryly. He rises from the bed, steps toward the coprse. Says he’ll give you time to change—you only remember then that your nightwear is stained with blood—and that he will return soon enough.

But then he pauses. Hesitates.

“Is something wrong?” you ask.

“When you were calling for help,” he says slowly, “you screamed for someone named ‘Mydei’. Did you misspeak in an attempt to call for me? Or were you calling for someone else?”

You freeze. Scramble for an answer. You cannot tell him that you were calling for him—for you weren't, not really. You were calling out for the version of him that Oronyx showed you, the one in that beautiful city where you were both free and safe. Some part of you knows that Mydei would have saved you, knows it so surely that his name was the first and only thing you could think to scream. But assuming the same of Prince Mydeimos would make you an idiot: for all of his good behaviour, the man still has you in shackles, and he has never shown remorse for raining destruction upon your home.

Also, your ego would not be able to take admitting it was him.

“Someone else,” you reply firmly. At his skeptical look, you add, “Truly. Do you think I would call for the man who abducted me?” You give him an disdainful look, and although you can't seem to muster any fire behind it, he believes it all the same.

The suspicion leaves his eyes, and he nods. “This Mydei,” he asks, “is he someone close to you?”

“Close enough.”

“Who is he? A guard? A friend? A lover?”

Wouldn't I like to know. The possibilities make you feel like throwing up, and the pain in your voice is genuine when you reply, “I don’t wish to say. It doesn't matter.”

“I see.” His expression looks strange—an artefact of the moonlight, you want to think. “Well, whoever he is, he isn't here with you. Next time, you should just call for me.”

For the next three nights, Prince Mydeimos sleeps in your room.

He does as promised: he slumbers on the klinai near the door, never approaching your bed. You know this for a fact, for you stay awake the whole night. You stare at the ceiling, clutching your dagger until Aquila opens his eyes and Prince Mydeimos leaves for the day. It is only then you allow yourself to sleep, because even though you can now admit—with a great deal of misery—that the Crown Prince has no desire to hurt you, Aurelia is still burning behind you, and your heart is still rupturing in Nikador’s claws. But somehow, even with all of these memories and visions, you do not think of actually using your blade against the Crown Prince.

Then the fourth day comes.

Prince Mydeimos takes you out for a walk along a new path. It is busier than your usual ones on the rooftops and parapets, which are bereft of anyone other than the occasional warriors. On this long walk through one of the palace courtyards, there are not only guards and soldiers, but also statesmen and nobles—and slaves.

Some of them are in chains like you; some of them are in white caps. Many are soldiers, some are servants, and you see a few other concubines in garb not unlike your own: dressed beautifully in sheer silks, almost translucent and wholly indecent in how they cling to their bodies. But despite their expensive dresses and fragrance and rouge, all of them wear chains, gold or silver dangling from the manacles on their wrists or the collars on their necks. Some are even tied around their waists like belts, cruel and beautiful decoration. There are, you think, helots too—wearing ivory veils or flowers in place of the usual white cap. They are afforded slightly more dignity that way.

But regardless of their exact station—helot or slave—they are in the thrall of their owners, and they are subject to disproportionate punishment under Kremnoan law. You are startled when you hear a shriek pierce the quiet of the courtyard—anguished and pained and followed by begging.

Your eyes land on the source: a master and a slave. The slave is on the ground, her arms held up to shield herself from his strikes, her fiery hair curtaining over her face. She's trembling, cowering, reeling from the force of the abuse.

It feels familiar: both the terror and the pain. You think of the long march back to Castrum Kremnos, of being struck by that hoplite and stumbling to the ground. Prince Mydeimos had saved you then. He'd acted cruelly but he'd saved you, helped you up and took you onto his chariot, away from the Kremnoan soldiers.

But he's not saving her.

The slavemaster yells all sorts of profanities and accusations at the concubine. Prince Mydeimos’ eyes are intent on the two of them, his every muscle tense—but all he does is watch and listen. You stare at him, mouth agape. “Aren't you going to help?” you hiss.

“Were she a helot, I could,” he replies under his breath. “Helots are all owned by the state, and it would be my legal right to intervene. But slaves are private property, and I…”

I cannot draw undue attention to myself.

Your throat goes dry. Your heart pounds in your ears. Each time the Kremnoan kicks his slave, you nearly flinch; every time she begs for mercy, you want to clasp your hands over your ears. Your throat swells up and you think you might whimper—but I am a hiereia, an oracle, a leader. I cannot cry, I cannot cry, I cannot—

She screams in Aurelian.

You tense. Look at your captor, look at the slave. Prince Mydeimos is staring at you, and he knows what you are going to do, but you bolt before he can stop you.

“Stop,” you cry in Kremnoan, “stop, stop!”

The slavemaster is so surprised when you come between them that he does stop. You don't look at him; you only focus on the concubine. She never worshipped at your temple much, but she came when she was younger, just after you rose to the position of hiereia and before the long conflict with Kremnos began. Kassandra, you think her name was. She must recognise you, for she clings to you immediately, starting to babble in your mother tongue. High Priestess, she cries, High Priestess, my lady, please help me, please help, please—

Her master pulls you off her and throws you to the ground. He kicks you so hard in the stomach that you nearly throw up. You writhe like a worm on the stone path, pathetic and disgraced.

It's exactly what you want.

He kicks you thrice more. Once in the stomach, and twice in the ribs, his foot cracking brutally against you. Kassandra weeps and throws her body over yours, begging him to stop, but then she goes as silent as death. The kicks stop too. When you look up, you see a golden gauntlet restraining the slavemaster’s wrist. The man has gone as white as a sheet.

“Aineidas,” Prince Mydeimos says in greeting. His voice is heavy with obvious displeasure. You note the lack of honorific. Not a strategos. Not an Elder. Not a noble—or not an important one, anyway. A warrior? But he's so old…

“Y-your Highness,” Aineidas greets. “It has been long since we’ve last seen each other.”

“It has. The Aurelian campaign was long.”

Aineidas glances at you. Realization flashes in his eyes, and you have to actively stop yourself from smiling.

“I heard your victory was stunning,” Aineidas says immediately, trying to ingratiate himself. “How disappointed I was that I could not fight alongside the Crown Prince and see you in your glory!”

“As am I,” Prince Mydeimos replies. “Had you been there, you would have recognized my war prize.”

His hand squeezes around Aineidas’ wrists. Both of them look at you; you try your best to appear pitiful. It does not come naturally to you—you were raised to act dignified no matter the situation; during your training, you were actually punished for looking unseemly after beatings—but you have teared up so much from being struck that you think it works.

“Yes,” Aineidas scrambles, “yes, I did not recognise her. You know I would not have otherwise punished the slave of the Crown Prince.”

“It is illegal to punish the slave of any citizen other than yourself.” Prince Mydeimos pauses, studying you. “Though it is particularly great folly that you have chosen to strike my concubine, of all people. Either way, you have broken the law.”

Aineidas swallows. He sweats and stares at his wrist, which looks distinctly breakable. “I—you must understand, Your Highness,” he beseeches, “I was not thinking clearly. I was only furious that someone had interfered with my punishment of my own slave.”

“An understandable error. Still, you have violated three Kremnoan laws: you have touched another man’s slave, you have damaged the property of the state, and you have disrespected the royal family.”

You try not to shudder. Property of the state. That's what you are, legally. If I belong to Prince Mydeimos, then it is Kremnos itself that owns me.

“Th-there must be something that can be done,” Aineidas stutters. “You know I have great wealth, Your Highness, business has been quite good lately”—ah, you think, he's a merchant—“so I am happy to recompense you for any damages.”

Damages? What am I, a fucking statue? you think, nearly scowling. But you manage to keep trembling, demure even when Prince Mydeimos leans down and touches your cheek with a gauntleted hand. Your first instinct is to spit in his face again—too close, too close, how dare you call me property—but you only stare at him, teary-eyed.

“I may have been the one slighted, but my concubine is the one who has suffered,” he says. “I would ask her what she requires to heal. That is the only true way to undo the damage to my property.”

You’re going to kill him. You have reached your limit, and you have decided you are going to kill him. For it is one thing to be called a slave, but it is another to be called property.

It is only Kassandra’s quiet sobbing beside you that makes you neglect your dignity. Your pride comes second to your worshippers. You grovel and weep before Prince Mydeimos, trying to strike a balance between sorrow and fear: I'm sorry for misbehaving, Your Highness, and I couldn't help myself, I know Kassandra from the temple, I loved her dearly, and I wish to see her safe, I wish to be with her.

Most importantly: You may punish me however you want. Kill me if you must. Just spare her, I beg you.

Prince Mydeimos discerns what you want him to ask: “Would it help calm you if you were to keep this slave by your side?”

“Yes,” you sob, “yes, it would. Oh, Your Highness, I'll do anything to please you”—you try not to gag—“so long as she is by my side.”

Prince Mydeimos turns to Aineidas. “Allow me to buy out your slave, and I will not take you to court over your follies today. As for the transgressions of my concubine against you, I shall see to it that she is punished appropriately.”

For good measure, you let out a terrified sob.

Aineidas is satisfied. The relief is palpable in his voice: “Yes, yes—take the blasted thing. Take her for free, even; the fault here is mine, and it is the least I can do to make up for my error. I must warn you that she is unsatisfying as a whore but decent as a maidservant. Try her out if you wish, but I would personally keep the priestess for warming your bed.” He pauses his rambling to glance at you. “...and I have no doubt you will discipline her, of course.”

“I will. I have gotten into the habit of spoiling her, but it seems that I still need to break her in.”

Oh, so now I'm a horse.

Aineidas makes a joke about how it is natural for men to spoil their most affectionate lovers—even the whores. Prince Mydeimos’ jaw tightens, but he does not say anything. The two men finish their exchange. Kassandra is sent back to Aineidas’ room to collect her things, while Prince Mydeimos walks you back to your quarters—

—and he rounds on you immediately once the door is closed.

The prince’s eyes flick up and down your form. They darken as they travel over your ribs and stomach, where dirt stains your silk robes, where the fabric hides a terrible ache.

“Why would you do that?” he snaps—almost snarls.

“Do what?” you ask mildly.

“Put yourself in harm’s way. Potentially get yourself killed.” He narrows his eyes at you. “Why is it such an uphill battle to get you to stay alive? Are you so desperate for Thanatos to take you?”

“I did not try to die,” you say delicately. “I was only trying to help. You had no legal right to intervene when Kassandra was being beaten—so I gave you one.”

“At the expense of your own well-being!”

“Well, it was either my well-being or Kassandra’s.” Your frown is deep, irate. “You said once you have a duty to your people. Well, I have a duty to mine. You may have made me a slave, but you have not made me a coward.”

He looks at the ceiling, as if praying to Nikador for the strength not to strangle you. “I do not need you to be a coward,” he grits out, “only to have some sense of self-preservation. What if Aineidas had been a soldier? What if he had run you through with a sword? Or what if he had been an Elder, or a noble—someone not so easy for me to deal with?”

“Then I would have been stabbed or whipped, like most other Aurelians.” You give him an accusatory look. “I don't even understand why you are so outraged when harm comes to me, when clearly you don't feel anything for other slaves. Is it that you don't want to see me hurt, or simply that you don't like to see your property damaged?”

You realise that you want to provoke him. You want him to yell at you. You want to hear him say that you are nothing but a whore. You want to realise that your supposed visions from Oronyx had merely been delusions, and you want to know that you will never again feel so safe and traitorous in the arms of the man who sacked your city.

You are disappointed when Prince Mydeimos merely sighs. He finds his composure, his rage subdued.

“You have to understand,” he explains wearily, “that I cannot save you all. Not in my current position.”

You go quiet. You can't say anything—because you know it's true.

“And I thought”—he gives you a pained look—“I thought it would be obvious by now that I do not see you as my property. I see you as a human being whom I wish to protect.”

Your heart wrenches at his expression. “Why,” you ask bitterly, “why me and not anyone else? Why not Kassandra? Why not the other Aurelians? Why only me?”

“I told you,” he says grimly, “I cannot help you all. Under Kremnoan law, I can only protect what belongs to me—and only you are mine.”

That night, you think of killing Prince Mydeimos in his sleep.

It is not exactly that you want him to die. You don't even think you want him to suffer. But you should. You should want to kill the man who took away your home. You should want to kill the prince responsible for putting thousands of people in chains. It does not matter how kind he is to you, how many sweets he feeds you, how warm you felt when he held you. A kind master is still a master. A pampered slave is still a slave. He says he sees you as a human being, but he's been keeping you like a pet. Something to be spoiled or broken in.

Have you been broken in? You can't think of any other reason why you'd be hesitating right now, holding your dagger to your captor’s throat. His soldiers didn't hesitate when they broke into your temple. They didn't hesitate when they dragged you out. They didn't hesitate when they put you in chains. The only time they paused was when they were trying to decide who should get to fuck your cunt first—who should get to steal the virginity of a holy maiden, who should get to defile the chosen oracle of a god they hate.

Aurelia is burning behind you. You taste ash and copper as the edge of your blade presses against your captor’s neck, its hilt gleaming under Oronyx’s moons. Prince Mydeimos is sleeping peacefully, the rise and fall of his chest slow and gentle. He doesn't look like a figure of Strife like this, like the general who sacked your city. He looks a little bit like the boy you saw drowning in the sea. He looks a lot like the man you saw in your visions: Mydei. Gentle enough to hand-feed dromases and play with children and tolerate your teasing. Your hand trembles as you think of him, the knife’s edge shivering against his pulse.

“You shouldn't hesitate.”

You startle. Prince Mydeimos is staring at you, fully alert—when did he wake up?—and before you can retreat, his hand clamps around your wrist and forces your blade to stay against his neck. His other one grabs you by the arm to pull you in.

You're nearly on top of him when he steadies your hand. It’s impossible to miss how his eyes burn into yours.

“If you are going to kill someone,” he says, his voice low in your ear, “you should act decisively. Slash the knife through the jugular and carotid as deeply and swiftly as possible. Do you want me to show you how?”

Do you?

You should. You should want to kill him. As long as he is alive, you belong to him; and as long as you belong to him, you are the property of the state that massacred your city. Killing him would be your only reprieve from that, even if only temporarily. Your hand tightens around the handle of your blade, chasing freedom; Prince Mydeimos bares his nape to you, his eyes cool. His hand tightens around yours, guiding you toward a lethal blow, to freedom—

—and a fragrance hits you. Cassia and pomegranates. Clinging to his skin and clothes. Obvious only now, when you are close enough with him to end his life.

It’s probably from when he made you dinner tonight.

Your meal had been an awkward affair. He'd delivered it himself for once, and he had been completely silent when he served it to you. He didn't even ask his usual three questions before leaving—though you noticed him trying. Someone else would have missed it, but not you. You could see it in his face when he wanted to talk to you, and you could also see it in his face when he realised that he didn't know how.

You should want to kill him. It would make you a traitor if you didn't. If you don't slash his throat open now, you should pray to the bones of your worshippers and beg Talanton to strike you down. And then you should slit your own throat for letting a Kremnoan touch you—for letting him put his arms around you, tender and warm.

But at the end of it all, the bones would remain bones. The corpses would stay strewn across the streets. Aurelia will always burn behind you. Neither justice nor death would reverse any of that. All you will have done is kill a man who worries so much for you that he goes out of his way to cook for you, just to make sure you don't starve. A man so gentle that he cannot stand the sight of your blood—not even from a tiny cut across your palm.

Your hold on your dagger—his dagger—grows slack.

“No.”

Prince Mydeimos watches you. “No? You aren't going to kill me? I thought you wanted to slit my throat.”

“I do,” you bite out. “I’d slit your throat and drink your blood if it meant I could go home and see my loved ones…" Your voice gets quiet, then. Brittle. "But it wouldn't.”

You lower your knife. Prince Mydeimos lets you. He takes it from your hand and, for one moment, you wonder if you've pushed him too far and he'll use it to finally kill you. But he doesn't—of course he doesn't—and instead moves it away from you.

“You should be more careful handling a weapon like that,” he says patiently. “I don't want you to hurt yourself.”

Something inside you crumples. Your anger collapses, folds into shame, into loathing—whether not for being able to take his life or for threatening it in the first place, you aren't sure.

“You should just take that thing away from me,” you reply dully as you pull away from him. “Clearly, I can't be trusted with it. Nor is there any need for it.”

Prince Mydeimos sits up with you. “You've used it against one man who would be your abductor, and another man who already is. Clearly it is fulfilling a need for you.” He takes the knife into his hand, his expression turning curiously wry as he studies it. “In fact, it’s helped you more than it helped its previous owner, and certainly more than it has helped me. I would like for you to keep it.”

He holds it out to you again, returning it to your hands. It's still warm for your violent touch, from his gentle one. You stare at it: beautifully carved, bejewelled but not gaudy. The carved lion on its hilt stares at you in the moonlight, and it suddenly occurs to you that the beast is a symbol of the Kremnoan royal family: the mark of Gorgo's trophy.

“Who exactly was its previous owner?”

“My mother.”

You look at him, astonished. His gaze is neutral, and it remains as such even when you exclaim, “This belonged to Queen Gorgo?” Why would you give it to me? you want to ask, but your mind takes you elsewhere.

You do not know what Queen Gorgo looks like—you have never seen a portrait or come across a description in any of the histories—yet the image of her comes to you, unbidden. Golden hair and ocean-blue eyes. A lion’s corpse is stretched out at her feet. She's holding your dagger, along with a cup of ambrosia filled with venom.

A poisoned woman with a golden dagger—the one you dreamt about after Prince Mydeimos captured you.

“Your mother didn't die of illness, did she?” you ask. When Prince Mydeimos blinks, you say, “She was poisoned.” Your mind races, trawling through all the hints that the Crown Prince has let slip over the past two moons, all the signs in your dreams: The vision of a son killing his father. The sight of a young king on a bloody throne. I will not be the kind of king my father is, Prince Mydeimos had said. Haven't you seen what he's done?

“She was poisoned by your father,” you realise. “You want revenge.”

Prince Mydeimos gives you a startled look. “I will never get used to that.”

“Used to what?”

“How you just know things.”

“So I’m right?”

He gives you a curious look. “You weren't sure?”

You shrug. “Unless I'm directly appealing to Oronyx with prayer and sacrifice, she only gives me vague hints of things. A lot of prophesying is guesswork around those hints.”

“Then you must have very good intuition.”

“It is a practised skill, actually. I had to cultivate it to become a hiereia.”

You pause for a long moment, studying him in the ways you were trained to dissect princes and lords. Noticing the way he's staring at Gorgo’s dagger, soft and almost longing. The way his shoulders are sagging, weighed by something invisible. The way he shifts idly, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders—sore from sleeping like shit for the past few nights, you guess. Prince Mydeimos doesn't trust any of the palace guards anymore, so it's become an indefinite arrangement for him to stay the night, slumbering on the klinai. I don't know who else will try to take you, he'd said, so for now we will need to keep doing this.

Not if, not when, but who.

“You don't have anyone you can rely on in this palace, do you? Not since your mother died.”

Prince Mydeimos tenses. “No. Just Krateros. He provides steadfast support and wise counsel—his loyalty is unquestionable.”

“But his influence has limits,” you reason. “Otherwise you would not be sleeping by a door every night just to safekeep a lowly slave.”

“You are not lowly to me,” he says, offended, and you can hardly believe how earnest he is. He really will make for an idiot king at this rate, you think, to care so much for someone of my status.

It should not matter to you if he will be incompetent at rule, but you chide him anyway: “I should be lowly. I should even be worthless. My life has no meaning to you—you should not be exerting yourself over me. But you have no men here you can trust to handle this for you.” Something inside you sinks. “You really have no one here at all.”

He sighs—quietly, but clearly. “Besides Krateros, you are the person least hostile to me in this palace.”

“Then I am shocked you have not yet been killed.”

“I have been—just not permanently.”

You go quiet. Prince Mydeimos is not bitter in his words; they are matter of fact, a sign of a man who has died so many times that it no longer bothers him. But the words inspire something wretched in you. You think of a baby drowning in the sea, wailing and dying over and over again—then returning home, full of hope, only to drown again in that same, poisonous tide.

Your reaction is instinctive: Revulsion. Rage. Horror.

Guilt.

You should not feel guilty. You should not feel pity for a man who took everything away from you. But you still find yourself looking away, your hands curling in on themselves.

“It must tire you,” you say softly, “that after treating me so kindly for so long, I nearly killed you tonight.” You glance at the dagger, which you have held for so long in your sleep for no reason. “I should really return this to you.”

He waves a hand. “Don’t concern yourself over tonight. It is nothing. This is Kremnos; vicious fights between acquaintances are common. Every person I know has had a blade held to their neck at some point and thought nothing of it after the fact.”

Your brows raise. “Truly?”

“Truly. Actually, my mother held this very dagger to my father’s throat.”

Your eyes go wide. “And what did he do after? Punish her? Or… is that why he killed her?”

Prince Mydeimos gives you a strange look. “Of course not,” he says. “He married her.”

You wake up the next morning with ugly bruises on your ribs. You feel them before you see them, the ache so severe that you hiss when you try to rise from bed. Every breath has you feeling like something is piercing your lungs; every movement has you wanting to gasp. As you grit your teeth and struggle, you cannot help but think of Prince Mydeimos’ anger at your behaviour the day before, and something inside you crumples once more. You'd crawl under the bed if it wouldn't hurt so much.

The prince himself is gone, but as if in anticipation of your injury, he has arranged for a healer to see you. Later in the day, Kassandra arrives as well—to assist and care for you as you recover, she says. It is absurd for a handmaiden to be given to a bed-slave, but Kassandra neither complains nor thinks much of it.

“Men get all stupid when they're besotted,” she says, warbling in Aurelian dialect. “Way he looks at you, soon he’ll be giving you jewelry and flowers and all sorts of treasures. You could rob him blind, my lady.”

You try not to snort. With the way Prince Mydeimos looked at you the other day, it appeared the only gift he wanted to give you was the touch of Thanatos. But then you remember that he bestowed to you his mother’s dagger, and you find yourself going quiet, thinking of it in its hiding spot beneath your pillow.

Kassandra does not notice your sudden introspection. She continues dressing you, opting for somewhat conservative attire—the usual translucent silks reveal too much of your bruising—although the dress she has chosen has a slit cut so high that you can hardly walk without revealing your inner thighs. If Prince Mydeimos ever caught sight of it, you think you might die.

You give Kassandra a tortured look.

“It’s to curry your prince’s favour,” she explains. At your continued despair, Kassandra frowns. “I know this can't be easy for you, my lady,” she says, her Aurelian gentle, a soft and rolling legato. She picks up a delicate brush, dabbing it in rouge. “You were raised to be a holy maiden, and it was taboo for anyone back home to touch you. But now that you're…” She hesitates.

“Now that I'm a bed-slave?” you supply, voice neutral. Her mouth thins.

“Now that you're no longer a holy maiden, I think it's best to appeal to your master and keep him pleased. I'd hate to see the Crown Prince treat you like how Lord Aineidas treated me.”

Your eyes go soft. “And I'd hate to see you be returned to a man like Aineidas. Resent him as I may, I am glad that Prince Mydeimos saved you from him.”

Kassandra smiles. “I'm more grateful to you, my lady. It didn't escape me that it was you who helped me—not him.”

Her brush outlines your lip, tickling you. The corner of your mouth twitches, and you close your eyes beneath her touch. Your conversation turns to kinder things: reminiscing about the bustling markets back home, the beautiful music, the hymns sung within your temple. She tells you of her father, and you tell her about your mother, and the two of you sing the melody of your mother tongue.

It occurs to you that this is the happiest you’ve been since the fall of Aurelia—the least alone you've been, and the most at home.

For the next fortnight, Prince Mydeimos does not take you anywhere. It is not out of any neglect toward you—he still sleeps in your quarters every night, playing guard dog by the door—but out of concern for your injuries.

“I do not wish for you to hurt yourself again,” he says, watching you flinch from the opposite end of the room. You've just taken your lyre into your lap; the motion has you wincing. Still, you frown at him.

“I think I can walk without worsening my injuries. My legs are not connected to my ribs, you know.”

You can see it when he stops himself from rolling his eyes. “My concern is not you walking. My concern is that you might launch yourself into harm’s way again—it seems to be your favorite pastime.”

“I am not such an idiot that I'd do that in this state,” you grouse, and the look that Prince Mydeimos gives you is so skeptical that you huff. “Fine,” you say. “Do whatever you wish.”

You turn your attention to your lyre and sheet music and choose the song he most dislikes—an Okheman prosodion to Kephale. He scowls as soon as he hears the beginning notes, but leans back and closes his eyes anyway, listening. Maybe even appreciating. You think he is asleep by the time you finish, but he immediately looks to you and requests another piece: “Anything other than that Okheman noise, please.”

“Would you like an Aidonian hymn?”

“Are you trying to torture me?”

“What, does His Royal Highness not enjoy my skill with a lyre? Would he prefer some other form of entertainment?”

Your tone is sardonic enough to warrant legal punishment (you have disrespected the royal family), but Prince Mydeimos replies earnestly: “I am greatly fond of the lyre and even enjoy your skill with it. Your taste in songs, however…”

You study him shrewdly. “I did not think Kremnoan royals would care so much for musical arts.”

“We are not educated in them,” he admits. “But I have a friend who is quite the lyrist. It is pleasant to hear the instrument—I have not listened to him play in quite some time.”

“Oh? Why not?” You try not to make it so obvious that you are searching for gossip: that you are surprised the Crown Prince has friends, and that you are curious about whether they are alive. “Did he quit and take up the aulos instead?”

“I hope not,” Prince Mydeimos snorts. “He has no talent for it.” Then the mirth leaves his face, and his eyes get distant. “He has been deployed for some years now to fight the Black Tide. Last I heard, he was warring on the Pyrian front.”

You look away. The city-state of Pyria was southwest of Aurelia—many of its citizens ran to your polis when their homes fell to disaster. Some of them even sought refuge in your temple, their bodies riddled with wounds and corruption. Every holy person in your city, from the Disciples of Cerces to the Sky Priests of Aquila, spent weeks trying to purify them. Still, a great number of the Pyrian refugees were taken by Thanatos in the end, either succumbing to mortal wounds or self-destructing in madness.

You do not want to think of what might be happening to Prince Mydeimos’ lyrist friend. Judging from his expression, he does not want to speak of it either.

Clearing your throat, you flip through the sheet music on your desk. “What kind of songs did your friend like to perform?”

“Bawdy trash,” Prince Mydeimos says, deadpan. “Don't bother searching for them—I would not have disgraced your table with it.” He gives you a thoughtful look. “Why don't you play an Aurelian piece? I have never heard music devoted to Oronyx.”

You stop.

You've never performed an Aurelian piece with Prince Mydeimos around—partly because you prefer to annoy him with Okheman and Aidonian music, but mostly because you didn't think any Kremnoan would want to hear it. They destroyed your temple, after all. High Priestess of a weak god, you remember the hyenas barking as the city screamed. That's what they think I am.

But Prince Mydeimos is—different. He sacked your temple, but for whatever reason, he still wants to hear you worship.

“Alright,” you say, an odd ache in your chest. “If you insist.”

Your final song of the evening is a hymn for the Goddess of Time. The following day, you perform a lyric poem about Janusopolis' early days in the Chrysos War, an epic about the attempted murder of Oronyx in your mother tongue. The next evening, you sing an Aurelian prosodion to Georios; after that, a lively hyporchema of Oronyx Festivals, one that makes you wish you were leading the acolytes and worshippers in dance.

Another night, you throw the prince a bone and play an Aurelian paean to Nikador. It was written prior to the Era Bellica—from a time when the Kremnoan people were not so savage, and Nikador’s only war was the one against the Black Tide. When he was the protector of Amphoreus, not its tyrant. Prince Mydeimos’ eyes never leave your form as you sing in ancient Kremnoan—from an era so long ago that it had not yet diverged from Aurelian, and the peoples of your two cities could understand each other perfectly. His gaze traces the strings of your lyre, the movements of your lips, mesmerized. The next evening, he asks to hear it again.

For ten nights, Prince Mydeimos listens to your paean to his God of Strife. On the eleventh day, by which you've stopped wincing every time you lift your lyre, he finally leads you outside again.

He takes you into the city.

It is your first time wandering beyond the confines of the palace, and you are startled by the bustling streets—the chatter and the laughter and the humanness. An air of aggression still hangs over the city, of course: armored soldiers march endlessly through the streets, chains clink noisily as the slaves labour relentlessly, the sword of Nikador hangs ever-present in the sky. Still, it is all made more bearable by all the people in its streets. By the buzz of crowded markets, by the haggling arguments of vendors and customers, by the giggling of children underfoot in the crowds. If you close your eyes and focus, you can summon memories of Aurelia like this—so easy to recall among the humdrum of daily life.

Castrum Kremnos is still a prison. But you cannot deny that there are parts of it here that feel—not warm, really, for there are still too many slaves, too many soldiers. But it is certainly less cold.

You think that Prince Mydeimos, himself, might enjoy the city more than the palace as well. He is nearly always tense there, but he seems relaxed among these streets, among his people. Every Kremnoan pauses to greet him, not only bowing to show their respect, but really talking. Soldiers’ faces glow as they sing his praises about his might in battle, about his last gladiatorial victory. Older women wave and ask if he is eating well, if he'd like some figs or pomegranates or sweets from their stands. (You think instantly of your aunts and grandmothers back home, and you feel such heartache that you have to look away.) Younger women and a handful of men stop to admire him; you do not miss how their gazes linger on you, the whore trailing after him in golden chains.

What strikes you most are the children. Each one of them squeals with delight upon seeing him, and a few run up directly to greet their prince, babbling about how hard they've been training and how they want to fight alongside him someday. They are the only Kremnoans who do not look at you with discomfort; they study you only with innocent curiosity.

“Prince Mydeimos,” a little girl asks, craning her neck to look at you, “is that your friend? I've never seen her before!”

Prince Mydeimos pauses. You can see him struggling to answer, neither wanting to lie nor explain what a whore is, and you try not to sigh before doing it for him: “I am the prince’s companion,” you say kindly in Kremnoan, smiling at the girl. “Not his friend, but someone who spends time with him when he wishes.”

“Oh.” The girl blinks, tilting her head. “Like, if he gets lonely? Or sad?”

“Something like that.”

She nods, then beams at you both. “Well, I'm glad the prince doesn’t have to be alone when he's sad, then.”

She runs off without another word. You look to him, a dry comment on your tongue—I'm sure you're desperate for a night alone after all the time you've spent in my room—but you find him staring at her retreating back, pensive. Something in his eyes makes your chest ache, and somewhere in the Evernight Veil, you hear him say: I don't remember the last time someone touched me like this.

But here, in the present, he says nothing.

“Come,” he beckons you, curt. “We have somewhere to be.”

He ends up bringing you to a smithy. The rhythmic clang of hammers against hot steel sings in your ears. He approaches a looming figure, impossibly tall, who works in chains. Your eyes are wide as you regard him. Mountain Dweller, you recognise, and slave.

Kremnos is infamous for hunting their kind. You should not be surprised at seeing one in bondage here, forced to work for the state that savaged him. Still, it is a wonder seeing such a mighty creature working so benignly for his captors. If you had such stature, you think you would have died fighting in Aurelia. You would have never accepted a life in chains—let alone one so mild and subservient.

“Crown Prince of Kremnos,” the Mountain Dweller greets. His voice is a slow, lumbering boom—strange in syntax, as if his throat and mind is unfit for human speech: “For your weapon… you have come.”

Prince Mydeimos nods. “Yes—for the weapon, as well as the other matter we discussed.”

The Mountain Dweller shifts. You can feel his gaze on your body, studying you through the slits of his helmet. You look up at him, watching him with curious eyes.

“High Priestess of Aurelia, you were,” he surmises. “Concubine of the Crown Prince, you are now.”

“Yes,” you affirm, and you don't bother softening the edge to your voice. “And you are?”

“Chartonus, leader of the Mountain Dwellers,” he introduces himself. “Blacksmith for the royal family.”

Your interest is piqued at one word: Leader. You decide to smile—not cheerfully, but respectfully, in the way you would for an esteemed guest at the temple. “It is an honour to meet you, Master Chartonus. I have heard great tales of the blessings that Georios has endowed upon the craftsmanship of your people.”

You can feel Prince Mydeimos’ eyes on you, but you ignore him. Only Chartonus has your attention, as would be the way with a formal guest.

“Thank you,” the blacksmith replies. “Of your talents, many Mountain Dwellers in Kremnos have heard. For you, I have something… by the request of the Crown Prince.”

You glance back at your companion. “For me?” you ask, and he nods.

“You'll soon understand,” Prince Mydeimos says.

Chartonus leads the two of you to the back of the smithy, opening a door to some private workspace. On the other side of the threshold, you see a man's silhouette, tall and broad-shouldered, dark hair and grey eyes—

You are looking at an Aurelian soldier.

Not a soldier of career, but one of necessity. Ordinarily, he is a blacksmith from your neighbourhood. One of your worshippers. His name was—is, he's alive, he's alive—Hector, and he frequently visited your temple. You first met him when you were both children, shortly before your initiation into the cult. He often prayed with you after you became a hiereia. Sought counsel from you. Crafted your ceremonial weapons. Once he made a necklace too, which you had to publicly decline and privately accept only at his insistence. I can't bring you olives nor figs, he'd said earnestly, but I can bring you this.

Your heart aches when you look at him. For a minute, you feel like you are back in Aurelia, visiting him in his smithy, watching him work during a few hours’ reprieve from your training. After this you will go to the market together and listen to the musicians play on their aulos and lyres, and later you will go see his sister, with whom you will gossip about the men she saw in her brothel. A week from now, the three of you will dance together in a festival in devotion to your goddess.

And then you see the manacle around his ankle, the chain leading off it, and the illusion is ruined.

Hector is not subdued, though. His eyes go wide as soon as he sees you. “My lady?” he calls out, as uncertain as he is hopeful.

Your composure shatters.

“I can give you five, ten minutes,” Prince Mydeimos whispers into your ear. You’re startled at the proximity, but too shocked to recoil. “Keep up appearances, and don't try anything foolish. Remember that I can only do so much.”

He leaves the door open. He and Chartonus converse just beyond it, admiring some spear that the blacksmith supposedly just mended, and which requires care so intensive that Chartonus delivers an entire lecture to explain it. You can barely hear what they’re saying, so focused on the familiar face before you. You were not physically affectionate with any of your friends nor temple goers—your station demanded strict boundaries—but you would throw your arms around Hector right now, were it not for Prince Mydeimos’ warning.

Keep up appearances.

You settle for running up to him, stopping just short of crashing into him. “Hector,” you whisper, voice strangely choked. I cannot cry, you think. I cannot cry, especially not before a worshipper. “You're alive.”

“High Priestess.” Hector’s eyes blink rapidly. You're reminded of the night you told him you'd stay at the temple, despite the Kremnoan invasion; he'd opposed it so strongly, but how were you meant to abandon the worshippers who had insisted on staying behind? “I didn't think I'd ever see you again. Are you—is he—is he hurting you? Are you injured?”

How typical of him to ask about you first, you think, when everyone else is clearly in worse positions. “Don't worry about me, Hector. How about you? The others? Aeneas? Lycaon? Your sister, Hecuba?”

“Aeneas and Lycaon and most of the other soldiers—they’ve all been sent to repair the fortress walls. I'm only here because I'm skilled. Some of the others who are tradesmen, they're here with me in the city. Hecuba, though, she's been taken to a brothel.” He frowns. “She’s decently learned and full of wit. They might have her working as a hetaira, if we’re lucky.”

Your face falls. People easily die performing hard labour, and the life of a bed-slave is a different kind of humiliation.

“I'm sorry, Hector.”

“No, I'm sorry.” He gives you a look of such despair that your heart twists. “You've been captured by that beast… it's worried me all this time, what he's doing to you. I should have gotten you away from the city before the Kremnoans stormed us.”

Guilt lances through your heart. Prince Mydeimos is nowhere near a monster, and you have suffered nowhere near as much as your fellow Aurelians. “You need not worry for me, Hector.”

“I can hardly stop,” he argues. “I think—I think we should find a way to get you out of this place.”

“...what?”

“We need to get you out of here.”

You stare at him, disbelieving. “If you could find a way out of Castrum Kremnos, I'd much rather you escape with your own life, Hector. I am too noticeable of a prisoner to smuggle out.”

“But you're our High Priestess!” he cries. “We—we can't just leave you in the bed of that monster. Please, my lady. He destroyed our city, our temple, our home. We can't bear to see him destroy you too.”

Something nicks your heart. To the Kremnoans, you are a spoil of war; to the Aurelians, you are a figure of worship. And as long as you stay in the hands of Prince Mydeimos, you are equally a symbol of Kremnoan victory as you are Aurelian disgrace. His supposed rape of you is the ultimate humiliation for them.

You cannot blame the soldiers for wanting you to steal you back.

“Hector,” you say gently, in that voice you reserve for those frightened before the gods, before war, before fate, “I understand your feelings, but you know it would be suicide for you to try. I do not wish to see any more Aurelian blood spilled.” None beyond your own—your fate is inevitable, but Hector can be saved.

“But—”

“No buts. Listen to me. Have I ever guided you falsely?”

Hector closes his eyes. His brow is furrowed deep. His voice is thick, hoarse, when he asks, “Is there no way out of this hell for us? Has Oronyx shown you that our fate lies within these fortress walls?”

Your heart drops.

You understand now that you have been foolish. Unbelievably foolish. What have you been doing, asking Oronyx about your path to freedom and not your people's? What have you been doing, hiding under a bed for months while your friends and worshippers were labouring in chains? So blinded by anger that you could not even think of a way to see them? So blinded by pride that instead of thinking of how to help them, you could only think of killing the man who has now brought you to them?

How selfish.

But now you are thinking of that beautiful city of eternal dawn, in which your wrists were not shackled, in which you were sorrow-free. You wonder if there would have been space for other Aurelians in that paradise, if they would have been just as safe.

How else would your heart have felt so light in that moment?

You measure your words carefully, hiding your shame. Hector does not need to know that his High Priestess is an idiot; it would only depress him. “Not so far,” you reply with grace. “I will try peering beyond the Evernight Veil again for our futures. From what I have seen, I will not say that there is no hope for us—but Hector, there will be no hope for you if you do something foolish. Promise me you won't do anything stupid.”

“My lady—”

“Promise me. Before I have to go.”

He gives you a despairing look. “Will you be taken away again so soon? When will I see you next?”

You hesitate. “I do not know… that would be determined by Prince Mydeimos.”

He makes a frustrated noise. “How am I supposed to work here, unable to see you, when I know you are being tortured in his bed—”

“Who is being tortured?” a voice cuts in. Both you and Hector freeze. Your heart twinges again; you can see it in your friend’s face when his does as well.

Your time is up.

“...no one, Your Highness,” you reply to Prince Mydeimos, even though your attention is on Hector.

You study his features intensely: every crease and contour and shadow. For once, it is not to read someone’s expression; it is simply that you do not know when you will see him next, and you do not wish to forget his face in the meantime. Oronyx never lets you forget calamity—razed cities, bloodied corpses, burning groves—but something as mundane as the face of a loved one? She often neglects it.

You and Hector stare at each other for probably a beat too long. When you remember yourself, you ask Prince Mydeimos, “Is my prince finished his business with Master Chartonus?”

“Yes.” Steel clashes against steel, echoing in the smithy and threading between his words. “There is no longer any reason to linger here. We will return to my quarters now.”

“But—”

“That was an order, not a request,” he says.

Keep up appearances, he means. Remember that I can only do so much.

You deflate, turning away from Hector, unable to look him in the eye anymore—unable to see him gaze upon the symbol of his humiliation. You bow to Prince Mydeimos, feeling both spoiled and broken in.

“Of course, Your Highness.”

Your grief must show on your face, for Prince Mydeimos is also unable to look at you as the two of you depart.

That night, Prince Mydeimos makes you a dish that bursts with the spices of Aurelia. He serves it to you personally once more, watching from his usual spot against the wall. You can tell that he wishes to say something to you, but you cannot bring yourself to ask what: you are worried that your voice will crack if you speak. With each bite you take, you think of the quiet peace of your temple, of Hector praying at the altar to which you attended. You think of the music of the Oronyx Festivals under the stars, the hyporchema to which you danced and laughed. You think of the bustling markets that Kassandra visited everyday, looking for figs and olives and cassia under the Aurelian sun.

When you glance at Prince Mydeimos, you wonder if he knows how badly your heart aches.

“Why did you bring me to Hector?” you finally ask. “Why did you seek him out?”

His answer is so simple that it hurts: “You said you wanted to see your loved ones.”

I’d slit your throat and drink your blood if it meant I could go home and see my loved ones.

“Right,” you say. “When I tried to kill you. I said I wished to return to Aurelia and see everyone there.”

“Yes.”

You look away, lip trembling. When Prince Mydeimos speaks again, his voice is so gentle that you can hardly believe that it is coming from the Crown Prince of Kremnos, from the leader of a warmongering tribe. From the future king who will kill you.

But you can easily imagine it from the throat of a boy who once drowned in the sea, who was cast out of countless homes.

“I took your home away from you,” he says quietly. “Even if you killed me a thousand times, you will never be able to go back. There is nothing I can do to fulfill your wish to return.”

There is remorse in his voice. Genuine. Unbearable. The heir to a millennia of Strife regrets the grief he inflicted upon you. The man who will someday kill you regrets all the pain he brought upon you—and he wishes to undo it.

“You can never take me home,” you recognise, “so you are trying instead to return my loved ones to me.”

He nods, and you understand that this is his apology.

It will not suffice, of course. A sorry will not change anything. A kind master is still a master. A pampered slave is still a slave. No matter how considerate he is with you, Prince Mydeimos will always be the man who destroyed your city and sacked your temple. He will always be the beast who dragged you from your altar and into his bed. Aurelia is forever burning behind you, and it is all his fault. Oronyx will never let you forget this.

Still—there are things that have not yet turned to ash. Things that you cannot hold onto not with the power of the divine, but with your own two hands.

“You said once,” you murmur, “that there is a chance that I can move freely throughout the city without you.”

“Yes,” he affirms. “If people were convinced that you were my lover and not my prisoner, they would not think twice about seeing you roam the city.”

I cannot cry, you think. I am a hiereia, an oracle, a leader. I cannot cry, I cannot cry, I cannot cry, but your voice breaks when you ask, “So I could go see them whenever I wished? I could visit Hector, and I could find Hecuba, and I could check on all the men labouring at the fortress walls? I could make sure that they were all safe, all well?”

Prince Mydeimos nods, his eyes absent of deception.

You study him, dissect him in the way that you were trained for princes and lords. You see not your captor, whom you could never even pretend to like—but Mydei in a city of eternal dawn, where you are teasing him gently, listening to the giggles of a flock of children. You see not a beast, but someone who is so easy to love that it scares you. Scares you almost as much as his gauntlets that are cleaving open your legs, almost as much as your death at the foot of his throne.

But you have a responsibility to your people—and even if you are a slave, you are not a coward.

“Very well," you decide. "Let's try it.”

End Part II

notes: I tried so hard (to get to the porn) and got so far (in word count) but in the end it didn't even matter... my genuine apologies that there was so much plot and no sex. enemies to lovers is truly not a trope for the weak T_T

some notes:

there's a ton of ancient Greek refs, as usual - names like Hector, Hecuba, Lycaon, Kassandra, etc. are all borrowed from the Iliad. a lot of Kremnoan names will be borrowed from Spartan history!

"Council of Elders" = Senate per Spartan history. I just like the aesthetic of Spartan vocab.

YES I know Mydei had a dromas war steed. Kokopo III shall make an appearance later TRUST!!

944 notes · View notes

aloudice · 19 days ago

Text

─── 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟏: ❝𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓❞

preview: whispers say the crown’s cloaked advisor is immortal - a man untouched by time, with eyes like starlight and a voice that silences rooms. you, a former foreign healer turned spy, are tasked with uncovering him and his secrets. but some truths are written in blood... and longing.

tags: royalty/kingdom au, historical au, mydei x reader, romance, angst, suspected reincarnation, god mydei, former healer reader, spy reader, advisor mydei, not canon lore or character placements in the story, side characters are the amphoreus cast, multiple endings.

word count: 4.7k taglist: @seraphim-terrestrial, @iruanmey, @angel-of-requiem, @daylightfadestogray ─── 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟐

you arrive at castrum kremnos under a sky bruised purple by dusk. the city rises before you like the jagged edge of a blade, its walls swallowed in mist and lit by the flicker of pyres that never die. the gates, forged from blackened steel, open with a groan that echoes like a warning, and you step into a world that breathes war with every shudder of stone.

this is not a place built for peace. the air hums with tension, thick with the scent of burnt oil and rusted blood. soldiers in dark armour march in formations too precise to be human, their eyes hollow behind visored helmets. somewhere beyond the smoke - choked alleys, drums of war beat in relentless cadence, marking time not with hours, but with lives lost.

at the city’s heart stands the iron citadel, a fortress of towering spires and fractured battlements, where the young monarch rules from a throne of broken blades. nikador, they call him - the titan of strife. you’ve heard the stories: how he led his first campaign at thirteen, how he crushed an insurgency with a glare and no mercy. you expect arrogance. you find something worse.

nikador is still when you approach the capital, his men swarmed around him like bees towards their queen. still as stone, but eyes aflame with a fury that no crown can tame. youth clings to him only in the curve of his jaw; the rest has been carved away by war. at his side are the advisors - figures cloaked in secrecy and shadow.

a woman blinded with a cloth, who, according to rumours, sees too much. a beautiful figure with butterflies dancing around her, commands with silence, a simple raised hand to order soldiers, nothing more, nothing less. a scribe who writes only prophecies in vanishing ink, each one more mysterious than the last. he stares at you for a while, his eyes boring into yours, your lips become dry, and your hands start to become sweaty, until he averts his gaze towards more pressing matters, it seems.

your cover remains intact. a court healer from okhema, keeper of poultices and pulse-readings, chosen for your hands, but more so for your ears. you blend into the daily life of castrum kremnos - tending wounds, dispensing sage-root for nerves, brewing sleep elixirs strong enough to quiet the dreams that echo through this city like war drums. no one suspects the soft-spoken foreigner who bows too often and listens too well.

but behind the veil of routine, your true task coils tighter with each passing day.

the court speaks his name like a curse. quietly. cautiously. never twice in the same breath. no one points him out directly. no one dares. instead, they offer fragments:

“he wears the night like a cloak.”

“hair like a dull sunset, that no light touches.” you wonder what that even means.

they say his voice never rises. that it doesn’t need to. that you’ll stop breathing before he finishes a sentence, because your body knows something your mind can’t accept: he is old in a way the world forgot.

he’s been spotted only in whispers - in the citadel’s upper halls, where stained glass filters the dying light into colours that don’t exist. he’s described as tall, gliding more than walking, in robes layered like the shrouds of emperors long entombed. peachy threads cross the dark fabric like veins of lightning in storm clouds. his hands are pale, yet stong. calloused. still. but it’s his eyes that haunt the survivors - pale red or a dark pink, hard to say, because they reflect things that aren’t behind you.

no two people agree on his expression. to some, he looks mournful. to others - cold, like a thing waiting to thaw before it kills.

your superiors believe he is manipulating the young monarch nikador. they fear he is not merely a puppeteer but an ancient force bound to kremnos, feeding on its chaos, shaping war as one shapes clay. they even whisper the unthinkable: that he may be immortal.

but who is this man that is speaken of so… fearfully?

“mydei…” you managed to let out in a hushed voice, heart thumping loudly inside your chest, waiting to burst out in a pool of blood. “this may be difficult, he is a man of many secrets,”

the mist curls low as you walk the stone road toward the iron citadel, the heart of castrum kremnos. the air is thick with soot and distant ashfall, and the muffled clang of a forge rings somewhere behind you like a memory trying to surface. you keep your head down, hood drawn low, eyes flicking now and then to the flickering torchlight that lines the main artery of the capital.

the gates of the citadel loom ahead: iron-veined stone, engraved with murals of war long past and still unfinished. you tighten your grip on the satchel slung across your shoulder, mentally rehearsing your reason for entry - called to tend to the duchess, cyrene, is what her name was, who hasn’t spoken in days and sometimes screams in languages even the old tongues don’t recognize.

you barely notice the figure who steps into your path until he speaks.

“you’re the healer from okhema.”

the voice is dry, faintly irritated. you look up - and find yourself face-to-face with anaxagoras. the scribe. it seems he has broken away from the crowd of soldiers and the king, specifically to speak to you, no less.

he is taller than you expected. narrow-shouldered and clad in a dark blue robe that looks as though it was once ivory, now stained with ink and dust from old books, you presume. scrolls bristle from the folds like blades.

you clear your throat, heart tightening. “yes. i’m the one summoned. for the duchess.”

he narrows his eyes, not suspicious - merely annoyed. “i figured as much. lady aglaea made the request. always dramatic, that one. as if we haven’t a single competent healer in all of kremnos.”

you bow your head slightly. “i go where i’m needed.”

he snorts, more exasperated than hostile. “let’s hope your skills justify the message she sent. i had to reassign three scribes and had four servants clear your quarters.” he pauses, then adds more quietly, “still. if she called for you, there’s reason. aglaea’s… careless with people, not with pain.”

without another word, he gestures for you to follow. the guards at the citadel gate step aside, barely sparing you a glance. you pass under the arch and into the belly of the city’s heart. the walls close in. the torches dim. and as anaxagoras leads you deeper, he glances back over his shoulder just once.

“she hasn’t been the same since the last full moon,” he mutters. “if she speaks to you, write it down. even the madness. especially the madness.”

you follow anaxagoras through the inner halls, trying not to stare too openly.

the place feels ancient, but not in the way of ruins. it’s alive with age - its stone groaning softly beneath your feet, the vaulted ceilings high above webbed with iron supports that look more like ribs than architecture. murals of past monarchs stretch across the walls, their faces eroded by time or purpose. you pass under archways etched with language you don’t recognize, though some seem to shift when you don’t look directly at them.

the air smells of parchment, and something metallic that clings faintly to the back of your tongue - blood, perhaps.

you note the details automatically: placement of guards, blind spots in corridors, which stairwells echo and which don’t. your bag, heavy with herbs and healing tools, spare clothes, and encoded letters from your superiors, pulls against your shoulder. you had hoped to deposit it in your assigned quarters before being summoned anywhere official.

no such luck.

“your presence is requested for the council meeting taking place,” anaxagoras says without looking back.

you blink. “when is it?”

“now.”

you stop walking. “now?”

he sighs, not stopping. “yes, healer. that’s what ‘right now’ generally means. i assume they teach time comprehension in okhema?”

you grit your teeth as you catch up. “i wasn’t informed i’d be expected so soon.”

“you’re here, aren’t you?” he replies, dry as dust.

you glance down at your satchel. it’s far too conspicuous. heavy, slightly sweat-stained from your walk, and completely unsuited for a council chamber where the eyes of a monarch and his veiled serpents will be on you.

as if reading your mind, anaxagoras stops mid-step, turns, and snaps his fingers once.

from the gloom behind you, two servants appear almost noiselessly. you hadn’t heard them approach. they wear gray robes with hoods pulled low, faces obscured, movements precise.

anaxagoras gestures at your bag. “to her quarters. the guest healer’s wing. don’t open it.”

they bow in unison - silent, fluid - and take your belongings with eerie gentleness. then, without another word, they vanish the way they came, as if the shadows swallowed them whole.

you stand a moment longer, unsettled.

anaxagoras is already walking again. “come along. the council waits for no one. not even the newly imported.” you follow, the weight gone from your shoulder - but a heavier one beginning to settle in your chest.

the heavy doors of the council chamber creak open, and you step into a silence so complete it feels constructed. as though even the air was told to still itself.

the chamber is vast, dimly lit by braziers hanging from chains above. smoke rises slowly, curling toward a ceiling lost in shadow. a long crescent of seats lines the room’s centre, half of them occupied by figures draped in robes or armour, their faces half-lit, unreadable. behind them, looming banners display the sigil of kremnos - a black sun pierced by a broken spear.

at the far end, elevated slightly on a dais carved from a single slab of obsidian, sits nikador.

the titan of strife.

he is young - too young for the throne they say he inherited in blood and fire. but he sits with the stillness of someone born in war, his body loose yet coiled. his crown is a circlet of jagged steel, simple and brutal. one hand rests on the arm of the throne; the other on the hilt of a sword sheathed across his lap - not ceremonial, but worn, nicked from use. his eyes, a sharp and tempered grey, rest on you the moment you enter.

you feel them like a weight.

anaxagoras immediately drops to one knee, fist to chest, head bowed. “your majesty.”

your breath catches. you copy the motion a heartbeat later, your movements slightly awkward but deep enough to pass. your knee strikes the cold stone. fist to chest. head lowered. you cannot afford a misstep. not here. offending the monarch, even by posture, is a criminal offense in kremnos. the last healer who misjudged the depth of his bow left the citadel headless - so you were told.

“rise,” nikador says.

the word is quiet. but it rings.

you and anaxagoras stand. he walks without hesitation to a seat near the chamber door on the right-hand side. you follow, mimicking his composure, and settle into the chair beside him. the stone is cold even through the fabric of your robe.

around you, murmurs begin to stir. not toward you, not yet - but you can feel it. the low murmur of sharks tasting something unfamiliar in the water.

anaxagoras leans slightly toward you, not looking away from the centre of the room. “don’t speak unless addressed,” he mutters. “even if they accuse you of treason. especially then.”

you nod, your throat tight. in the centre of the chamber, the space reserved for those who speak before the king is still empty.

but you feel it. the room is not full yet.

the council chamber stills again - not with sound, but with the absence of it - as the doors open a second time.

mydei.

no one announces him. no guard flanks him.

his cloak is dark, heavy, trimmed with metallic thread that catches the firelight. but it’s loose, not drawn fully across his body. beneath it, you glimpse the impossible musculature of someone who should be a warrior, not a court advisor. his bare skin is pale as marble, marred - or perhaps marked - by red, tattoo-like designs that stretch over his shoulder and chest in precise, ancient patterns. they don’t seem ornamental. they look like claims.

symbols of belonging. or binding.

he does not kneel. he doesn’t so much as pause. he strides through the chamber with the arrogance of someone who knows no punishment awaits him. and none ever will.

you watch, barely breathing, as he takes his seat - high-backed, carved from black iron - without a word or a bow. one hand rests lazily on the armrest. the other curls beneath his chin.

and then-

his gaze lifts.

it pierces through the lowlight, past the murmuring councillors and the smoke-heavy air, past your healer’s robes and your bowed head and every lie you’ve stitched around yourself.

he stares straight at you.

you go still.

his cheek rests on his fist, a picture of casual boredom. but his eyes-

red.

not pale red. not dark pink. red, like arterial blood, fresh and spilled. they are deep, glowing, and utterly calm. and in them, you feel no malice. no welcome. just knowledge.

as if he already knows who you are.

as if he has known from the moment you crossed the border into kremnos.

your fingers grip the edge of your seat. you don’t look away, but your breath comes thinner now.

beside you, anaxagoras scribbles something absently on a scroll, utterly unaware. but across the chamber, in silence thick as war fog, mydei watches.

and does not blink.

negotiations start flying right away, as if suddenly a switch has been turned on in the bleak courtroom. a tall man in black and white clothes, the colour of crushed snow rises from his seat. you don’t recognize him. “phainon,” someone nearby whispers. he’s young, soft-featured, and speaks with a voice meant for theaters, not war rooms.

“janusopolis,” he says, “refuses full tribute. again. but we must consider why. a trade hub of its size demands influence. they are not some petty vassal - they fund nearly a third of our northern grain routes. denying them representation pushes them closer to insurrection.”

you know janusopolis well enough. a glittering wound on the border - rich in silver, wine, and merchant princes who believe gold equals governance. your mission file had footnotes about its growing resistance. this - this taxation dispute - was inevitable. you couldn’t care for it, but now that you’re here, you might as well listen to what they have to say.

“we should open talks,” phainon continues. “fashion diplomacy. let them believe they’re equal, even if they are not.”

before the murmurs can fully agree or disagree, anaxagoras stands.

“no.” he doesn’t speak loudly, but his voice cuts like shears through silk. “they are subjects,” he says. “and subjects do not bargain. we send troops. a thousand soldiers posted at their ports. they will remember the cost of arrogance.”

the tension sharpens, becomes fractious. a few council members begin to talk over one another - debate swelling toward cacophony. voices climb. names are invoked. maps referenced. you sit quietly, eyes flicking from speaker to speaker, until-

the sound drains out.

no command was given.

no word spoken.

but they fall silent. every one of them.

you feel it before you understand it - a pressure, like invisible hands pressing on the back of your neck. the hair along your arms stands on end.

you glance toward the throne and see the source.

nikador has not moved much. just turned his head slightly. just let his gaze rest on them - not sharp, not angry. just looking.

and they stop speaking as if their throats were cinched shut. you feel a chill down your spine. this isn’t charisma. it’s not even fear.

it’s gravity.

the kind that crushes lungs. the kind that bends iron.

nikador exhales through his nose. a quiet sound, but it shatters the spell like glass cracking. his head turns just slightly. he doesn’t look at you. he looks to his left. toward the shadowed corner of the council ring.

“mydei,” he says, his voice smooth and low. “have you anything to say?”

there’s a pause. mydei doesn’t move. doesn’t shift. still resting his cheek lazily on his fist, red eyes half-lidded.

“no,” he says.

that’s all.

you glance at him again, and the chill returns. because there’s no indifference in that refusal. just certainty. the kind that says he could end the problem with a sentence - but chooses not to.

a sound cuts gently through the lingering silence. a soft clearing of the throat, but deliberate - performed with the cadence of someone used to being ignored and refusing to accept it.

you turn.

behind you, a woman rises. aglaea.

she stands with a kind of quiet finality, like a candle snuffed between two fingers. her presence is striking not because of grandeur, but because of contrast. the blindfold she was once known for - worn at all public functions, according to your intelligence briefs - is gone.

in its place: eyes. eyes of impossible hue.

the top, green, deep as summer moss. the bottom, gold, gleaming like an old coin in firelight. neither has a pupil. they shimmer faintly in the light, like gemstones that remember what they’ve seen.

“i would like to speak,” she says, her voice neither soft nor loud, but perfectly calibrated to thread through the chamber.

nikador does not object. no one dares.

she extends a hand - slender, long-fingered, wrapped in threads of gold, not for decoration but for sealing, for binding. “the court should be made aware,” aglaea says, her attention half-turned toward you, “that this is the healer i summoned from okhema. by my request and under my seal.”

she does not name you. no title. no introduction. merely a confirmation that you are hers, and that should be enough. you nod, unsure if you're supposed to rise or speak. you remain seated, posture straight.

no one says anything.

no one even looks your way.

the council chamber, like a living beast, has already moved on. they are still caught on tribute and rebellion, on strategy and silence. not on you. not yet.

you glance at aglaea’s hand, still raised as if she expected the acknowledgment to matter. it lowers slowly, fingers curling back to her side. her eyes do not blink. those gem-bright orbs seem almost to shine brighter in the stillness.

and though the court does not care…

she does.

she sits again.

after a long, gruelling session of back and forth, the room goes silent once more. the council is dismissed not with words, but with movement. one by one, the members rise and drift toward the doors like ghosts relieved of temporary formality. nikador doesn’t stand; he simply leans back in his throne, exhaling once, long and silent. it’s enough. the chamber empties itself as if in obedience to breath.

you follow anaxagoras as he rises, scrolls bundled beneath one arm. he doesn’t speak, doesn’t wait, just walks. you trail after him through a torch-lit corridor, the marble beneath your boots humming with the weight of footsteps older than you, older than most things.

silence lingers between you, but it isn’t heavy. it’s simply… routine. like he’s done this walk too many times to make conversation necessary. or welcome.

the halls of the citadel spiral inward, like ribs of a great stone beast. tapestries hang like skin: dark, fraying, stitched with scenes of conquest and mourning. you pass statues with empty eyes. windows narrow enough to be defensive slits. and always the quiet hum of kremnos itself - restless, armoured, waiting.

finally, anaxagoras stops before a thick oak door.

your room is small, but not unpleasant. stone walls, a narrow window letting in a sliver of the pale sky, and a bed stiff enough to remind you you’re not welcome to stay. there’s a basin of water, a desk with ink and parchment, and a wardrobe large enough for someone else’s secrets. nothing more. nothing less.

anaxagoras gestures at the door. “i’ll return shortly. you’ll attend to the duchess then.”

he says no more. no reassurance. no farewell. just leaves, his footsteps swallowed by the corridor as though the walls are eager to keep his presence.

you set your satchel on the bed. you stare at it.

a part of you tells you not to unpack. you won’t be here long. you’re here for the duchess, the court, the mission. mydei. you are not meant to nest in this place.

and yet…

your hands move on their own. one by one, you begin to remove your things. not much. vials of tincture. a roll of bandages sealed in wax cloth. a small carved idol of a goddess no one here would recognize. a folded letter with a wax seal you haven’t broken. not yet.

you line the vials on the desk in neat order. you lay the idol at the head of your bed. you tuck the letter beneath your pillow.

it makes no sound.

but you feel it. a shift behind you. not a creak. not a breath. but the air changes shape - like someone’s stepped into it.

you freeze. the last thing you unpacked slips through your fingers.

you turn.

mydei.

he is silent. still.

his presence consumes the doorway - not by size, but by certainty. cloak parted. bare arms inked in those red, winding symbols, aglow with something too ancient to be magic. his expression is unreadable, but his eyes…

those eyes, the colour of fresh blood and deeper things still, fix on you without blinking.

he doesn't speak for a long moment.

then-

“you should be careful, outsider,” he says, voice low, velvet-lined steel. “this place does not suffer curiosity well. i urge you not to involve yourself in matters that do not concern you,” he turns, cloak trailing, and vanishes through the door, closing it behind him without a sound. it’s like he knows.

and once again, you are alone. and somehow, more watched than ever.

half an hour passes in a flash, the quiet in your quarters is unlike any quiet you’ve known. it isn't peace - it’s listening. you spend the time checking your satchel, fingers brushing over dried koba root, powdered moss, balmstones wrapped in cloth, and a vial of distilled khera oil. everything you need to look like a healer. everything you need to be one, if it comes to that. of course, you were a healer before… all of this.

a knock. not a loud one - measured, two taps. the door opens before you answer.

anaxagoras stands in the doorway again, as unreadable as before. “she’s ready,” he says.

you nod and sling your satchel over your shoulder.

he says nothing else, just turns. you follow him once more. it seems that’s all you’ve been doing lately, following. this time, the path winds deeper into the citadel’s body - not just physically, but culturally. the austerity of stone begins to shift.

first, the torches are replaced by golden sconces burning scented oil. then, the stair rails become polished brass. the walls, once plain stone, are now covered in fine woodwork and geometric murals. at some point, the stone floors give way to carpet - deep gold, soft underfoot, dense enough to silence the echo of your steps.

everything gleams. quietly, but insistently.

this part of kremnos was not built during war. it was built after, when someone had time - and power - to dream of beauty.

anaxagoras stops before a tall door inlaid with golden leafing and faint sigils you don't recognize. he doesn’t knock. he simply opens it and gestures you in. you step forward into the chamber.

soft light spills across the room from a window of colored glass, painting the walls with fractured warmth. the scent of lavender and something sharper - alcohol, maybe - lingers in the air.

and on the grand bed at the centre, half-buried in silk and gauze, lies the duchess cyrene.

still. pale. breathing, but only just.

before you can ask anything, anaxagoras murmurs, “i’ll return later,” and the door shuts behind you.

you're alone now.

alone with the duchess, your mission - and whatever secret sickness this citadel hides.

you work in silence.

careful hands. precise movements.

a poultice of blue-leaf root to stabilize the fever. a balm of cooled khera oil to soothe the skin. the duchess lies motionless, her breathing shallow but steady - like someone trapped mid-dream.

you loosen the ties of her nightgown gently, revealing the centre of her chest where the skin has darkened slightly, as if kissed by heat, not flame. there, etched into her flesh like ink pressed beneath skin, glows a mark.

faintly gold.

it pulses - not rhythmically, but like it remembers a heartbeat. you lean closer. you’ve never seen—

“i’ve seen this before,” someone says. you flinch so violently that your elbow knocks over a vial. it rolls off the side of the bed and shatters on the floor.

you twist around, heart in your throat. mydei stands in the doorway.

again.

how does he move so quietly?

he walks in, slowly, eyes on the duchess, not you. his expression is not blank this time. it’s... distant. weighted. mournful, even. “a long time ago,” he murmurs, more to the air than to you.

you rise halfway to your feet, defensive. “if you knew what this was… if you knew how to heal her, why let lady aglaea send for me?” you don’t mean for your voice to shake, but it does.

he doesn’t meet your eyes.

“i didn’t stop her,” he says, tone even, “because something in me told me not to.” that makes no sense. he knows that. but he says it like it’s truth. like it’s final. he finally looks at you. “i remember this mark. but i don’t remember why.”

you realize now he’s not speaking as an advisor.

he’s speaking as something older than that.

in the days that follow, you heal with one hand and listen with the other.

no one here speaks openly. the court speaks in ellipses, half-finished thoughts, names left hanging like blades. but servants - servants talk when they forget you're there.

they mention mydei in hushed tones, not out of fear, but uncertainty. one detail repeats often, whispered while folding linens or lighting lamps:

“he never eats. not in front of anyone.”

you ask, lightly, “perhaps he’s simply private.”

they glance at each other, then at the floor. “he's been private for decades.”

you probe further when you can. the older nobles are more careful, but drink loosens some tongues. in a marble hall laced with ivy, you speak with a former archivist turned minor lord. you mention mydei's composure, his stillness.

the lord snorts softly into his cup. “i serve under king nikador. before that, queen lassa. and before her, old king theros. mydei was there for all three.” he glances toward the council wing. “he looks the same now as he did then.”

you wait a beat, “he seems to be pretty open about his… wisdom,”

“i’ve seen portraits. older than me. and him - exactly him - in them. when someone asked, he said it was coincidence.” the lord shakes his head, ignoring your statement entirely. “coincidence, my ass. that man has outlived bloodlines.”

the rumors multiply, take shape. not like fact - more like shadow: consistent but never graspable.

and then one night, you see him. you had followed a noise. a soft chiming. not metallic - tonal, like singing glass. it leads you through an unused corridor in the eastern wing of the citadel. you’re sure it’s empty. the walls are dusty, the windows high and blind with age.

but the door is open.

inside: a forgotten temple. no braziers. no gold. just weathered stone and a sunken altar covered in ivy and old ash.

and there he is.

mydei.

kneeling.

his cloak lies folded beside him. his chest is bare, the red glyphs on his body seeming to move, faintly pulsing in time with his breath.

he is praying.

not in the kremnoian language. not in any dialect you've learned.

the language is rough, syllables folding into each other like wind over ancient rock. it hurts to listen to. not like sound - but like something being stirred inside you that shouldn’t be touched.

you slip away before he sees you.

you tell yourself you imagined it. but that night, you dream in that same language. you wake not remembering a single word.

only the taste of something old and true.

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aloudice · 29 days ago

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𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 did we marry him? | amphoreus men x gender neutral reader

💌 — ; yes, you did. what happens when amphoreus men meet your younger self :)?

love mail — lalaaaa quick prompt!! slow buildup till i can write back to normal again ヽ(o´3`o)ﾉ

anaxagoras can't help but find your younger self the cutest little thing. you watch as he squishes and pulls at mini-you's face, hearing him chuckle at how they whine and squirm. "so you've always hated it, noted."

even if mini-you tries to hide it, they're relishing in the attention. it wasn't often that they were treated in a way that was so.. full of care, even if it was teasing. all of a sudden, they turned their attention to you. "hey, did we ever end up marrying him?"

"...who?" the question made you confused, there weren't many candidates for a crush during your youth.

"the kind boy we met in the town!" oh, wait.

your actual husbands interest is piqued. "can you describe him to us, dove?"

his smile turns just a little bit wider at the sound of you groaning behind him. "he has green hair! the most prettiest eyes and— hey, you and him are kind of alike, mister!"

"oh, really?" the most tender kiss is pressed on your mini-me's forehead. "then i'm honored to tell you that you sure did."

mydei's been having the best day of his life. currently, he's been carrying mini-you on his shoulders and ran around a field. all while while you watched nearby, smiling at the sight. when your fiancé returns, the reason for all of your embarrassing childhood memories runs up to you excitedly. "i've been wanting to ask, did we end up marrying him?"

the man you were quite literally about to be wed to, raises a brow at the question. "who could it be, sweetpea?"

"the boy i saw walk out of the river! he was kind of scary looking.. but he was super cool! there were these cool red lines all over him, kind of like this guy!"

the irony of pointing right at mydei is a little funny. and your husband can't help himself from the biggest smile you've ever seen from him. "oh, really? just like me? tell me what else you think abo— ouch!"

the elbow to his stomach was not unwarranted, but you smile at your younger self and pat their head. "yeah, we unfortunately will. but if i were you, run the other way when he starts approach—"

mydei's strong arms were then wrapped around you, lifting you into the air, then followed by a peal of laughter. "hey, don't start trying to get away from me now! you're all mine, even from day one!"

phainon is just in awe. mini-you seemed so shy, hiding behind you as they hold your hand, peeking at him with a nervous look. "i can barely believe it! you, were a shy kid?" he laughs, crouching down to their level as you sigh. "more or less. crowds were overwhelming, and aeon's forbid you throw a kid in a classroom of despair and agony." "you describe kindergarden like it's purgatory..."

though while your boyfriend is sent on a mission (buy icecream), your attention is brought to mini-you. "phainon's gone now. just can't believe it's him, hm?"

the reason for their shyness wasn't entirely because there was a 'stranger' infront of them, rather it was because the boy from the other class was now taller and much—much more handsome. "wow.. and you and him get together? that's so cool! but.. did we ever end up marrying him? like i hoped?"

and when phainon comes back with the biggest smile on his face, totally failing to hide probably one of the biggest cups of icecream behind him, you only laugh at the question. "soon. he just has to ask, and i'd say yes in a heartbeat."

that thought is further solidified, as phainon tries his best to seem friendly to your little self. just as he was when you two were kids, winning your heart all over again.

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aloudice · 29 days ago

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can i just rant about how much i hate it when certain characters get watered down to just "ship characters" instead of people actually appreciating their overall character and story 🥹. like, when a character just exists and suddenly the only time they're ever mentioned is whenever the other character they're shipped with is mentioned. no one mentions them as is- it's always with that other character and while yeah, i do understand it's because they have a dynamic and that the dynamic they follow is cute and all, it would be nice if people just took the time to appreciate that one individual character as is without viewing them as just "(character)'s partner". maybe it's just me but as someone who has a genuine love and appreciation for character growth and individuality, it's just off putting to me at times when people just care about the ship rather than the individual characters involved in said ship

maybe it's just me 😓? huhu sometimes i worry that this is just me overreacting

#honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail #hsr x reader #genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader

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aloudice · 1 month ago

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his leg armor in canon reminded me of a cowboy

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aloudice · 1 month ago

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12.8k words of romance, enemies to lovers, and slow burn. Canon-adjacent (multiple timelines theory) with ancient Greek historical and mythological influences. Warnings for themes of war, slavery, and threats of sexual violence (none from Mydei). Mydei also seems quite terrible to you at first, but this is all unreliable narration; he is actually very kind to you for the entirety of the story. MDNI.

Author's note including discussion of themes, ancient Greek influences, canon lore (including the multiple timelines), and a list of characters and terminology for my non-hsr readers lol.

They find you at the altar.

The Sons of Gorgo are a cruel people. Their hands are smeared with the blood of your fallen temple, staining the ivory silk of your chiton as they drag you outside. Chaos roars around you: the streets are strewn with corpses, the olive trees are devoured by flames, the sky is filled with ash. The city is screaming in its death throes. The Kremnoans jeer at you, at your humiliation. High priestess of a weak god, they say. Prophetess turned slave. They’ve heard that the hieria of your temple are required to be virgins. You won't be a holy maiden anymore, after they're done with you.

They argue over who gets to rape you.

You do not cower. You are sitting on the temple steps, surrounded by the corpses of acolytes and worshippers alike, but you remain impassive. You refuse to give the invaders the satisfaction of seeing your tears, and anyway, they are much too small to intimidate someone who speaks to the Titans. They bicker over who is more deserving of the valuable plunder of your body—who has killed more people, who has captured more slaves, who has burned down more homes—and you feel disgust, rather than fear. They're closer to animals than men.

The hoplites fall silent when their leader comes. His hair is fire and gold; his eyes gleam like the sun. He cuts a terrible figure—the shape of a man who feasts on strife and fear. Just like the rest of his army.

Just like Nikador himself.

“What’s happening here?” he says, harsh and oppressive. His gaze is sharp on you, but you do not tremble. “Who is this?”

A soldier speaks proudly: “She was the high priestess of this temple,” he says. “But now she’ll be a slave.”

The men laugh.

“We were fighting over who should get to keep her,” another says. “But I think it's clear as day who's most deserving, eh?”

“The fiercest among us should get the greatest prize,” someone else says. They cheer and bark like hyenas. Their general does not smile. He only looks at you, eyes burning. Outraged. How much the Kremnoans must hate your people, you think, for their leader to glare at you like this.

“Fine,” he says. “I'll take her, then.”

They grab you with their red hands. Push you toward an encampment, a tent. Laugh in delight and bloodthirst. About time our Crown Prince shows interest in a woman, they say. We were starting to think you were a eunuch, Your Highness! It wouldn't do if he were. In the wake of victory, Kremnoans are meant to take all the glories and treasures they can. That includes all the peoples they've conquered. Our mighty general needs to enjoy his spoils of war!

When they finally reach his tent, they throw you onto the ground, and the pain slams through your bones. You are left alone with the Kremnoan general, glaring up at him from your place on the floor. His eyes are less sharp now; rather than burning on you, they merely seem cold. He will kill me, you think, he will kill me like he has killed my city, but then he kneels down. A hand extends toward you, reaching, pilfering, violating—

You spit in his face.

“Don't fucking touch me,” you snarl, and the general jerks back, surprised. Your hand darts out as he falters, grabbing a dagger from his hip, swift and deadly.

The sharp metal of his gauntlet snaps around your wrist before you can slash open your throat.

“What are you doing?” he snaps. Your brow arches.

“Shouldn’t it be obvious?” you ask, scathing. “I'd rather die than let a Kremnoan touch me.”

His mouth twists. “I have no intention to do such a thing,” he says, and the bark of laughter you let out is so cruel that you hear in it the echo of the soldiers who dragged you to your doom.

“Do you take me for an idiot?” you hiss. “That’s what your people do when they win wars. What the Cult of Nikador does to the women they enslave.” The blade is pressed against your jugular, and you feel its edge when you swallow. “Or will you instead bleed me dry and drink my blood from your chalice? That's what your god demands of you, isn't it?”

His eyes narrow. “Foolish. I was going to help you up, but I suppose you prefer being on the ground.”

You watch him, wary, unconvinced, but he turns away. As if utterly disinterested in you, he crosses the threshold to rummage through his personal effects. You spot a golden winecup in his hands when he turns, and he snorts when he catches you looking at it suspiciously. “You have no need to worry,” he says dryly. “Kremnoans prefer pomegranate juice to blood.”

“If only they preferred to be humans rather than beasts,” you retort, and the general’s eyes harden as he pours himself a drink. You wonder, for a moment, if he will strike you, but he seems to temper himself as he takes his draught.

“I hope you prefer living to dying. If you should, then you won't leave this tent tonight. Doing so would mean throwing yourself to those beasts.”

“I'm already in the presence of one.”

His nostrils flare. You can sense his fury, but his voice is taut and restrained when he says, “Better to contend with one beast than twenty, don't you think?”

Your captor walks over, his boots heavy against the ground as he kneels before you. You expect to feel his hands on your neck, or the weight of his body crushing yours into the earth, but instead you are presented with his winecup, half empty.

“Take it,” he says. When you don't move, merely glaring at him, he frowns and sets the drink next to you before rising again. You're left staring at the nectar, and—unbidden—you see the rivers of blood on the temple steps, lacerations in your holy ground. Smell the copper stench of slain men, hear the sorrowful cries of your goddess through the Evernight Veil. Your captor misinterprets your grimace: “You just saw me drink from that yourself. It isn't poisoned.”

You glance at him, uncomprehending.

“...you mean for me to drink this?”

“Yes. Pour some on the sheets, then drink the rest.”

He turns away, as if to leave. You swallow, disbelieving.

“And then?”

“And then you may do whatever you wish, so long as you don't leave my tent. I have a war to wage, so you'll need to entertain yourself for the rest of the night.”

Entertain yourself. Your city is aflame, your temple is desecrated, and he wishes for you to drink pomegranate juice and amuse yourself until he has the time to rape you. As if you can't hear the screams and cries of your city. As if you can't smell the charcoal and death through the fabric of the tent. As if you will be content to lie back and wait for him to cleave you open once he returns.

How much the Kremnoans must hate your people, you think, for their prince to be so cruel to you.

You imagine rushing toward him. You envision grabbing his knife, lodging it into his back, in the soft space between his vertebrae, a path into his heart—but you hold yourself back, because you have no doubt he’ll easily overpower you now. No—if you wish to kill him, you will need to do it while he's unguarded. Likely when he's asleep, or perhaps even inside you, depending on how stupid or drunk he’ll be when he rapes you.

You will need to humour his whims until then.

“How much?” you ask when he is about to leave the tent. When he glances back at you, you add, uncomprehending, “How much do you want me to pour out?” And why?

He shrugs. “However much makes sense to you.” The general glances back, thoughtful, and says, “I’ll see to it that someone else cleans up in here tomorrow,” and then you understand.

You drink half of what remains in his cup, and then you pour out the rest.

Your goddess sends you visions that night, dreams of the past, present, future. You peer upon a child drowning in the sea, a poisoned woman with a golden dagger, a mad king cleaving a statue into fifths. You dream of burning villages, fallen idols, a father slain by his son. Aquila closes his eyes; Georios drowns in shadow; monsters roam the earth. A great fortress looms before you, dark and decrepit, and the young king seated upon its throne is covered in blood. He reeks of the corpses of a thousand temples, of your temple. You cannot see his face, but you recognise the shape of him, mighty and terrible—a man who feasts upon strife and fear. You are lying at his feet, wounded. Your chest is heavy, aching, and your heart bleeds in the hand of Nikador, scarlet dripping through his fingers.

You are crying when you wake up.

You do not need to look outside the tent to know that your city is gone. Aurelia is silent, bereft of life—its buildings gutted, its people slain, its treasures stolen. Death has settled over your home, and in its wake, the Kremnoan legion prepares to leave.

The soldiers sent to disassemble your captor’s tent all bear white caps. They must be helots, the children of slaves; you have met a few of them during your time as an acolyte, watching them trailing after the rare Kremnoan master who would sometimes seek supplication at your temple.

You used to pity them for their station; now, they pity you.

The helots give you sorrowful looks as they strip the bed of its red-stained sheets. They speak gently to you when they give you water to wash your face and thighs. They try to counsel you, tell you that Prince Mydeimos is the best person who could have stolen you. He is just for a Kremnoan warrior, they whisper, show the soldiers grace and you'll see, and then they put you in chains.

You do not show the Kremnoan army any grace. You glare at every hoplite who lays eyes on you, and you refuse to bow your head for any of them. On the long march back to Castrum Kremnos, they study you like you are an animal. Some of them look at you with wonder—for you are a divine oracle in the flesh—some with shameless curiosity—for it has spread like wildfire that you have been defiled by the Crown Prince Mydeimos, who has never taken a woman as his plunder—and some with unadulterated glee. They pester you and the other prisoners-of-war, and you recognize them as the animals who sacked your temple and burned your olive groves.

“Has Prince Mydeimos given you a Kremnoan welcome?” they ask in their dialect, mocking. Has he told you what your life will become? Do the men behind you know that their priestess has been ruined, or are they too stupid to understand the Kremnoan tongue?

“HKS,” you retort, and their faces fall. They look at one another, aghast.

“What did you say?” one grits out the Aurelian dialect, and you cast him a cool glance.

“HKS. I called you a hyena—or are you too stupid to understand the Kremnoan tongue?”

You do not expect to be struck. A hand cracks across your cheek; the pain is blinding. You are on the ground, knees in the dirt, reeling. The prisoners behind you are crying for their priestess; the memory-ghosts of the acolytes behind you are screaming for help; the olive trees behind you are turning to charcoal and dust; the city behind you is burning, burning, burning. Oronyx will never let you forget this, nor any other memory.

“What is this?” a voice snarls, and time freezes.

The procession has come to a halt. The hoplites are suddenly children, caught red-handed with a broken toy. The offending soldier swallows, and you feel some semblance of glee. The Cult of Nikador is famed for their obsession with order and with glory. It is taboo among their people to touch another’s spoils, and suicide to try it with one’s superiors. Killing the slave of the Crown Prince would be the same thing as stealing his belongings or breaking his sword—acts of impudence punishable by death.

He stutters: “She—the priestess… she was out of line, Your Highness, mocking us—”

“And you were not out of line for touching her?”

The offending soldier looks at the ground beneath him. Sweat beads his temple. “I… forgot myself. I apologize, Your Highness.”

Your captor is not placated. His gaze roams the bystanders, scalding. “Should any other man be foolish enough to strike the priestess,” he booms, “I will cut off his hand myself. I have claimed her as my war prize, and no one else shall touch her. Do you understand?”

The yessirs are immediate. Unanimous. The general is restless still. He turns to you, the edge of his voice now muted, but still present. “Can you stand?”

I will slit your throat someday, you think as you look up at him. “Yes, my lord,” you reply demurely. “He merely struck my face. The rest of my body is untouched.”

“Then you will ride upfront with me,” he declares. “I will not have my spoils within the reach of anyone else.”

You end up next to him in his chariot, which makes you want to claw off your skin—to be so far from your worshippers, and so close to your captor. You turn your cheek to him, throbbing and bruised, but he deigns to speak with you anyway.

“Tell me,” he asks brusquely, “do you have a death wish? Or are you just a fool? Though even fools usually know when to hold their tongue.”

“I know too many tongues to hold them all, I'm afraid,” you reply neatly in the Kremnoan dialect, and your captor gives you an incredulous stare. You pointedly look ahead, eyes unwavering on the winding road to the City of Strife. “I am the High Priestess of the Aurelian Cult of Oronyx. I will not be cowed by a gaggle of idiots.”

“You are very proud for someone currently wearing chains,” the general remarks.

“And you are very cruel for someone who will someday wear a crown.” You pause then, thinking of your dreams before gambling: “Though a man who plans to kill his father could only be cruel.”

Your captor falls silent. You glance at him, mouth curling in satisfaction as you catalogue his reaction. His features are stoic, and someone with a lesser eye for expressions—someone not practiced in the art of telling fortunes and giving counsel—might miss it, but it's clear as day to you: your captor is ungrounded.

Disturbed.

“I know not what you mean,” he says coolly, and you raise a brow.

“It’s no use lying to me, you know,” you bluff. “Have you somehow forgotten that your war prize is an oracle? That is why your men were so obsessed with staking their claim on me.”

The prince remains composed despite your goading. “...so the rumours of your visions are true.” He studies you. “There were almost children or elderly in your city when the walls fell. Nearly no women. And the Aurelian soldiers… it was as if they knew all our plans.” At your silence, he concludes, “It was you, wasn't it? You foretold our attack and warned them.”

“It seems that the future king of Kremnos is a clever one,” you say dryly.

“And the High Priestess in his hands is a fool.” His jaw clicks. “I am trying my best to keep the wolves away from you, but you seem determined to throw yourself at them.”

You bare your canines with a smile, and you try dangling your newfound leverage over his head. “If I were you,” you reply, “I would be more worried about the wolves who would hunt for you, Your Highness. I’ve heard that King Eurypon and his council threw you into the sea as a baby; I am quite sure they would do the same to you now—unless you kill them first, of course.”

A great deal of being an oracle is guesswork. Oronyx sends you dreams, visions, echoes; people give you hints, gossip, microexpressions. Together, you can get a fairly good grasp on a man’s circumstances. Your captor is no exception: from the way his brows knot, you know that you've guessed true.

His eyes narrow, and he glances back at the rest of the Kremnoan procession, who are too far behind to hear anything. “Keep quiet,” he commands. “Don't think I won't kill you if you are a liability. There are limits to my patience.”

You snort. “I won’t give you away”—not yet—“but it won't be out of fear of death. Kill me if you'd like; I will not cower.”

Your captor makes a noise of displeasure. “I have never met a person so eager to die.”

“Haven’t you?” You arch a brow at the perplexed look he gives you. “Valorous death before glorious return. That’s your way of life, isn't it? You’ve burned my city and destroyed my temple—I will never see a glorious return. By the laws of your own god, there is now only one path left for me.”

You turn your wrists, let the iron chains sing. It occurs to you that you had been dead in your visions—slain by King Mydeimos—but you had not been shackled.

Castrum Kremnos is a prison.

Never have you been anywhere so strange nor frightening. The walls of the fortress climb high enough to eclipse the sun; the streets are crawling with soldiers carrying spears and shields. Every man and woman carries a sword; every child play-fights with a wooden one. Each one of them cheers as their army returns from its campaign, and nearly all of them eye you curiously—the war prize chosen by their famed Crown Prince.

During your long procession into the inner city, all you can hear are the whispers and jeers of the crowd. It is the warriors who are the loudest—the ones who did not put Aurelia under siege and are disappointed to have missed out on the glory of its destruction. They speak about you, about what you must look like beneath your bloodied robes, about how they cannot blame General Mydeimos for capturing you. Any Kremnoan man would want to fuck the High Priestess of their long-time enemy, and that is only truer now that their leader has staked his claim on you. All of them want a turn with the war prize of the Crown Prince.

Your own face remains unmoving, but Prince Mydeimos’ eyes darken. “Hyenas,” he growls, and you have to stop yourself from snorting at the hypocrisy.

The king is said to be senile and half-mad, and his queen died some years back of illness, so the homecoming warriors are greeted by a high statesman, General Krateros. You have heard many tales of him: legendary strategos, shrewd politician, the right hand of King Eurypon. The Seaside States once launched an offensive on Castrum Kremnos and was met with Krateros’ Goldshield Brigade; every enemy soldier was either put to death or bound in chains.

Chains just like yours.

General Krateros gives you a thoughtful look when he meets you, eyes locked on your iron cuffs. “I had a great hand in raising you, Prince Mydeimos, so I know you well,” he says. You’ve heard tell that after Prince Mydeimos was thrown into the Sea of Souls, General Krateros spent years searching for him at the request of his mother, eventually finding him years later in some fishing village. Krateros has ever since served and counselled the Crown Prince—perhaps poorly, for he says, “I did not take you for the type of man to capture a woman as your bounty.”

“Nor did you raise me to be the type of man to throw an innocent to the wolves,” your captor replies evenly, and you stop yourself from rolling your eyes.

No, you think, you are only the type to put a holy maiden in chains.

Your face must give away your disdain, for General Krateros studies you carefully. “Innocent or not, you may do whatever you wish with her, Mydeimos,” the strategos says, his eyes keen on you. “A predator need not worry for his prey other than how to keep it for himself.”

The message is clearly for you—know your place—but your captor appears to take the words to heart. Keeping you for himself is exactly what he does: rather than sending you to the slave’s quarters or some courtesan house, Prince Mydeimos has you stay in his room and orders that no one—aside from his appointed servants—should be allowed an audience with you.

Thus begins your life as the war prize of the Crown Prince.

If you were a different sort of person, you might enjoy the position. The Aurelian soldiers who fought to protect you are likely chained in iron and performing hard labour; the older women who were accosted in your temple are likely being forced to do menial work; the younger ones may have been ushered into brothels. You are instead placed into a beautiful, private chamber, and you are given robes of silk. Your wrists are manacled like every other slave under Kremnoan law, but the chains are gold. You are told to bathe in fragrant water, and the scent of flowers is ever-present on your skin.

You don't mistake any of this as kindness toward you. It is clear that you are not meant to enjoy this opulence; you are part of the opulence. A thing for the Crown Prince to indulge in, a treasure stolen from Aurelia. The time will come when you are raped, and the time will come when he bores of you, and the time will come when you will be killed at the foot of his throne.

All you can do is face your fate with dignity.

An entire moon passes, and your fate does not befall you.

You are unsure why your captor does not hurt you. Perhaps he is busy with making war; the servants say that he stays at the barracks every night rather than coming home. He might be expected to fuck you anyway, but he visits you only once a day for half an hour, and he only ever stays long enough to ask you three questions: Are you eating? Are you sick? What did you do today, while you were alone?

For an entire month, your answers are single words: Yes. No. Nothing. You sit as far away as possible from him, though you do not give him the satisfaction of seeing your fear—you always meet his impassive gaze, your own hard-edged.

Sometimes he tries to speak with you: Are you comfortable? Are you bored? Do you want anything? But most days, he leaves as soon as he can, his jaw tight and his eyes filled with something that edges on discomfort. You start to wonder if he finds you too unattractive to touch, if he is debating whether he should kill you instead of fucking you. But regardless of his intentions toward you, it is clear that he does not care for you.

So it surprises you when your captor one day says, “You have not been eating.”

You give him a long look, wondering if you'd misheard.

“No,” you eventually reply. “I have not.”

“Why?”

Your brow arches. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters.”

“Why?” His expression becomes puzzled—and it aggravates you. You point out, “You are a Kremnoan prince. It should not matter to you if a slave is starving. Or are you worried that I'll waste away before you can fuck me?”

His eyes narrow, and you think you see that hint of discomfort again. “I am worried you will starve to death in my care.”

Your nostrils flare. “I am not in your care. I am your prisoner.”

“I see to it that you are fed and clothed and bathed. Is that not care?”

You snort. “A man who took my home away from me cannot care for me. He can only torture me.”

His jaw tightens. Your captor’s voice measured, but his frustration is palpable: “He can also keep you alive—even though you seem determined to die.”

“Death is a mercy. I would much prefer it to being raped.”

“I thought it would be clear by now that I do not wish to touch you,” your captor says, frowning, and the bark you let out is so loud that he startles.

“Do you think I'd be stupid enough to believe that lie?”

“I think you'd be smart enough to see reality for what it is.”

“Yes,” you reply, voice bitter, “I am smart enough to see the reality of what you have done to my city. And I am smart enough to know the reality of what happens to women after they are captured by the enemy.”

Prince Mydeimos inhales sharply. His eyes flicker with—with something. Something you don't care to identify. Something you quickly decide is disdain.

“Believe whatever you want. Either way, I want to keep you alive.” His eyes narrow in suspicion. “Is it that you want to die? Is that why you aren't eating?”

You give him that fanged smile again. “No, Your Highness, I do not wish to die. I wish to stay alive so that I may someday slit your throat.”

Prince Mydeimos disappoints you when he does not react in kind. “Fine,” he writes off. “You are free to kill me as many times as you want, so long as you eat.” You give him a strange look; he ignores it. “Now, why haven't you? Surely you must want to, if your goal is to live long enough to kill me. Is the food not to your liking?”

A frown. “I don't understand why you care.”

He nods. “So it isn't. Very well.”

You open your mouth, countless questions on your tongue. What do you mean? Why does this matter? Why aren't you using me? Why aren't you hurting me? But Prince Mydeimos leaves, and you are alone again in your prison—untouched, unnerved, unbalanced.

Your conversation with Prince Mydeimos leaves you feeling strange. Perplexed. Nervous. The longer you think of it, the more you wonder why he is taking so long to torture you. You'd been dragged into his tent, fully expecting to be either mauled or violated; over a month later, the worst that has happened is that you have been served unappetizing meals, and that you have spent your days so idly that you have grown bored.

But even if you are idle, you are not unharmed. You still dream of the night of your abduction. You dream of the cries of your worshippers, of the stench of burning flesh, of your olive groves turning to ash. You dream of being pushed to the floor of your captor’s tent, of golden gauntlets cleaving open your legs, of pomegranate-red stains on silk sheets. Sometimes the dreams are so vivid that you wonder if they are actually visions from Oronyx—echoes of a future yet to be played out, or a past that you’ve somehow forgotten.

Whenever you wake from these dreams, you crawl under the bed and spend the rest of the night there, and you spend your day afterward untouched, unnerved, unbalanced.

You are in one of these tense moods the next time you speak at length with Prince Mydeimos, after his usual questions: Are you eating? Are you sick? What did you do yesterday, while you were alone?

“I am trapped in your room, so I did nothing but read your books,” you reply bluntly, picking idly at the chicken on your dinner plate. “Don't you have anything other than war histories, by the way? I should like a romance novel or two. I'd even take a philosophical dialogue over this. Kremnos must surely have a few thinkers who do not write solely about war.”

Your captor stares—perhaps surprised at your sudden chatter, though not displeased by it. Though he does seem perplexed.

“You are not ‘trapped’ here,” he points out, frowning. “I gave you leave some time ago to wander the grounds, so long as you are accompanied by one of the guards I have assigned you.”

“So you say, but not a single one of your guards has thus far dared to let me out.”

Prince Mydeimos frowns. “Why?”

You give him a strange look. “Do you not know the rules of your own land, Prince Mydeimos? Helots are given free movement, and even trusted slaves have some autonomy, but prisoners-of-war are not allowed to wander anywhere except in service of their given task. And my given task is…”

You gesture to the bed, and the prince’s mouth tightens.

“I see.”

You note the displeasure on his face—genuine, a sign of true oversight. “Why would you expect that I'd ever be allowed to roam around as I please?” you ask. “You paraded me around on your chariot as you returned home from war, and you announced me as your plunder to the entire city. Everyone knows I am your prisoner, and everyone treats me accordingly.”

“I have never kept a personal slave, let alone taken one for my spoils,” he says evenly. “I did not think these laws would supersede the orders of a Crown Prince.”

You snort at the sheer absurdity of his answer.

“The Crown Prince of Kremnos has never kept a slave? Your esteemed father has at least half a hundred of them in his personal service, I'd wager.”

“And my late mother did not allow any of them to serve me. She disliked the practice.” His voice is terse, belying something that turns your stomach. You look away, not wishing to think of it.

“Does that matter?” you deflect. “Your Highness, if you wish to ascend the throne and follow in your father’s footsteps, then you'd better get used to keeping slaves. Castrum Kremnos is built on them.”

Prince Mydeimos gives you a hard look. “I will not be the kind of king that my father is,” he says bluntly.

His words carry weight. Suppressed anger. You watch him keenly, interested—suddenly wondering if there is more to Prince Mydeimos’ plans to commit patricide other than self-preservation.

“And why would that be?” you ask.

He raises a brow. “You are an oracle. You haven't seen what he's done for yourself?”

“If I could see whatever I wanted at will, do you think I would be sitting here right now?” you ask dryly, and his brow twitches. His expression is otherwise impassive, but his eyes give away his alarm, and you exploit it immediately: “Worry not, Prince Mydeimos. Whatever secrets you've let slip are safe with me, so long as you do not touch me.”

“I thought it would be obvious by now that I have no wish to touch you.”

“And I thought it would be obvious by now that I am not stupid enough to trust you.” You laugh when he frowns. “No need to pout, Your Highness. You don't need my trust to keep me under control.” You shake your chains. "These are all you need."

He glances at your manacles, his eyes narrowing. “Controlling you is not my aim.”

“Then you are a fool and will make for an idiot king.”

“Surely no more of an idiot than the prisoner calling their captor a fool.” He contemplates you, his eyes suspicious. “...have you truly seen my future as a monarch?”

“No,” you lie. I hope you suffer every moment you sit on that throne, you think, remembering how Nikador will reach into your chest and close his hand around your heart, how you will bleed to death at the feet of King Mydeimos. You have no intention of giving him foreknowledge of his victory over you: you remain quiet, unyielding under his shrewd gaze.

The prince eventually relents, though clearly unconvinced. “I'll see to it that the guards and servants allow you some movement,” he says as he turns to leave. “I will… convince them to overlook the laws.”

His hand is on the door when he hesitates, glancing at the full dinner plate on the table.

“Do you still not like the food here? I had it changed after our conversation some time ago.”

You default to your usual answer: “Does it matter?”

He makes a noise—one that almost sounds displeased. “So it still isn’t to your taste.”

“No. I find the Kremnoan palate disagreeable.”

“Well, then, what should change to make you agree with it?”

You come very, very close to laughing in his face. “You could serve me a dish cooked by the Goddess of the Hearth herself, and it would taste like ash in my mouth because I am a prisoner.”

He sighs, closes his eyes, and you suspect he is silently counting to ten. “...I cannot blame you for your misery,” he finally says, “but you haven’t been eating, and I would prefer it if you didn't starve to death under my care.”

“Why?” Why does this matter? Why aren't you using me?

Why aren't you hurting me?

His voice grows quiet: “Because I do not wish to see any harm befall you.”

The words are so simple. So honest. There is no hint of deception in them, nor in his eyes—which flicker with something that looks so much like pain that even you, with your practised skill of reading expression, find yourself thinking that he feels sorrowful for you. That he feels guilty over you. That he wants to see you safe.

You marvel at what a good liar he is.

Because he must be lying. This must be some kind of manipulation. Perhaps he is afraid of your prescience, or perhaps he plans to use it for his own gain, and this is his way of appealing to you. Or perhaps he wants you to be willing when he fucks you. Some men do prefer that to outright rape; their egos demand it.

There is no other reason for him to come to your room every night and ask if you have been eating, ask if you are well, ask what have you been doing while alone. No other reason for him to say, “You barely touched your food yesterday, nor the day before that. Surely there is something that could be done to make you eat.”

You decide to play along for now. If you will die eventually, you may as well eat better in the meantime.

“More spices,” you say neatly, “and better olive oil. At minimum.”

“Of course,” he mutters. “The oil. I knew it.”

He leaves before you can ask him what he means.

The next day, you are served honey cakes with safflower, grilled fish salted to perfection, and wheat-bread with an olive oil so fresh and thick that you know it can only be an import from the south. The servants deliver to you five texts: three romance novels and two Socratic dialogues. Kremnos has no great storytellers nor philosophers, an unsigned note reads, so you will need to make do with these works from the Grove of Epiphany.

Prince Mydeimos does not visit you, and you find yourself in bed the whole night, three questions echoing in your head.

For whatever reason, Prince Mydeimos continues treating you well. The food is better—you’d even call it mouthwatering, at times—and new books are frequently delivered. He makes fewer stops by your room, possibly because he is busy or perhaps because he is growing disinterested with you. You don't care to ask why.

But as it turns out, he has been trying to find some way around the laws about your movements. He has been failing, too—quite miserably—and his way of compromise is driving you mad.

On the first day you are allowed outside your room, Prince Mydeimos is leading you, taking you for a walk on the palace roofs and parapets. For the first time since being abducted, you feel sunlight and wind on your skin—and you are too annoyed to enjoy it.

“This is your way of allowing me some freedom? Taking me out so you can walk me like a dog? I won't bark for you, you know.”

Prince Mydeimos clears his throat, pointedly avoiding your stare. If you didn't know better, you'd call him embarrassed.

“Because you are a prisoner,” he explains tersely, “I have been strongly advised against letting you wander the grounds unless it is to fulfill your assigned job as my companion.”

“You mean, as your whore?”

Prince Mydeimos looks so offended that you nearly laugh. “As a concubine.”

“Use whatever word you want—a slave you fuck can't be anything other than a whore,” you point out evenly. Your captor gives you a look of mild pain, but it is gone before you can unravel it.

“Well, then, it is a good thing that I will not be touching you,” he retorts. “Regardless, I cannot let you wander without drawing undue attention to myself”—a poor idea right before a regicide, you infer—“but I may eventually be able to let you move freely without me if we are able to convince people that you are serving me willingly. Not as my prisoner, but as my lover.” His mouth slants. “This would require you to give the impression of enjoying my company, however.”

“Then I suppose I will be trapped forever in your quarters,” you reply instantly. When his expression sours, you add, “Worry not, Your Highness. I do not much like the sights of Castrum Kremnos anyway.” Your eyes flick over the strange innards of the city—the high walls hiding open skies, the stone paths barren of any flowers or shrubs, the constant thunder of marching hoplites and proud salutes. The sword of Nikador hanging over the fortress gates, sharpened by the souls of countless slain Kremnoans.

This city runs on war. Hungers for it. It makes your heart pound, has you hearing the screams of your worshippers as the Kremnoans flood through the gates of Aurelia. Gone forever are the musicians who strung on their lyres every morning and night; gone are the streets of laughing children who would always ask you to fix their toys; gone are the olive groves full of birdsong and gossiping women.

Gone is everything that you love.

“You might like it better within the city,” your captor tries to reason, “or if I can someday take you beyond the walls and into the settlements—”

“—then it will still never be home.”

Prince Mydeimos has the grace to stay quiet, for which you are glad.

“...your home,” he says eventually, “what was it like?”

What was it like, before I took it away from you?

You shrug, feeling a dull ache in your chest that you'd rather die than show him.

“Peaceful. Kind. The people were nicer. The music was lovelier. The food was better.”

You remember the flavour of the dishes that the women in the neighbourhood always made for you, the figs and apples and olives that the farmers always brought to the temple, the simple but sweet breakfasts that you would have with the other acolytes—eat up, my love, the older ones would always laugh, eat your fill!—and then all you taste is ash in the sky and copper between your teeth and the acrid, nauseating stench of human flesh burning, burning, burning.

You close your eyes to the looming walls of Castrum Kremnos—a prison from which there is no escape.

“None of it should matter to you, of course,” you add lightly.

Because no matter how much Prince Mydeimos denies it and no matter how gently he treats you, you are just a bed-slave—and Castrum Kremnos does not care about its slaves. The burning of your home will become naught but ink in their war histories—a paragraph if you are lucky, a footnote if you are not. You are merely one massacre in a thousand years of them. Your death will be one casualty in hundreds of millions.

But you return to your quarters later that night, and you see another book delivered—an Aurelian play, wildly popular a few years back—and you notice a lyre on the nightstand, and your meal tastes just like the ones the grandmother next door always brought over to share. You realise that your captor must have sought out an Aurelian helot or slave to make it, that he must have gone out of his way for it. You ask silently: Why does this matter? Why aren't you using me? Why aren't you hurting me? And you answer for him: He is lying to me, he is manipulating me, he wants me willing when he rapes me.

But you eat your entire meal anyway, and then you crawl into bed and cry.

A fortnight later, Prince Mydeimos discovers that you sleep with a knife under your pillow.

It is a harmless thing, sharp only enough to cut the steak that you'd been fed. It brings you comfort nevertheless. After seven days of your mantra—he is lying to me, he is manipulating me, he wants me willing when he rapes me—you couldn't help but take it. If he is stupid enough to touch you, you will use it to make it as painful for him as possible.

The Crown Prince is sitting on a chair when you return from the bath. He is playing with your little knife, spinning it a hand. His expression betrays neither anger nor displeasure—though there might be a hint of disappointment. Why, you would not know.

“You are afraid of me,” he remarks.

“No,” you lie. “I do not fear you. I abhor you. All the books and Aurelian dishes in the world cannot change that.”

It is slight, but Prince Mydeimos nods. His shoulders bear a heavy weight suddenly, and you avert your gaze. You don't want to see him looking weak, looking human. He is your captor and nothing but your captor: the man who laid waste to your home. He is the heir to a millennia of Strife.

Fortunately for you, he soon returns to his usual, stoic countenance. “You really expect to hurt me with this?” he asks.

“I would try my best,” you say tersely, “if it came to it. I would hurt anyone who tried to touch me.”

You nearly shift under the weight of his gaze, but you manage to contain your discomfort. You return his stare coolly—you don't scare me, Son of Gorgo—until his hand drifts to his waist. He reaches for a sheathe dangling from his belt, and you recoil immediately, expecting the sharp kiss of his blade. But there is no blow, no knife across your neck nor lodged within your heart. He merely holds the weapon out to you, presenting its golden hilt.

“Take this,” he offers. At your hesitation, he adds, “This is not some trap. I am gifting this to you.”

Even as you snatch it, you ask, “Why?”

“Because I think it's wise for you to have some kind of weapon—a real one, not an eating utensil.” He glances at the door. “The palace is full of guards and soldiers, and now that I have begun taking you outside, some of them have seen you and grown… overly curious about the High Priestess of Aurelia.”

Anyone would want a turn with the war prize of the Crown Prince himself, you remember them saying.

“But I am yours,” you point out, and when Prince Mydeimos looks at you, startled—or disconcerted?—you add, “your slave, I mean. By law, I belong to you. They cannot touch me without facing the wrath of the crown.”

He scowls. “If only the men here were so easy for me to control. Then I would not need to keep you here and worry about…” The prince's brow knots as his voice drifts off, and then he shakes his head. “Nevermind.”

You don't want to know what he had been about to say. You don't want to hear him pretend to feel concern over you. You do not want to think that he may be keeping you here for any reason than to fuck you. He is lying to me, he is manipulating me, he wants me willing when he rapes me: this is your mantra as you study the blade. It gleams in the candlelight, gold like his hair in the fire of the invasion, and its weight is familiar—the weight of the dagger you tried to slit your own throat with, you realise.

It is light, you notice now. The blade sits easy in your fingers, moves for you too gracefully. You should not be able to hold the weapon of a grown man so easily. “This was made for a woman,” you realise. “And not a very strong one.”

“Not strong in terms of brute strength, no. But she was swift. Deadly.”

You are neither strong nor swift, but you can imagine waiting for the right moment to strike—when he's drunk or sleeping or inside you. You'd run this across his neck. Bleed him dry before he can bleed you.

“You're not worried about me attacking you with this?” you ask, and he snorts.

“Would I be afraid of a kitten with sharp claws?” At your sour look, he either mocks or consoles you—you cannot tell which—“Don’t feel too poorly. Most people in this world could not touch me; I am invulnerable.”

“Invulnerable?”

“Immortal,” he clarifies. “Any wound I take heals without a scar; any death I die reverses without fail.”

“Ah… because of the Sea of Souls, I presume.” You remember the child in the waters of the Styx, the way he cried and cried and cried—and you push away the memory. How many babies have wailed as the Kremnoans marched on their homes? Countless. Countless in Aurelia alone. Your goddess has shown you enough memories for you to know, and sometimes the images blend with the massacre of your worshippers.

A massacre that your captor led.

“So there is no way to kill you,” you remark, voice now subdued.

“You sound disappointed.”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

Something in your captor’s eyes flickers, something that makes you look away again. He is lying to me, he is manipulating me, he wants me willing when he rapes me. You cling onto all the visions that your goddess sent you: King Mydeimos is seated on his throne of blood; the claws of Nikador are cutting into your heart. Aurelia is still burning, burning, burning. As long as Oronyx is alive, it will never stop.

No olive oil, spice, nor book will ever change that.

Prince Mydeimos leaves for a time. Okhema—the greatest enemy of the Kremnos—has launched an assault on the city, and it is his duty to defend it. You can hear the distant cries of war from your room, the thunder of marching troops and the roar of terrible men. You hide in the sheets and try not to think of dying Aurelia. You pray for every Kremnoan soldier who invaded your home to perish, to receive the valorous death for which they long.

You play no songs. You receive no books. The food tastes like shit.

For a single night, you think you have been granted your wish. There is a breach into the city, and the bells toll in emergency. The guards tell you to stay in your room no matter what—any Okheman soldiers would desire you, would defile you, and there will be no hope for you if they steal you away, the prized concubine of their greatest foe—and then they leave to join the fighting.

You hide under the bed. You clutch the golden dagger that Prince Mydeimos gave you and you hold it to your breast. You think of all the hands on you as you were dragged from your altar from the Kremnoans, the way they jeered at you and threatened to violate you. If the Okheman soldiers do the same, Prince Mydeimos will not be here to save you—

Save you?

No, he didn't save you. Your captor merely stole you for himself. He is slaughtering the enemy soldiers right now, massacring them the way he did your people. He is taking prisoners of war. He will feed them nicely and send them beautiful novels and texts. He will lie to them, manipulate them, and wait until they're willing.

Or he could be dead.

Of course he's not dead, you idiot, you tell yourself, as soon as you have the thought. He will live long enough to kill you like in the visions, and anyway, he is immortal.

There is no use hoping he is dead—for that is your hope. That he will someday be gone from this world, and that he can never again take away someone's home. That you will have the chance to slit to his throat at least once before he kills you. That you will have the satisfaction of seeing him die before Nikador takes your heart.

There is nothing else you are allowed to hope for.

The fighting ends a few nights later, and your captor returns soon after the bells of victory toll.

Prince Mydeimos is invulnerable, but he looks worse for wear. His armour is scuffed, shattered in a few places. His hair is a mess, sweat and dirt matting it, dulling the gold. The whole of his body—from his legs to the bare expanse of his chest—is covered in a thin layer of soot.

His shoulders relax when he sees you, and you try your best to ignore it.

“You won, then?” you ask. You are in bed, seated in the far corner. The sheets are pulled up to your neck, hiding away your chest and bare arms. The handle of your knife is warm in your palms, comforting.

Prince Mydeimos does not miss the way you clutch it.

“Yes,” he says, voice heavy. There's a tinge of fatigue marring his stoicism when he replies, “Are you disappointed?”

“No.” His eyes flick to yours, belying a surprise that you decide to kill: “I am an oracle. I knew you would not perish in this battle.”

“...of course.” He closes his eyes, counting to ten again. You study him as he tempers himself, wondering why he has returned to you when neither of you enjoy each other’s company.

“Why are you here?” you ask. “Shouldn't you be taking a bath? Enjoying libations with the other soldiers? Toasting the king?”

“I will join the others later,” he says. “I came here first for the same reasons as always.”

Are you eating? Are you sick? What did you do today, while you were alone? The prince stands at the threshold as he asks his three questions, watching you carefully. It occurs to you that he must have just come from battle, that his first desire afterwards was to check on you, and you drop the sheets but you also look away.

“I am not ill, and I reread some of the books you sent me,” you reply, because you would rather die than tell him that you hid under the bed. “And as for the food…”

Prince Mydeimos glances at the untouched slop on your plate, then frowns.

“My apologies,” he says. “Now that I've returned, I will be sure to make you proper meals. I know the servants here do not make food to your liking, so—”

“What do you mean, you'll make them?” you interrupt. At his blank stare, you say, “Isn’t it the helots who cook all the meals here?”

“They cook for most of the palace. But for your meals, it has nearly always been me—ever since I noticed you were not eating.”

You stare, wondering if you've somehow misheard him. “But…” You swallow, and it feels painful. You don't want to look at him. “That can't be true. There have been Aurelian dishes—it must have been an Aurelian who made them. A slave, or maybe a helot…”

“I learned the recipes myself,” he says simply, “though I did ask an Aurelian to sample it first, an old woman who sells spices in the city. She made sure the flavour was right.”

You want to laugh—or cry? The thought of the Crown Prince of Kremnos bent over a cookbook, sweating at a stove, is so absurd that you don't know what to make of it. “Why would a master cook for his slave?

He shrugs, though you don't miss the way he clears his throat. “I enjoy cooking, and I prefer to make my own meals. It is simple enough to cook for two instead of one.”

“You enjoy cooking,” you repeat flatly, staring.

“Is that so strange?”

“Yes.” He’s not meant to be human. He's an animal who feasts on strife and blood. He lies to you, manipulates you, waits until you're willing. But now you are imagining him going out of his way to find southern olive oil, or thinking on which cut of meat to buy from the butcher’s, or squinting at an Aurelian recipe and wondering where to get cassia, and he isn't supposed to be human but monsters don’t enjoy such quaint things.

“Why would you even know how to cook?” you ask—weakly. “You were raised to be a soldier, a king.”

“I learned as a child, before I returned from the sea,” he explains. “A fisherman’s wife taught me how after I saved her husband from the Sea of Souls. Though they banished me from their home after they learned I was Kremnoan.”

You can't look at him anymore, after that.

A few days later, you are served milopita after dinner.

It is well-made. Prince Mydeimos was generous with the cinnamon, and the apples are fresh. The yogurt is thick. The olive oil is that expensive, southern variety, the one that the old Aurelian woman in the city likely picked out for him. It comes with a cup of pomegranate juice and a bottle of goat’s milk, which you don't touch—paired with the cake, it is too sweet.

You catch yourself thinking that Prince Mydeimos must have a sweet tooth, and then you kill the thought.

The prince comes to visit, which he does not often do nowadays. The Chrysos War has entangled Kremnos into so many battlefronts that he is now always in demand as a general, and all the meals have gone back to being untouchable. But the books keep coming, and now there is sheet music as well. You are slow to read the music and your fingers are even slower on the lyre strings—you have not played much since you were a child, when you were taught as part of your training as a hiereia—but it is enough to occupy you.

You'd been wondering if you would be left alone forever when you received the cake.

He comes to you at night. Steps inside as always, closes the door to block out any listening ears. Leans against the wall, as if trying to take up as little space as possible. This is a constant habit of his; you briefly wonder if he does it so as not to make you feel threatened, and then you kill the thought.

You try not to look at him.

“You ate the cake,” he says, in a calm but distinctly satisfied way.

“Yes. It was quite good.” Sweet on your tongue, nothing like bitter copper between your teeth. You can't believe how sugary the apples are. You can't imagine this cold prison of a city, this home of warmongers, having anything like an orchard—yet they must exist here, for Prince Mydeimos to have gotten fruit so fresh and ripe.

Are the orchards here as peaceful as the olive groves back home? The cake was certainly as good as what you had in Aurelia—something close to what the grandmother next door would make for you. She would serve hers with tea, though, and you'd sit outside her quaint home and watch the children run by, playing. Be careful, my loves, she would say to them as they ran up and down the street. Take care not to fall.

Your heart aches as you think of her.

“I have not had any sweets in a very long time,” you say, trying not to let your voice sound tight.

“Nor have I. It has been too busy for me to bake, and I generally avoid desserts—they are unhealthy—but I made them today.”

“Why?”

“Well”—Prince Mydeimos looks away, clears his throat—“I have not been by in quite a while. I could hardly come empty-handed.”

He is mannered, you think. He wants to show you hospitality. He is treating you as if you are an esteemed guest, as if he enjoys your company, and perhaps that is why he didn’t make you into his personal attendant or a labourer; it is because guests aren’t meant to work in the palace, and—

—and now you're killing the thought.

You must kill these thoughts. You are not his guest; you are his slave. He is not a human; he is your captor. The only reason he hasn’t assigned you any menial tasks is because he wants to make it clear to others that you only have one purpose here: to be a hole for him to fuck, and no one else.

He conquered your city. Sacked your temple. Ruined your home. He will ruin your body too.

“I am a slave,” you murmur. “You do not need to come with anything for me.” You should not be giving me things. You should be taking everything from me. “There is no need to treat me so graciously.”

“What, would you prefer that I torment you?”

“I would prefer you to be honest about your intentions.”

He raises a brow. “And what are my intentions supposed to be?”

You finally take a sip of your pomegranate juice—red and tart and sweet, it tastes like the night you were stolen from your temple—and then you rise from your seat.

Prince Mydeimos is startled when you make your way to him, slow but sure. You have never gone to him willingly before, it occurs: you have always been taken to him by force, dragged by Kremnoan men or compelled by chains. Perhaps he is taken aback by it, or startled by the look you give him—the one you use on worshippers who have incurred the wrath of the Titans—for he presses himself even further against the wall.

There is little space between the two of you when you stop. His face is impassive as ever, but you can hear his breath hitch.

“You like your women willing, don't you?”

His face creases. “What?”

“You like your women willing. The freedmen and the slaves alike, I'm sure. You think that if you ply me with gifts and treats, you will also be able to ply open my legs.”

Your captor watches you in alarm, in discomfort. Probably startled at being found out. “...that's not—”

“It won't work, you know. No matter how kind you are to me, you will always be the man who burned my city and sacked my temple. You will always be the beast who dragged me from my altar and into your bed. If I ever spread my legs for you, it will only be because they are held open by chains.”

His jaw tightens. “You've misunderstood my intentions.”

You laugh, light but cruel. “What, are you waiting for a better time to kill me instead? I know you Kremnoans like to hunt people for sport. Are you toying with your prey right now?”

You see it in his eyes when he snaps.

“Is it so hard to believe that I simply wish to treat you well?” he grits out. “That there is at least one person in Kremnos who finds senseless violence disagreeable? That a Kremnoan man could see an innocent woman about to be torn apart by hyenas and wish to save her? Or do you see us all as mindless animals?”

“I am sure there are some of you who behave like humans, but I don't think they would include the Crown Prince of all people. You lead a nation of warmongering beasts—you ride into battle at their helm.”

His nostrils flare. “My people depend on me. It is my duty to protect them from all those who want Kremnos fall.”

“And protecting your city means massacring cities? Sacking temples? Dragging holy maidens out from their temples to be raped?” Your captor falters, but you are too angry to take any joy in it. Too angry at the hypocrisy, at the golden chains, at the city that is forever burning behind you. “If you were really so kind, why would you even have come back to Castrum Kremnos in the first place? Even if you were a child, surely you knew you were going to be joining an army of monsters.”

“Because I wanted a home,” he snaps, and his voice is so harsh that you flinch. He breathes sharply as you step back, and you watch as he struggles to control his—rage? It must be rage. It can't be hurt.

It can't be grief.

“...a home,” you repeat.

“Yes, even a monster like me would desire a home. I spent my first seven years drowning in the Sea of Souls and the next several being cast away by countless families simply because of my heritage—do you think that was an existence I enjoyed?”

You don't know how to reply. You wish to recall the memories of your burning city, your visions of being slain, but all you can remember now is the baby you saw in your dreams—the one who was tossed into the sea, drowning, drowning, drowning. Is Prince Mydeimos forever being dragged into the tides, just as how you are forever being dragged from your altar?

Does Oronyx force him to remember, too?

Prince Mydeimos does not wait for your response. He walks back to the door, terse. Cold.

“If you are so aggrieved by my presence,” he snaps, “then I won't torture you with it any longer.”

He slams the door on the way out.

You and Prince Mydeimos do not see each other for a fortnight after that.

The moons behave strangely while he is gone. Night is always odd in Castrum Kremnos—too long and too inconsistent, as if Oronyx is struggling against something volatile, a presence that is not Aquila. Still, you can usually see at least one of her two moons—one gold and one red, one always waxing while the other wanes. But for an hour, they blink out of existence entirely, and your blood chills at the sight. At the omen.

Prince Mydeimos, you think immediately, is he dead?

Of course he isn't dead. He will live long enough for you to slit his throat as many times as you wish. He will live long enough to kill you afterward, to give you your valorous death without chains. He will live long enough to offer your heart to Nikador, who will devour it and drink your blood.

But every time you imagine it, all you can hear is his voice in your head, irritating and persistent every night—

Are you eating?

Are you sick?

Your home, what was it like?

I wanted a home.

I worry for you.

You tell yourself to kill the thought. You must kill all these thoughts. You must not believe that he worries for you, even though you are practised in the art of reading faces and all you can ever see in his is plain honesty. You are not allowed to hope that you are right, let alone hope that he is alive.

The only thing you are allowed to hope for is to someday slit his throat before he kills you.

The morning after the moons disappear, Prince Mydeimos returns to you. You are surprised when he walks in—he has never visited you so early in the day—and immediately, you want to say something to him.

But you don’t know what.

The both of you stare at each other, and he seems to struggle equally with his words. All you can think about is your last encounter, and he is likely doing the same.

“Why are you here?” you finally ask—not unkindly. Prince Mydeimos startles at your voice.

“I…”

He hesitates. His eyes, gleaming in the morning sun, are underlined by darkness. They're bloodshot, too. He has not slept, you realise.

“Did something happen last night?” you guess, remembering the two moons and how they flickered out like dying flames.

“Perhaps.”

Prince Mydeimos’ expression falters. You want to look away, but you know now the movements of his face well enough to understand what you should not believe—

I worry for you.

You think of the bells of victory tolling, how soon he came to see you thereafter. “Did you come to check that I was alive?” you ask softly.

His voice is quiet, too: “Perhaps.”

You stare at the stack of books on the table, which has grown so high over the past two months that you always wonder if the whole thing will collapse. The war histories are at the bottom of the pile, read so long ago, but you remember them well—the facts alongside the propaganda. The Kremnoans like to perpetuate the myth that they are incapable of fear, but you think that Prince Mydeimos is failing to maintain this illusion.

“Was what you encountered as frightening as the Okhemans?” you ask.

Were you worried that it would harm me?

“...perhaps.”

Your brow arches. “Is that the only word you know now, Your Highness?”

His uncertainty disappears, replaced by a usual annoyance, and the tension finally breaks. “There is only so much information I can share with a prisoner of war.”

“You have already given away your plans to commit patricide—I do not think any information could be more sensitive than that,” you say flatly. He frowns.

“Oronyx told you what I will do, not me.”

“You could have lied or played dumb about it, at least.”

“Why would I try to lie to an oracle? You said yourself it would be meaningless.”

“Plausible deniability in case anyone overheard. You simply could have written me off as mad had I tried to reveal your plans, you know, it's happened before to oracles who foretell tragedies…” Your mouth slants. “You are not very skilled in the art of manipulation, Your Highness. You won't survive the court for very long after you ascend the throne, at this rate.”

“I can survive it well enough,” he says curtly. “I'm alive right now, aren't I? Though I'm sure that disappoints you constantly.”

“No, I'm glad for it.” He blinks. “If I am going to slit your throat, you will need to live long enough for it to happen.”

He snorts. “Of course. I look forward to the day.” Prince Mydeimos looks at you then—scrutinizing. “You will need to stay alive too. Have you been eating? Have you been healthy? What have you been up to while I was gone?”

“I have been eating, and I am not ill. Terribly bored, but not ill.”

He frowns. “Bored? What could you possibly want for, with all that I have given you?”

You give him a long look, sensing an opportunity. “Well…”

He scrutinizes you. “What is it? Better food? More books? Another instrument, or a sharper weapon? I have an entire library at my disposal, plus the royal armory. Name whatever it is you want.” His voice is impatient, but his shoulders are relaxed, weightless. You can't it in yourself to deny the truth: he is relieved that you wish to demand something from him.

It makes you want to crawl under the bed.

“No,” you say, subdued. “I don't want any of that.”

“Then?”

Why do I matter to you?

Why aren't you using me?

Why aren't you hurting me?

“I want answers.”

There are no temples dedicated to Oronyx within Castrum Kremnos.

It is unsurprising. All citizens in Castrum Kremnos worship Nikador, and they war with other gods as often as the Strife Titan himself does. Nevertheless, the main palace has a few shrines dedicated to Oronyx. As much as the Kremnoans like to wreak havoc in the cities of other gods, all deities have their uses, especially Oronyx. It makes you bitter; the Goddess of Time sends enough visions for you to know that the use of her powers is painful for her, and you are certain that Kremnoans do not recompense her with any blood sacrifices.

You do, though. The Aurelian Cult of Oronyx has always honoured its goddess well. If Prince Mydeimos had brought you to a temple, you'd have also asked for a goat and sacrificed it. But as it is instead only a shrine, the only thing you can offer is your own blood.

At night, while the torches are burning low and the windows let through the dim light of the red moon, Prince Mydeimos takes you to the largest shrine of Oronyx. Her altar there is waiting for you—an alcove of cobalt and gold holding within it an azure light, its glow otherworldly. The Crown Prince is startled when you pull out a dagger and steady the blade over your hand; he reaches out and grabs your wrist, stopping you before you can wound yourself.

“What are you doing?” he says tersely. At his alarmed stare, you give him a blank look.

“I am about to appeal to Oronyx for her wisdom,” you explain, “and I will offer my blood in return.”

He gives you a dubious look. “Oronyx demands blood sacrifices?”

“No, but my temple provided them to honour her.” Your brow arches. “Don't tell me that this disturbs you. Your god not only gains strength from every Kremnoan death, he also demands blood sacrifices from other people. Don't think that the world has forgotten your tradition of drinking the blood of your slain enemies."

“We no longer engage in that practice,” Prince Mydeimos retorts immediately. “And in any case, what the Cult of Nikador does is entirely different.”

You squint at him. “What, so blood sacrifices are only acceptable when you do them?”

He sighs. “I only mean… if the god you follow does not demand violence outright, then I would not wish to see you inflict it upon yourself needlessly.”

You look at him, flabbergasted. “You cannot expect me to believe that a Kremnoan would be so averse to a little blood.”

“It isn't the blood that's the problem.” He sounds irritated. “It’s that it's your blood.”

You stare, watching his eyes for some tell of a lie—but you can find none. “You’re being serious,” you realise.

“Yes.”

“You really don't want to see me hurt.”

“Truly.”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Not even by a single hair.”

Part of you is aggravated—this is shameless hypocrisy from a man who led an army into your city—but mostly you’re bewildered. You shake your head, turning away.

“I can't believe I ever thought you'd drink my blood,” you mutter, wresting yourself from his grip. “Your Royal Highness’ delicate sensibilities will need to tolerate this. Prophecy isn't cheap, you know.”

Prince Mydeimos finally relents; he crosses his arms as he watches your ritual. Your blade—his blade—presses into your palm, sinks into the flesh and glides along your heart line until scarlet is welling around it. You bear the pain silently; it is nothing compared to what Oronyx must feel whenever her powers are used by force.

Your blood drips onto the altar, and its cyan light flares violently. It is brighter than the golden moon, maybe even brighter than Aquila’s sun, when you begin your incantation. Titan language sounds strange, beautiful but unnerving to human ears; you are unsurprised when Prince Mydeimos shifts in the corner of your eye, uneasy as he listens to you.

O Titan of Time and Night, you say aloud, tell me what my path to freedom is, and show me the true nature of the man who has taken it away from me.

It takes a few moments for the visions to come, but they flash like lightning when they do. You are in the darkness of a decrepit shrine in Castrum Kremnos, standing next to your captor, then—

Daytime. You are somewhere beautiful, with a warm sun above your head and limpid pools everywhere, bathers laughing in the sun. There's a woman with golden hair and sea-glass eyes; she smiles at you, all-seeing even though she is blind, and then—

Nighttime. There are no moons in the sky, and the stars are faded. The city is dying, and you listen to the screams as you watch an unnatural darkness fall upon it. Something is encroaching the palace walls—a dark plague that corrupts all that it touches, a black tide that has been sweeping across the lands. You wish to stay, to lose yourself to it, but the Crown Prince grabs your hand. You can make out his words, just barely: ████ with me to ██████, he says. ███ ██ save you. And then—

Daytime. It is painfully bright where you are now, idyllic. You are watching Mydei. An amicable looking dromas has lowered its head to his palm to eat the feed in his hands. You made Mydei try this—giving the docile beast a treat. You're laughing as you watch him; he looks so startled, out of his depth for royalty. A group of children are spectating as well, giggling uncontrollably at their Crown Prince. You hear yourself: ██ ██ cute… then—

Nighttime. The golden moon is out tonight. You are tired, so tired; you have buried someone, you don’t know who. Mydeimos looks haunted. Your palm is pressed against his cheek, cradling his face in your hands. Your wrists are bare, you notice. His voice is quiet: █ ██ remember ██ ███ ███████ touched ██ ████ this… now, finally—

The end. You are bleeding out at the feet of King Mydeimos. You cannot see his face, but he is malevolent, terrible, and strife runs thick in his ichor veins. Your chest hurts even though your heart is no longer in it, and you are crying, crying, crying—I will ████ you soon, ██ ██, you weep, and now—

It is nighttime, and the torches are burning low in Castrum Kremnos. You are on the floor of a shrine, gasping, your cheeks wet with your grief. Your captor is crouched next to you, his hand on your back—touching you gently, too gently for the man who sacked your city, too gently for the king who will kill you and drink your blood. You pull away from him, terrified, and your captor backs off immediately.

“Forgive me,” he says. “You were—you collapsed, and I only wanted to check what was wrong.”

“I'm fine,” you gasp. “I'm fine. It's just—what I saw, through the Evernight Veil, it was—” Your eyes squeeze shut.

“What? What was it?”

“My future. Your future. I wanted”—you don’t know why you're telling him this, you don't know why you were standing next to him in a beautiful city with a group of joyous children, laughing as he fed a dromas—“I wanted to know if I could trust you.”

“And?”

Your captor stares intently. His eyes burn in the light of the palace torches, in the light of the blazing olive groves, in the light of the golden moon.

It is easy to lose sight of time after peering into the Evernight Veil, for the past, present, and future to blend together. Easy for you to reach out to your captor in Castrum Kremnos, easy to instead see Mydeimos grieving after a burial. He stares at you as you touch his cheek, cradling it. Something is flickering in his eyes, something so painfully human that you cannot bring yourself to ignore it. You can hear him talking to you in the future.

“You can't remember the last time someone touched you like this,” you repeat. At his startled look, you add, “That's what you're thinking, right?”

He jerks back, as if your fingers are scalding. “How did you—”

“That's what you'll say to me,” you say simply, “eventually.”

Prince Mydeimos swallows.

“Does that mean you'll come to trust me, then?”

Now you're at the foot of his throne again, bleeding dry for him—bleeding more than you ever have for your goddess or your city or your people. Your heart pulses in the hand of the Strife Titan, and you close your eyes forever.

“No.”

End Part I

notes: oh my god when I tell you all the suffering I went through trying to write this shitass chapter slfjslfksdfjalsk. between navigating the nightmare of canon lore and a trope that is absolutely out of my wheelhouse, I truly suffered for this story. and I don't think the end product was even that good. regardless, please let me know if you liked it. LOL

as an aside, I'm not sure how obvious it is to people who are reading this blind (as opposed to my followers who've been witnessing my shitposting lol), but mydei is absolutely not into the sexual slavery stuff. he sees you in those golden bdsm chains and feels so uncomfortable that he leaves the room asap. my man is taking immense psychic damage from this situation rip he just wants to make sure you're safe but his palace is forcing him into this wattpad fic situation (i am forcing him into this wattpad fic situation)

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aloudice · 1 month ago

Text

godslayer — ft. mydeimos

your husband is a king who knows little else outside of being a warrior. that is the truth you cling to until slowly, month by month, he makes his way into the cavity of your chest and refuses to leave

word count. ❤︎ 18.2k words — i know, i know. but plssss give it a chance plsss

before you read. ❤︎ female princess/queen reader ; crown prince/king mydei ; arranged marriage ; NOT canon universe + NOT canon compliant - royal/historical au ; mentions of war and politics ; slow burn + falling in love ; lots of bickering LOL ; reader has a (king) father and is implied to no longer have a mother ; sexual harassment but mydei saves reader ; reader drinks alcohol + gets drunk in one scene ; jealous mydei ; fingering ; nipple play ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie ; hand jobs ; cockblocking LOL sorry ; blood and injuries (mydei gets stabbed) ; love confessions and cheesy bantering

commentary. ❤︎ IT IS FINALLY HERE MY GOD. my god. BIG THANK YOU TO @osarina for not only beta reading this fic and fixing WAY too many grammar errors (LOL) but for literally listening and helping me work through every struggle i had with this fic and being 70% of the reason i even finished it. you are my biggest inspo forever ily dearly

You do not remember most of your wedding to Lord Mydeimos.

On the day of your wedding, the beginning of your ceremony goes by like a blur, and you pay little attention. It’s not until Kremnos’s royal advisor steps forward does your reality sink in. You watch wearily as he faces the crowd of people—enough of the Kremnoan commoners have gathered to witness the ceremony, and you feel more like a spectacle than a bride.

“The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!” The Advisor chants.

“The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!” The people of the nation bellow in tow. Men and women—even young children who cannot understand fully what is happening—scream in sync for your union with Lord Mydeimos.

You realize quickly, by just a glance, that your nation of Janusopolis is everything his nation of Castrum Kremnos is not.

Janusopolis is a wealthy land built on the industry of gold. Beneath your fertile soil is the precious metal, and the mines stretch from one side of the border to the other. Trade is easy when you hold such a luxury beneath your soil, and the people of your land have never known what it means to be hungry. But for all its riches, your nation is fragile—small, with a military force that pales in comparison to the other armies of Amphoreus.

Castrum Kremnos is filled with warriors—people who are bred for battle as though they were handpicked by the Gods themselves to fight. There is not one nation in all of Amphoreus that stands a chance against their strength, and yet, the people die of starvation every day. The streets are filled with mothers and fathers who feel the despair of poverty, feeding every small morsel to the hungry mouths of their children before themselves.

It is little surprise to anyone that you form an alliance. Now more than ever, when there are rumors that a war is coming—a war that you cannot fight and Kremnos cannot afford. They linger in the air, thick and heavy, carried through the wind by whispers that slip from court to court. The rumors are not just rumors—you know it by the deepening creases in your father’s brows, in the way his advisors speak in hushed, urgent tones.

Should war come, Janusopolis will not endure on its own for long. And should war come, Castrum Kremnos will not survive on just its strength.

So, when your father offers your hand to Lord Mydeimos for a union, you are not shocked when the crown prince agrees. You have heard rumors of him often, the hushed whispers of a man who is a warrior first and an heir second. A man whose bones are built for battle before his blood runs from a lineage of royalty. He sits beside you now, silent and brooding—in fact, he’s spoken not one sentence to you.

Good, you think to yourself as you glance at him from the corners of your eyes, he does not seem like a man who knows how to speak to a lady.

You’re broken out of your thoughts quickly as a shadow covers your face—the Advisor has returned from facing the crowd, standing over you as you listen to the shouting behind his figure. The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! It’s all you hear. Shouted over and over like a prayer to a God of a land you are unfamiliar with.

Lord Mydeimos’s advisor hands you a blade. The marriage rituals of Kremnos, you find, are as brutal as war itself. You hesitate for a moment before glancing at your father. He stares at you—his precious daughter, whom he loves more than his own life—with eyes filled with sorrow that he does not dare voice. You can practically hear his plea:

If not for Janusopolis, then for me.

Numbly, you take the handle, your fingers tightening around the cold metal. You steal one last glance at your father. The man who has always treated you like a delicate flower, as if you are to be carefully shielded from the harsh storms of winter until spring could smile upon you once more. The man who spoiled you as a princess should be, yet shaped you with the discipline of a future ruler. The man who, until now, has never let the weight of his crown come before his love for you.

But today, he has no choice. Today, he is a king first and a father second.

You carve his face into your memory. You’ll miss it—the days when he was your king, the time when heir to the throne was your title. You are just the Lady of Kremnos now, bound to share the burdens of a new nation alongside a new king. An heir that is not you. You wonder how you will cope with that fact, how you will learn to accept that your birth rights mean little in a new set of borders.

But you give your father a nod, as firm and convincing as you can muster, before gripping the blade tightly and dragging it across your palm.

It stings. You don’t flinch.

Blood wells instantly, deep red against your skin—the same palm that has never known violence, never held a weapon, never bled for anything, now spills heavily on your first night in the strongest nation in Amphoreus.

How ironic, you almost want to say.

Instantly, Lord Mydeimos takes your wrist—he wastes little time. (You’re not sure why you expect it, but a small part of you is disappointed he shows little care for the wound on your palm.) His hands are rough and calloused like you imagined they might be. They feel like the hands of a warrior. You wonder if this blood spilled across your palm is laughable to him. Surely, with a man as strong and fierce and accustomed to battle as he is, he must have felt the warm spill of life across his skin countless times. Whether his own blood or that of others, surely he must know the feeling familiarly enough that this is nothing to him.

He dips his thumb into the dark crimson of your hand and smears a stripe along his forehead. His advisor, slowly, with eyes that do not leave yours, lowers the crown onto your husband’s head. No longer a crowned prince but a king.

The nation cheers. “The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!”

Such a brutal man, you think as you stare at your husband, to have his fate sealed through nothing but bloodshed.

—————

Lord Mydeimos is quiet during your trek to your now-to-be-shared chambers. His first words to you are far from romantic.

“You are not happy with this arrangement,” he says, and for a moment, you think perhaps he is offended by the fact. You realize only a second later that he has little care. He is merely making an observation.

“Unhappy is not exactly the correct term for it,” you mumble, “However, it is no lie that all envision their marriage to be one of love, not political convenience.”

“Then you should have married for love,” Lord Mydeimos responds blandly.

You raise a brow, staring at him as if he has grown two heads. (Surely, the man you just witnessed willingly take your hand in marriage while he becomes king for the sake of his nation could not possibly think you could marry out of love. Surely, he is not so naive when he bears the responsibility of his people entirely on his shoulders.)

“That would not be possible,” you furrow your brows, “I have always prepared myself for a marriage of alliance.”

“Then you should not have such fickle dreams.”

Oh.

Some part of you is more shocked than it is outraged. But then the better part of your emotions takes over completely—how dare he have the gall to tell you what your desires should and should not consist of? You wonder if all warriors are cold-blooded in Kremnos—if they only know their ways around the heart when it is to pierce a blade through the delicate tissue and nothing else. Perhaps to expect Lord Mydeimos to understand the ways around emotions and desires is to lead a blind man into the dark, bare room.

There is nothing for him to grasp his footing and find his way around.

“Forgive me,” you spit bitterly, soured by his dismissiveness, “I did not realize accepting my circumstances meant I could not wish for things to be different.”

“You can,” he says, still infuriatingly detached, “But it would be a waste of energy.”

You have a sharp retort ready on your tongue. Perhaps it’s unwise to speak to a newly crowned king in such a manner, husband or not, but you are too used to the way your father tolerated your every thought. Welcomed them, even. You were never raised to hold your tongue, and the habit will be a hard one to break.

But before you can hiss out your reply, you are interrupted by a maid.

“Your chambers are ready, My Lord,” she tells Lord Mydeimos, bowing slightly before taking her leave. She avoids your eyes entirely, blush dusted across her cheeks as though she has stated a scandalous fact. You realize rather quickly why.

Lord Mydeimos, apart from the stiff nod, seems mostly unbothered—but the tenseness in his neck and shoulders is enough to tell you that even he is not unaffected by everything. You almost want to tease him, but your words die on your tongue as the large doors to what is now your shared chambers are opened by two guards. You follow him inside, and the doors are quick to shut behind you before hurried footsteps echo down the corridor.

There is no one nearby, you realize. You expect as much, of course, but it doesn’t make your skin feel any less hot.

“Well…” you start awkwardly. (You are certain there is a ghost of an amused tug at his lips at that, but before you can properly look, it is gone.)

“Well…?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow.

“I suppose it is customary that we…” You don’t want to say it. What would you say? It is customary that we fuck on the first night of knowing each other so our marriage is properly completed, My Lord? You have little interest in consummating a marriage with him.

But you are not above your duties, and you’re positive that neither is he. Of course, he isn’t, in fact. With an attitude as uncaring and bothersome as his, he sees no issues with doing what is expected of him. He would probably finish with that stupidly straight face of his, too, you think somewhat bitterly.

“Do you not wish to say it?” He finally cracks a small grin as though watching you squirm under his gaze is entertaining to him. You scowl. He has enough tact to go back to looking serious as he continues: “We do not need to do anything.”

“But—”

“Unless what is your wish, of course,” he adds.

You sputter. “I do not care regardless,” you huff, pretending to be as unbothered as he seems to be. (You know, as well as he does, that neither of you are unbothered at all.) “If you wish to complete our marriage, then I will do as you wish.”

“Even if that is not what you wish?” He cocks his head to the side.

“It matters little what I wish,” you say darkly, narrowing your eyes as you pointedly add: “And, I suppose it is a waste of my energy to hope for what I wish, is it not?”

He eyes you for a moment. Something about his gaze makes you feel more bare while being fully clothed than if you were to strip yourself in front of him. He turns abruptly, leaving you to blink in shock before you watch as he begins to pull off his armor, one piece at a time.

Oh. You swallow thickly, realizing what is happening.

“The least you could do,” you start as you walk over to the bed, “is to pretend to be interested in bedding your wife if you are to do so.”

He looks at you, carefully laying his armor on the wooden stand by your bed, before humming, “I will not bed anyone if that is not what they wish. It is distasteful.”

You gasp, offended. “I should have you know many noblemen would not find me distasteful by the slightest—”

“You are not distasteful,” he interrupts. “But taking you against your will would be. We can be husband and wife without such outdated customs.” He pulls back the covers and prepares to settle onto the mattress. “Now, I am off to bed—I have training at sunrise. Which side do you prefer?”

You blink, still processing. He stares expectantly.

“The left,” you murmur.

“Good.” He nods, lying on the right. “I prefer the right. How agreeable.”

With that, he turns and settles under the sheets, leaving you with the privacy of getting ready for the night yourself. You stand there for a moment, utterly shocked, before you collect yourself and despite still being in your wedding robes, slip under the sheets and stay as close to the edge of your side as you can. (There is little need for that, of course—the mattress is large enough that you could fit two more bodies between yours and his, but you spitefully cannot help but leave as much room between you as you can.)

“Goodnight,” he mumbles.

“Goodnight,” you huff in return.

“Do let me know if I hog the blankets—I have never shared the sheets with someone before.”

“No need to fret,” you say matter-of-factly, “If you do, I will simply pull them back.”

He chuckles. You almost wish you could see a proper smile on his face, but you don’t dare turn. “I have no doubts about that.”

────────────────────────

One month into your marriage, you learn that the palace is a lonely place in Kremnos.

At least, it is for you.

You are still learning who your husband is, so he offers little companionship to your lonesome heart. And more often than not, attempting to understand him leaves you with a headache. You still hardly know Lord Mydeimos—in fact, only yesterday, you learned that despite his robes and attire strictly following a red scheme, his preferred color is actually yellow. An absurdly preposterous revelation, you think—you have no understanding of why he would dress the way that he does if he prefers a color so…opposite, but only Lord Mydeimos knows for certain what goes on in his head.

The first person you can consider as proper company is an attendant called Agnes. She is your personal attendant, and her days are reserved strictly to cater to your every need should you require it. Lord Mydeimos has made it very clear that she is to be nearby in case you are in need, and she follows his orders strictly.

Agnes is wonderfully kind. She is skilled in many arts—stitching and embroidery, cooking and baking, and even music. In a few weeks, you have learned the basics of the harp, her best instrument, and she teaches you fondly as she tells you about your husband.

“He is just so stubborn,” you huff, stretching out your sore fingers. “And he has an attitude I cannot even begin to describe—I am certain children must cry at just the sight of him?”

“Actually, they do quite the opposite. Lord Mydeimos enjoys playing tag,” Agnes says as she applies balm along your tender fingers after a lengthy harp lesson, “He does not seem like it, but he does. He is fond of the children who play by the ponds outside of the palace gates.”

“And are they fond of him?” You raise an unconvinced brow, wincing as the blisters on your fingers sting. “He does not seem like someone who knows how to converse well with children.”

“That is partly true,” Agnes chuckles thoughtfully. “He is a tad bit stiff with his words. But the children are indeed fond of him nonetheless, yes. He brings them treats from the palace bakery.”

“Well, at least I can trust that he will not lock me in the dungeons for one wrong move,” you break into a teasing grin. “They say children are a good judge of character. I suppose he has passed that test.”

“What test?” You and Agnes straighten at the sound of Lord Mydeimos’s voice as he enters your chambers, exchanging looks before she clears her throat.

“Nothing, My Lord,” she says evenly, standing up as you follow. “I was simply telling My Lady about what a seasoned warrior you are.”

Your husband does not look particularly convinced, but he nods politely as Agnes excuses herself, leaving you and Lord Mydeimos alone. He walks up to you, glancing quickly at your fingertips as you rub them and wince.

“What has happened to your fingers?” he asks with a frown.

You look at them sheepishly, murmuring quietly, “I have been learning to play the harp from Agnes. My fingers have blistered against the strings.”

“Ah,” he nods, holding up his own gauntlet-clad hands and mumbling, “Perhaps you should consider armory. They are most useful for shielding simple pains. In any case, I have come to speak to you about our trip.”

You blink. Once, then twice, and then finally, you ask hesitantly, “…Our…trip?”

“Yes. We will be departing in two days' time for Styxias to negotiate on military affairs. Should this go successfully, that is one more ally we can tally in case war breaks out. You are to accompany me, of course,” He raises an eyebrow, surprised by your confusion. “Have they not told you?”

“No, they have not…but regardless, you are king,” you point out.

This time, he blinks, unsure exactly what point you are trying to make at all. “Yes…” he says carefully. “And you are queen, which is precisely why you shall accompany me. It is only four nights.”

“I have never had to accompany my father in official matters when I was princess.” You furrow your brows, creases forming in your forehead that he almost instinctively reaches out to smooth. Almost.

“That is because you were a princess,” he muses. “If your father had a queen, it would be customary for her to travel alongside him to the kingdoms of his dealings. It is seen as the polite thing to do, to have both rulers make an appearance.”

“But you will speak on military negotiations. I am of no help in those matters, you know.”

“I am aware,” he says patiently. “That is why you will not accompany me to the negotiations. You will only attend the social gatherings—as I mentioned, it is simply for appearances. However, it would be greatly appreciated if you could glean a piece of intel or two about other nations from the mingling.”

That puts you in a sour mood. Not only will you join him on a four-day trip for no other reason than existing as a sight to bear witness to by the other nobles, but you will be in a nation yet again where you are a stranger to everyone. Lord Mydeimos, the only person you even somewhat know, will be busy with official matters, and that will leave you with nothing to do.

And Agnes has promised to teach you how to sew in the coming days.

Unhappy, you bargain, “Alright, then perhaps Agnes can join us to keep me company while you are busy.”

“That is not necessary.” He waves a hand and denies your request. “Agnes is an attendant, so there is no need for her to join. She shall remain in the palace where she belongs.”

“I’m sure it will be of little difference if the palace is missing just one attendant,” you reason, “And besides, Agnes is my personal attendant, so I’m sure the other nobles will think nothing of it. My father would often be accompanied by his own attendants to make matters simpler for him in regards to—”

“Well, that is the way of Janusopolis,” he interrupts, patience wearing thin. Strictly, Lord Mydeimos adds, “You are in Kremnos now. And in Kremnos, we do not allow our maids and attendants to neglect their duties to join pointless expeditions that they have no concerns with.”

His tone is clipped. Firm. A touch reprimanding like that of a parent scolding a child, and some part of you, underneath the hurt, simmers in rage. One attendant, among hundreds, will make not the slightest dent in the palace’s operation. More frustrating still, Lord Mydeimos leaves you with little say in anything regarding this trip—not whether or not you will go, not what you will do, and now, not even who you will be accompanied by.

Stubbornly, you refuse to accept his terms.

“If you will not allow me the company of Agnes, then I will be most troublesome. Mark my words, Lord Mydeimos,” you warn, “If you do not wish for me to make a fool of this kingdom, then Agnes and I will both join your senseless journey.”

His lips take a dangerous shape, morphing into a hard line that you fear could cut you with how sharp it is. “Is that a threat?” he questions.

“It is but a mere promise of an outcome,” you reply smartly, as though he is dense in the head. (You think he might be, just a tad. To ask a lady that question is to only ask for trouble.)

“Agnes is an attendant,” he says exasperatedly.

“I do not care,” you bite back. “She is also the only one I have befriended in this kingdom, and her position as attendant should mean little compared to the wishes of your wife.”

“She is meant to stay behind palace doors and do her duty. Just as you are to do yours and accompany me as my wife and as Queen. You cannot bend such rules just because you simply wish to do so.”

“And who is the one who set such standards in the first place?” You challenge, “Do not tell me that as king, you do not have the authority to undo the regulations that only a king can put in place? How laughable.”

Lord Mydeimos is becoming impatient. You can tell by the twist of his features and the blazing fire behind his eyes, the light shade of his amber deepening into a dark honey. He is not happy—not with you, not with your attitude, and not with your tendencies to question everything.

And you like it that way. If you do not get your way, you sure as hell will make sure that his way is difficult to enjoy.

“You are your father’s only daughter,” he says through a grumpy snarl, “It is as apparent as the tide’s ebb and flow. Only would a woman who has never known the word no be so maddening.”

“I am simply highly revered where I come from,” you shrug, giving him a purposely haughty smile just to get on his nerves.

It seems to work as he grits, “You are spoiled beyond reason. It is ill-suited for one who carries the burdens of duty.”

And with that, your satisfaction is short-lived—you sputter at his insult, doing a double take while his eyes lighten with amusement at your reaction. He is enjoying this, you realize—enjoying denying you of a simple pleasure all for the sake of his petty, twisted desire for authority. And to question your devotion to your duty, too, is an outrage. You, who married a stranger who knows little outside of bloodshed and brutality, all for the sake of your people, being accused of putting your own pleasure before your duties.

You will have nothing of the sort.

You glare at him, ferocity in your gaze as you huff, “Do not speak to me of duty and obligation when I have left all that I know for the sake of my nation and for the sake of yours. I carry the burden of sacrifice for two lands, not just one. It is not out of line, I believe, to wish my husband would indulge me in a harmless request. But if you must deny me, then so be it. I will pack for our departure—”

He catches your wrist just as you turn to leave. It’s gentle. He’s gentle. You cannot wrap your head around how quickly Lord Mydeimos is able to switch between a stubborn mule and a gentle doe, but carefully, he pulls and spins you to face him, taking a step closer as he studies you thoughtfully for a moment in mild fascination. You do not like it—you feel like an animal under his gaze, cornered in a cage and waiting to see what fate his cruel hands may hold for you.

Except, never do you face a cruel fate. Instead, after a painfully silent moment of being scrutinized under his gaze, he lets out a defeated chuckle—almost a snort, you could even say. Equal parts tired and equal parts amused.

“No need,” he hums. “The attendants will see to it that your belongings for the trip are packed. As for your request…I suppose I could make an exception for my wife. Do not make a habit of thinking you shall always get your way, though.”

You relax in his grip for a moment, staring into his eyes carefully to decipher if he is lying. He is not, you conclude after a moment—and just like that, your anger washes away as fast as it came. You perk up, excitement gracing your features and brightening them.

“Agnes will join me?” You ask to double-check.

“Agnes will join us,” he corrects, exasperated.

“Oh, wonderful,” You bring your free hand up and clap, your other still in his grip. He stares down and watches the motions of your hands, and by extension, his, as it moves with the flow. “I am most grateful, Lord Mydeimos.”

And just to be devious, you lean up, planting a small, mischievous peck to the edge of his jaw before promptly pulling away and brushing past him, excitedly on your way to find Agnes and tell her the good news. Lord Mydeimos stands, paused and tense from shock. After a moment, he shakes his head and rubs his face tiredly, ignoring the heat blooming across the swells of his cheeks and spreading as far as the tips of his ears.

“That woman is a most wicked thing,” he grumbles to himself. “A most wicked thing, indeed.”

—————

Just as Lord Mydeimos had promised, Agnes joins your carriage as you take your leave to Styxias. She is thrilled to leave Kremnos for the first time—it’s abundantly clear by her expression alone, even if she maintains a humble mellowness in both of your presence.

Lord Mydeimos looks tired after all of ten minutes of being stuck listening to the two of you as you converse and giggle endlessly.

“I hear the waters are beautiful in Styxias,” Agnes murmurs. “I am most excited to see if that is true.”

“Oh, they are,” you nod eagerly. “Father had taken me for a ball many years ago. I still remember the water lilies like it was just yesterday that I had witnessed them bloom. They are the most breathtaking sight I have yet to see.”

Lord Mydeimos scoffs. You throw him a withering glare. Agnes sighs as she predicts the argument to come.

“I’d consider them to be mediocre among flowers,” your husband says roughly. “Clearly, you have yet to see the blooming of the flowers that stem from Kremnophilas.”

“Perhaps I have yet to see them because clearly nothing that could make an impression on me has bloomed on the dry soils of Kremnos. There is nothing but cliff and rock here,” you retort.

Lord Mydeimos’s lips press into a firm frown, clearly displeased with your assessment of his homeland. (You are correct, of course. Kremnos is not known for its botanical splendor, and part of the reason for its financial struggles is its dependence on imported crops rather than growing them on its own soil. Something tells you, though, that voicing that particular fact would sour his mood even further.)

“Kremnophila flowers bloom once a year,” he grunts. “They are beautiful. And they were my mother's favorite. There is no sight quite like it.”

“They are rather beautiful,” Agnes nods earnestly. “Lady Gorgo would wear the blooms in her hair during the spring. She was known for being quite a beauty across all the kingdoms.”

You have heard about Lady Gorgo. Lord Mydeimos’s mother was a cherished Queen—your father had spoken highly of her in passing. You know little of the woman who raised your now husband, but the tragedy of her death spread across nations like wildfire.

She was murdered in her own chambers, poisoned by an attendant who had been bribed by a rival kingdom seeking to invade Kremnos. They found her lifeless body on the floor the next morning, and the attendant had vanished without a trace.

(“Truly a shame,” your father had muttered once the news had spread. “Betrayed by her own trusted maid for the sake of another nation. Such an awful way to go. Her son is utterly alone now. May the Gods bless him to be a formidable king some day.”

You don’t even remember the name of the nation that harbored the assassin—it no longer exists. The palace was burned to the ground by Lord Mydeimos’s army, and rumors claim he had been the one to behead the king himself. He was only fifteen at the time. In an act of mercy, he spared the commoners, allowing them to flee to Kremnos. But not a single noble was left alive. Some whisper that he keeps the severed head of the fallen king somewhere in his palace, both as a trophy and a warning: no one is a match for the Kremnoan army.

After his mother’s death, Lord Mydeimos was to take on the nation’s affairs officially. Most believed Kremnos would crumble under a young, inexperienced ruler—that the kingdom would soon fall, an easy target for invasion.

“Perhaps we could acquire Kremnos, Father,” you had said once. “With an unfit future king, surely the kingdom will fall. We would benefit from such a strong army, no?”

“Do not be so quick to gamble on such matters. He is brilliant,” your father had murmured, “Even our best knights were no match in a duel with that boy—he may be young, but he is a godslayer of a warrior. He will make a fine king, I am certain.”)

In the end, your father was right. If not for the raging battle against poverty, Kremnos could easily be the fiercest nation of all.

Godslayer. You still recall the title he’d given your now husband, and you wonder if your father would still call Lord Mydeimos such a title now, or if he regrets handing over his daughter to such a fierce man.

Perhaps not even the Gods know. Not when faced with a man who could slay them in a heartbeat.

“I’ll believe in their beauty when I see them for myself,” you hum. Lord Mydeimos scoffs yet again. Agnes rubs her temples, exasperated by the bickering that seems to follow you both wherever you go.

It is several more hours before you finally arrive in Styxias. You fall asleep midway through the journey, and you’re startled awake by a cool, pointed piece of metal to your ribs. You shriek, flinching away as your eyes fly open.

“We are here,” Lord Mydeimos states in amusement. You realize quickly that the object that assaulted your ribcage was one of his gauntlet-covered fingers—he has enough wit to at least try to hide the smile on his face at your moment of panic.

“You saw no better way to wake me than with such a sharp piece of armor?” you hiss, rubbing your side

He grins, holding out a hand for you as he says through a cocky voice, “No. You are a deep sleeper. Agnes could not wake you after countless attempts—therefore, I took it upon myself.”

“Do not lie to me,” you scold accusingly. “I’m positive you did not even give Agnes the opportunity. Surely, you saw your chance to get under my skin, and you took it.”

“I do not lie,” he hums. “Nor do I need to. The evidence of your deep slumber is written clearly in the drool on your chin.”

You quickly wipe at your chin. There is nothing.

Before you can scowl and scold him further, he chuckles, yanking you by the wrist and tugging you to exit the carriage. You gasp, hardly managing to make sure your clothes are neat and orderly before you are dragged to come face to face with Styxian nobles.

The introductions are boring. Lord Mydeimos holds you delicately by the hand and leads you down an endless line of nobles, their names blurring together as he introduces each one. You smile, bow your head politely, and offer the right words at the right moments—years of royal training make your social skills effortlessly polished. At least this part is not complicated.

It’s not long before your husband escorts you to your shared temporary chambers and murmurs, “I will be back before sunfall to collect you for dinner. The maids have packed your finest robes, and Agnes will know which one to prepare tonight for you to wear. Do not be shy to call for the maids of this palace should you need something—they are accustomed to aiding us when we visit.”

“How long will this dinner last?” you pout.

He fights the urge to roll his eyes, sighing before he murmurs, “Long enough that you should have no trouble making acquaintances with such a dazzling personality. Now, I shall be on my way, wife.”

With that, Lord Mydeimos leaves.

You are bored within the first hour. After sifting through the books and trinkets in your guest chambers, you have little to do—and Agnes, who came with the purpose of keeping you company, is too busy steaming and preparing your robes to pay you proper mind for the moment.

So you do the only thing you can think to do: wander the halls in search of something, anything to keep you entertained.

That was your first mistake. Your second was to wander to the gardens where no one would hear you at this hour if you were to scream.

“Why hello, my lady,” comes a voice. You flinch in surprise, turning quickly to meet the gaze of a young man, clearly a noble of sorts—he’s too old to be a teenager but too young to be a proper man. You can’t help but feel put off by the glint in his eyes.

“Hello,” you blink, “W-who are you? I believe all the nobles are to discuss important matters at the current moment, yes?”

“Ah,” he hums. “That would be correct. But I am not here for such matters—the king of Styxia is my cousin, you see, and it seems I timed an impromptu visit rather poorly. My cousin has banned me from entering the chambers where they hold such important negotiations; thus, I am left bored with nothing to do.”

“I see,” you nod slowly, offering him a small smile. “I suppose we are in the same predicament. Lord Mydeimos has also abandoned me for the moment as he discusses away.”

“You came here with the king of Kremnos?” the young man asks, lips curling into a wider grin—you cannot help but feel unsettled by the way it curls happily at the news. A shiver runs down your spine as he walks closer. And closer. “You must be exceedingly special to have caught his eye.”

“N-no, it is not like that,” you try to explain—

He cuts you off, humming as he murmurs, “I have yet to see a lady who has earned the attention of the great Mydeimos for courting. Tell me, what is it he is fascinated by?”

“We are not courting,” you try to correct. “He is my—”

“Ah, no need to be so shy.” This stranger, who begins to make the hairs stand at the back of your neck, seems hellbent on cutting you off at every sentence. By now, you have stepped backward from him enough times that a cold stone hits your back, and you are left nowhere to go, pinned in place by his body as it hovers over you.

Your hands sweat. Something is not right about him.

“I must go,” you smile shakily. “The attendant who is meant to look after me must be worried, so—”

He cuts you off again.

“What is the rush? Surely, they are aware the palace walls are safe. We’ve only just begun to know each other.” A hand reaches over to trace your jaw, making you stiffen as he hums at the touch of your soft skin. “Well, you’re certainly a sight. I suppose that is what might have caught the attention of The Great Mydeimos,” he muses mockingly. “But I wonder…perhaps there is something…dare I say, more tantalizing about you, My Lady?”

His hand trails from your jaw to your collarbone, wandering lower, lower, lower—

“Enough,” you hiss, shoving his hand away, but he is fast. He catches your wrist and pins it above your head. The glint in his eyes is no longer playful—it is hungry, dangerous. Panic grips you. No one can hear you from here, not when they are all busy preparing the grand feast. Not even Agnes. “Unhand me this instant, or Lord Mydeimos will hear of this, you know!”

“Ah, I wouldn’t bother,” he hums. “You wouldn’t want to tell him you wandered to the gardens alone, would you? He might get the wrong impression of your intentions.”

The meaning is crystal clear—no one will believe you. Not even Lord Mydeimos.

And perhaps he is right. Why would Lord Mydeimos believe you? You, who have done nothing but push against your husband’s will since the moment you arrived? Who forced him to bend the customs of his own kingdom? Who argues with him at every opportunity, simply to watch his lips curl into a frown? Surely, of all people, Lord Mydeimos would be the first to assume you had done this to humiliate him—flirting with the first man you could find, just to make a fool of him before royalty and nobility alike.

A sob breaks through your throat, and you wrestle to free your wrist from his grasp.

“Unhand me,” you spit. “I won’t say it again!”

“You heard her.” The voice is low. Dangerous. “She will not say it again. Unhand my wife.”

You stiffen. So does the wretched man pinning you. His face drains of color as realization dawns on him.

“Wife,” he echoes weakly. Then again, as if he cannot believe it: “His…wife?”

“That would be correct, Albus,” Lord Mydeimos says, his voice eerily calm. “Have you not heard the news? Surely, you could not have been dwelling beneath a boulder for this long—I have wedded the princess of Janusopolis to form an alliance. You do recognize her, don’t you?”

“P-princess…” the man—Albus, repeats, hands trembling as he pulls away from you quickly, recoiling from touching you as if your skin burns him.

“Well, a princess no more,” Lord Mydeimos corrects. “Queen is the title you should use now. Queen of Castrum Kremnos. And I trust you, of all people, understand the proper way to address a queen.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Albus chuckles nervously, turning to face Lord Mydeimos with tense shoulders.

You watch as your husband closes the distance in a single step, gripping Albus by the collar and yanking him close. Lord Mydeimos whispers something—something too low for you to hear. But you do hear the strangled whimper that escapes Albus before he stumbles back, tripping over his own feet in his haste to flee. He does not look at you again.

With that, your knees give out. You are certain you would fall if not for the steady arms that catch you, pulling you against a firm chest.

“Are you alright?” Lord Mydeimos asks quietly. You say nothing, only letting out a soft sniffle. A bare fingertip—one not covered by armor, you note—gently captures a tear from your lash line before it can fall down your cheek. “Agnes nor the other attendants could find you, so they alerted me. I thought perhaps the gardens would capture your attention, so I came to look. Lucky I did, I suppose.”

“Lucky me, indeed.” You give a forced, watery chuckle. “Good thing My Lord knows just where I might be causing trouble.”

He frowns, tightening his grip around your waist. “Do not say such absurd things—the only trouble is that shallow vermin of a man. I shall see to it that he is properly dealt with.”

“No need,” you sniffle, not meeting your husband’s gaze. “He was right about one thing: people might get the wrong impression by my wandering—”

“If my wife were to desire wandering the streets under the moon’s light, then she should be able to do so. I will tolerate none who take advantage of her moments of indulgence. Believe me,” he says fiercely.

You swallow, and something—an odd, warm, and fluttery thing, forms in the pit of your belly at his words. A small smile forms at the edges of your lips as you nod slowly. “I shall hold you to such a vow, My Lord,” you murmur.

“Good,” he nods, satisfied. “Come. I will escort you to Agnes. Do not leave her side until I return, understood? It would seem your stubbornness to bring her paid off in the end.”

By the end of your trip, Lord Mydeimos is able to negotiate an alliance generously in favor of Kremnos—a little too generously in favor, in fact, that you wonder if part of it is so that Styxia can escape the wrath of your husband’s rage. You even run into Albus briefly before your departure, not a long run-in by any means—he hurries off as soon as your eyes meet—but you are happy to find out that he is nursing a broken nose.

Oddly enough, the skin looks torn as though sharp metal dug into it upon impact. You eye Lord Mydeimos’s gauntlets as he carefully holds your hand and helps you into the carriage.

“Ready to return home?” He asks.

You hum, smiling knowingly to yourself. “Yes, Lord Mydeimos,” you say softly.

Agnes, to her surprise, is able to return home the entire journey alongside the both of you without the headache of witnessing a petty back and forth.

────────────────────────

After four months of marriage, you believe it is safe to consider yourself and Lord Mydeimos as companions. You suppose, under the indifferent brutality of a warrior, that he can be quite good-natured. And when you are not feeling especially argumentative, he is easy to get along with. You fall into a comfortable routine of addressing your husband and sharing your life as good friends.

That is how you like to view it. He is a man who you share your life and duties (and perhaps bed—in a literal sense) with, and he is a companion whom you have put your trust in. It’s an easy routine:

Good morning, wife. I am off to official matters—I shall see you in the evening.

You have returned, Lord Mydeimos. The evening is still young—shall I have the maids draw you a bath to ease your aches from training?

I have finished my bath, and the attendants will see to cleaning the bathhouse, wife. Have you eaten? Join me for dinner.

Lord Mydeimos, you must rise before the sun tomorrow. Shall I prepare our chambers for you to rest?

Wife. Lord Mydeimos. It’s what you know each other as. You prefer it this way—you are just that: his wife, and he is just that: Lord Mydeimos of this nation of Castrum Kremnos. You are bound through marriage on parchment by duty and nothing else. For four months, that is the truth you cling to, and you find it comforting this way.

It takes all of four months before he decides otherwise.

“From now on, you are to call me Mydei,” he commands one day in your chambers. He sits in his chair, polishing his armor, while you sit nearby on the bed, practicing the stitching Agnes has recently taught you.

You pause, furrowing your brow in confusion. (And honestly, you are a little bit unhappy with his tone—he should not get used to making his desires be known through such demanding manners. You will not stand for it.) “And why is that?”

“Because I have asked it of you,” he replies plainly. And, as if sensing your irritation (which he has gotten very good at through practice), he adds an earnestly mumbled, “Please.”

It surprises you sometimes—Lord Mydeimos seems brutish by his exterior, but he is unpredictably perceptive at times. And, more importantly, he is shockingly gentle by nature. He is not above a please or a thank you. It is just that he happens to never need to use those phrases, you suppose—but he tries. (For you—your heart suggests. Only because he is cunning when he wants something—your brain counters.)

“But your name is Mydeimos,” you say stubbornly. (In truth, calling him by a nickname feels a touch too intimate than you are willing to admit. You are not yet prepared to accept that you are approaching intimacy in this…well, whatever your circumstance with Lord Mydeimos is considered.)

“Are you now attempting to teach me my own name?” His brow arches, a look of mild amusement flickering across his face.

At this, you crack, unable to resist a playful quip. “If I must educate you on something as fundamental as that, perhaps you are not as suited for the role of king as everyone seems to think, Lord Mydeimos.”

“Mydei,” he corrects gruffly. “Do not be so stubborn all the time.”

“But I quite like Lord Mydeimos,” you insist. “Your title is important, is it not? And besides, it would be strange for me to address you with such familiarity while you continue to call me simply… wife.”

His expression shifts, darkening slightly, his lips pressing into something dangerously close to a sulk. He is pouting, you realize, amused by the notion. Or, at least, as much as someone with such sharp features can pout. He looks more childlike than usual like this, and there is something undeniably endearing about the way it softens his rough features. Oddly enough, you find him almost...charming.

The thought unsettles you deeply, but you bury it quickly.

“Mydei,” he pushes once more. (There is an undeniable, almost spoiled edge to his tone, as though he is unaccustomed to hearing the word no. You find that somewhat ironic, considering he had teased you himself for being spoiled not too long ago.) “I shall call you dear wife.”

“You do call me wife,” you point out blandly.

“Yes, but now I shall call you dear wife,” he corrects. “There is a difference between simply being a wife and being a dear one.”

“And what would that be?”

“You are dear to me,” he says simply. As though it is obvious. (Perhaps it is.)

And you cave.

Not because the curve of his lips as he all but pouts is undeniably charming, not because being called dear causes a strange flutter in your heart, and certainly not because the sight of his frustration is in any way captivating. No, you only concede because you have no desire to deal with a grumpy husband who might make your life far more complicated than it needs to be, all over something trivial. That is the only reason.

“Fine. I suppose Mydei is easier on the tongue,” you huff.

You ignore the way you feel oddly lightheaded when he smiles the tiniest, yet softest, of smiles at your agreement. He is undeniably handsome, you think—and that thought, too, scares you.

—————

It is only a few weeks later when you start to question if you and Mydei are two people who have married and become friends or if there is more beyond your carefully strategic union.

You and Mydei share a bathhouse. It is reserved strictly for the two of you, though Agnes has informed you that before your arrival, it had been Mydei’s alone. (He is quite fond of baths, you come to realize, and is rather particular about them. Only a select few attendants are permitted to prepare the bathhouse before he bathes, solely because they are the few who meet his standards. Some part of you, if you are honest, feels just a bit flattered that he allows you to share a space he holds with such high importance.)

Sharing the quarters has always come with an unspoken routine: you bathe at separate times, preserving the polite distance you have managed to keep yourself from him.

“Lord Mydeimos is finished with his bath,” one of the maids tells you, handing you a large, fresh towel as you smile. “I delivered him freshly laundered robes just a bit ago.”

“Thank you,” you smile.

With that, you undress, wrapping yourself in nothing but the warm towel the maid has handed you before you make your way to the bathhouse. You knock once and wait, just to be sure he has left before you enter.

Silence. Perfect.

Humming to yourself, you step inside, the thick steam curling around you instantly, enveloping you like a warm blanket against your skin. The scent of the lavender and cedar Mydei uses lingers in the air, the water still gently rippling from recent movement. Mydei’s fondness for this space is easy to understand—it is grand, carved from marble and stone, with towering pillars and vines that decorate the delicate interior. It is extravagant, built lavishly for comfort.

But before you can fully take it in, you notice a figure.

You barely manage to stifle a squeal as you snap your eyes shut and immediately turn away, your face burning. Mydei stands near the water’s edge, a towel slung low around his waist that he is still in the process of tying in place, droplets clinging to his skin. His hair is damp, pushed back from his face, and when you dare to glance his way again, he is watching you with a knowing look.

“The attendants had told me you were done,” you squeak, quickly turning away again as he finishes wrapping the towel around his waist.

He looks amused when you finally have the courage to turn and look at him properly, lips curled into the faintest yet most obvious smirk as he runs a hand through his wet hair and brushes it further away from his face.

“I am done,” he agrees. “Just that I did not leave.”

“I knocked! And no one had answered so…so I assumed…”

“I did not hear,” he replies, entirely unbothered by the predicament.

“W-well, my apologies, My Lord—”

“Mydei,” he corrects.

“Mydei,” you huff in exasperation. “I did not mean to intrude on your private moment. I apologize.”

“It is our shared bathhouse,” he points out. “You are allowed to be here as you please.”

“But you are using it,” you all but whine.

“There is plenty of room,” he shrugs, looking at the large, very large bathhouse.

That much is true, but that is not why you are horrified. And he knows it. Mydei, you have learned, has a penchant for casually being a nuisance. He purposely evades the true meaning of your words often, and it is for no other reason than to tease you. You are aware, of course, but still—you cannot help but feel frustrated that he is missing the point.

He is nude, just as you are under the towel. And neither of you have so much as let your lips touch, let alone seen each other so bare and vulnerable. Sure, you pecked his jaw that one time to be teasing. And, of course, for appearances, he spares you a small kiss on your cheek or your knuckles, but neither of you shares affection for the sake of being affectionate.

Seeing him bare just feels like a sin when there is the absence of even the simplest forms of intimacy.

“You are teasing me,” you frown, hugging your arms tighter around your chest as if the towel is slipping.

“I am not,” he says simply. He walks, and your gaze follows him as he makes his way to the neatly folded pile of clothing, freshly washed and dried for him to wear. Without warning, he turns his back to you—then lets his towel drop.

You shriek, whipping around so fast you nearly trip over your own feet, one hand flying to cover your face. But not before you catch the briefest glimpse of his entire backside—of bare, toned skin and the unmistakable curve of his ass. (It is a nice ass, you would think later when you are less horrified by the situation. Round and firm, sculpted in a way that is almost unfair. But for now, you are simply horrified.)

“Mydei!” you hiss, refusing to turn around. He chuckles. You can hear it. And by the name of the Gods, do you want to kill him. “Honestly! Have you no sense of shame? Letting yourself be so immodest in front of—”

“In front of who? My wife?” he snorts, completing your sentence. “Ah, yes, how improper of me.” The bastard, you think—he knows exactly why this is not ideal, wife or not. “But you were the one looking.”

“Wh-what ever do you mean?” You sputter at his nonsensical accusation. You would not look on purpose. “I did not think that you would….that you would….”

“That I would remove the towel and begin to dress myself before I exit the bathhouse? It would be immodest to leave that way, wouldn’t you say?”

“Do not jest at my expense,” you huff, feeling the tips of your ears get hotter by the second. “You could have warned me.”

“You were the one looking,” he reminds you once more. And suddenly, he’s in front of you, leaning so close, you can feel his breath fanning across your lips as he bends eye level to you and stares directly into your face. It’s maddening. You feel sick. You can feel him so close, and it takes all of your efforts not to turn your head and look at him. “But I do not mind if my wife looks.”

“Enough,” you bite weakly, “Are you decent?” You don’t dare to look for fear of….of an entirely different view than just his ass.

And you swear you can hear the smirk in his voice when he speaks and says, “Yes, you may turn now. I am decent.”

You hesitate, suspicious. “Are you certain?”

“I would not lie to you, dear wife.”

You take a breath and look—and just as he had said, he is decent. With a huff, you shove his chest and scold, “Then out! Out! Off you go,” you usher. “You have matters to see to, and I have a bath to finish myself before the water cools. Out!”

He laughs—not his usual soft, low chuckle, but a boyish laugh straight from his belly. It is as charming as a small, young lion cub as it prances about. “As you wish, my dear wife.”

He leaves. Not before he grabs one of your hands clutched to your chest, which makes you gasp and clutch the other tighter to keep the towel from slipping. He does not break his gaze as he brushes his lips against your knuckles before standing to his full height and walking past you.

You exhale shakily as soon as you hear the door close.

“I have married an absolute shameless buffoon,” you shake your head, “Completely mad in the head, that man. Unreasonable beyond comprehension.”

────────────────────────

In the seventh month of your marriage, you meet Mydei’s childhood friend for the first time. It is by accident, of course—he comes to surprise Mydei in the gardens in a short visit while he passes the area, and you just so happen to enter the gardens to read under the sun for a bit at the same time. It is most unfortunate, you think, because had you known that you would meet him, you would dress a bit less comfortably and a bit more exquisitely and have the maids prepare tea and pastries.

But Lord Phainon is charmingly easy to get along with—he insists there is no need for such formalities, and you find yourself happily conversing with him as you wait for Mydei to arrive.

“Ah, such a beautiful garden, isn’t it, My Lady?” Lord Phainon asks, lying on the grass with his arms behind his head. “Very few places in Kremnos are not just rock and soil. It comforts me that you can enjoy the feeling of grass between your toes, at least somewhere.”

“Yes,” you snort. “There is very little to see in Kremnos. Do not let Mydei hear you say that, however—he is still in denial. I’m afraid it puts him in a very sour mood when—” you cut yourself off with a gasp.

“What’s wrong?” Lord Phainon asks in concern, “Do tell me, My Lady—if Mydei were to know you are troubled in my presence, he would surely see to my death himself.”

He moves to sit up, but you quickly hiss, “No! Do not move—there is a bee.”

“Where?” he asks in panic, eyes flashing in alarm. “Where? I do not see it! Where is it?”

“Lord Phainon, you mustn’t move,” you warn in panic, “Otherwise, you will startle the bee, and it will sting.”

“Sting?!” he gasps, quickly sitting up to move away from the small threat as it buzzes nearby. “How can you expect me to be still near such a beast?”

It happens all too quickly—just as you reach a hand forward and take a step toward him, he jerks away, and the startled bee, caught in the sudden movement, changes course. You barely register the sharp, sudden sting before you yelp, instinctively flinching as pain blooms across your palm.

Lord Phainon gasps. “My Lady! You’ve been struck by the bee!”

And, as if perfectly timed, you hear a deep voice call: “Ah, I see the two of you have already been introduced—” Mydei’s voice is behind you in the distance, and before you know it, you turn to find him.

You stumble towards your husband, tripping on your feet, and before you can react, you find yourself falling directly into his arms. Mydei is quick to catch you, of course. He looks at you in confusion, entirely calm and unbothered by the proximity. You are so near hysteria that you hardly register the position you’ve found yourself in: pressed flush against his chest, his strong, armored arm securing your waist with careful authority to keep you balanced.

“What happened?” he asks gruffly. Once upon a time, you’d mistake his tone for coldness. Now, you can hear the underlying concern.

Sniffling and utterly distraught, you lift your palm toward him with wide, teary eyes and a trembling lip. “I have been stung! By a bee,” you say, offering your hand closer in a pitiful attempt to prove your claim. “See?”

He gently takes hold of your wrist, inspecting the large welt on your skin. After a moment of silence, he hums disapprovingly. “Unacceptable,” he mutters, his voice softer now, attempting to soothe you, “I cannot stand idly by while the bees of my own gardens turn their venom upon my dear wife.”

“And it hurts!” you wail miserably as a single delicate rivulet of misfortune—a tear—slips down your cheek. He frowns at the sight. “My dominant hand is stricken! I am useless now!”

“You are not,” he fights back a smile at your borderline theatrical sorrow. You’re past the point of holding onto your composure enough to even notice his amusement, so you say nothing. “I shall have the court’s healers prepare a salve for this at once.”

“It should have been Lord Phainon,” you continue to sniffle, ignoring the offended gasp in the distance, still not keen on moving past such a tragic turn of events, “Not me! Why must the Gods turn their back on me in such a cruel manner?”

This time, he chuckles softly. You pout at the gesture but say nothing else, too exhausted from the whole ordeal to put up a proper fight. He makes up for it, though, and raises the wrist in his hold, bringing your hand up before gently pressing a kiss to your swollen palm.

You blink in surprise.

“Were it possible, I would have every bee in the kingdom executed for such a treacherous offense,” he mumbles quietly.

“But then we’d have no flowers,” you frown. “I favor the flowers, you know.”

“Do you?” he grins. And before you can register what is happening, Mydei has leaned down and pressed his lips under your eye, kissing away the offensive stain of your pain. Your tears on his lips feel like a terrible burden to bear—he does not like the taste of your unhappiness. But you are his wife, and he is your husband. Kissing away your tears is but one of his many duties.

“I do,” you nod, looking away bashfully at his rare act of affection. “The bees are the reason the flowers bloom. But the bees have been unjustly harsh to me today.”

“They have,” he nods, agreeing.

Suddenly, the world is moving, and it’s moving fast. The ground is lower than you remember, and the gentle breeze of moving through the air kisses your face against your will. You let out a small squeal, unsure of why the world seems to be moving in such a sudden motion, and the only thing you can think to do is hold onto Mydei’s shoulders—which are a lot closer than they usually tend to be, given your height difference now that you think about it.

It hits you when you’ve finally stilled that it is because he has you hoisted in his arms, holding you easily as though you weigh nothing. You suppose for a man who trains as tirelessly as he does, very little is difficult for him physically.

“Mydeimos,” you gasp his full name so that he is well aware that you are scolding him. You look around frantically for potential witnesses of such a scene—it seems your husband lacks the sense of tact you tend to hold onto so dearly. “What in the Gods’ names are you doing?”

“I am bringing my dear wife to seek medical attention for her current ailment,” he says simply, “It would be careless of me to allow you to walk under such circumstances.”

“It is a bee sting, not a stab wound!” you scowl. He fights back a smirk at your remark.

“Ah,” he nods slowly, “Forgive me, my lady. Your tears persuaded me to believe it was more grievous than it perhaps truly is.”

“You are amused by my misfortune,” you accuse, pouting once more. You give up on caring who sees you in his arms like this, deflating in his arms as he tightens them around you. You curl into his chest—if he is carrying you regardless, who is to say getting comfortable in the process is a crime?

“I am not,” he insists, “I am offering you care, am I not?”

“Do not think a kiss or two to my injury will distract me from your mischief,” you warn, though your tone holds little conviction. You settle into his arms more willingly, one arm wrapped around his neck while the other rests carefully against your chest to protect your wounded palm from further harm.

“Then, in that case, I shall offer you a kiss or five,” he declares with a devious grin. And with that, he leans and presses a peck to the tip of your nose before straightening and looking ahead once more. Only the slightest tilt to the edges of his lips hints that he heard your breath hitch in your throat. He turns over his shoulder and adds causally, “And I will deal with you later, Phainon.”

Lord Phainon sputters, calling out in a wail, “It was not my fault, you know!”

—————

Despite your horribly tragic injury, you are fond of Lord Phainon. (Just call me Phainon, he tells you sheepishly, gesturing to your hand before he adds, I have caused you as much trouble as I do for Mydei. I am sure we can be familiar enough with each other.)

You enjoy his company at dinner, giggling through wine glass after wine glass as he tells you tales from Mydei’s childhood.

“Did you know Mydei’s robes are only red because his father did not allow them to be pink when we were children?” Phainon chuckles, sipping more of his wine. “He favors pink far more than yellow—he simply won’t admit it. And he cried terribly after he was denied pink clothing, too.”

“What?” You turn to Mydei, raising a brow as you ask through a small giggle, “Is that true?”

“No,” he grumbles. But his ears are turning pinker by the second, letting you know that it is, indeed, the truth.

“Oh, how adorable,” you whine, reaching to pinch Mydei’s cheek. He frowns deeply at the way both you and Phainon chuckle drunkenly at the gesture. “Who knew you could be so fragile, Mydei.”

“I am not fragile,” he clicks his teeth, unhappily nursing a glass of pomegranate juice. (He does not drink wine, which you suppose you understand. Even after placing such strict precautions after his mother’s death on all food and drinks that reach nobility in Kremnos, Mydei is still unable to bring himself to stomach a glass of wine.)

“He is very fragile,” Phainon chuckles, rising as he downs the last bit of his beverage, “Be careful with his little heart. He is a delicate one, you know.” That earns him a glare from your husband, and Phainon skillfully dodges a cup thrown at his head before he laughs and stumbles his way toward the door of the dining hall. “Goodnight, My Lady, and goodnight, Mydei! I’m afraid I am feeling the effects of such a long journey. It is well past the time for me to rest.”

“Goodnight, Phainon!” You wave cheerily, hiccuping through your laughs as you murmur, “Do tell me more stories of Mydei at breakfast, won’t you?”

“No more stories,” Mydei groans. “Now come along. You should start preparing for bed as well.”

“Noooo,” you whine, slumping against his chest as he wraps an arm around you instinctively, keeping you in place as you lean your weight on him. “No bed.”

“It is getting late—”

“Mydei, you are very handsome when you’re shy, did you know?” You hum, leaning up to get a good look at his face. This, of course, makes him just a bit shy as blush dusts over his cheeks. You beam, poking his cheek with a finger as you murmur, “Such precious cheeks that redden at small praise. I could eat you, you know.”

He clears his throat, clearly unused to your behavior being so…well, forward. “You are intoxicated,” he mumbles.

“And you are intoxicating,” you retort, giggling, “And so, so, so, so handsome! Have I ever told you that?”

“I…well, yes—you just have,” he stumbles over his words. (You are easier to deal with when you are stubborn and argumentative. This side of you is far too much of an uncharted territory for him to properly know how to handle.)

“Mmh,” you hum, leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw, trailing your lips along his skin until you find his lips—and you kiss him. His breath hitches in his throat at the move. Never, in your seven months of marriage, have you shared a kiss like this with Mydei. Sure, you have afforded him a peck here and there, just as he has with you—but you have never kissed him plain and simple. Lip to lip, mouth on mouth.

He melts for a second, on instinct alone.

And then, as soon as realizing, he stiffens and quickly pulls away. “You are inebriated,” he reminds you, gently pushing you away. “We mustn't—”

“No,” you whine, wrapping your arms around his neck as you whisper huskily. “Come back. Kiss me, Lord Mydeimos—I cannot believe I have wed the most handsome man in all of Amphoreus. What a waste it would be if I did not properly appreciate my husband!”

“You are mad,” he croaks, tiredly eyeing you in alarm. “What has gotten into you?”

You press a litter of kisses everywhere you can reach—his jaw, his neck, even down to his collarbone. Something stirs in him, something that Mydei is ashamed to admit and even more ashamed to even dare to act on.

“Won’t you kiss me, Mydei? In fact, let us do more than kiss! Bring me to our chambers and take me, won’t you? I want you to fuc—”

“Enough,” he says through a cracked voice, pressing a hand to your lips before you can finish being so…vulgar as he closes his eyes and breathes. (Mydei is unsure what is worse: the fact that your words actually have such a…physical effect on him or the fact that he has no choice but to ignore his desires because yours are only built on intoxication.) “You need sleep.”

“But—”

He kisses your pouty lips with a brief peck, silencing you before you can finish. “If you awaken in the morning, and you remember what you wished for, then I will give it to you. Whichever way you want it. Fair?”

“Fine,” you huff, slumping against him unhappily. “Being a warrior has disciplined you too much, Mydei. It is such an unfortunate thing.”

He chuckles, easily lifting you into his arms, murmuring, “I am unsure if you would agree with yourself while sober, my dear wife.”

—————

In the end, you awaken with nothing more than a pounding headache, latched onto Mydei’s figure with your cheek resting on his chest. (You insisted on sleeping this way, and no amount of compromising could sway you on the matter. He gives up soon enough and allows you to have your way when he notices the developing tears in your eyes at your emotionally heightened state.)

You meet his amused gaze, heat blooming on your face as you whisper, “I–I must have rolled over in my sleep. My apologies.”

“No need to apologize,” he hums, pulling you in closer as soon as you try to put a gap between the two of you. “If not your husband, who else will hold you while you sleep?”

“Such a cheeky bastard, aren’t you?” you huff, but you relax into his chest once more. “Are you sure holding me is all you did last night?”

“It is,” he says quietly, rubbing the small of your back. He gives you a knowing look of sorts—you don’t quite understand it.

“Well, good,” you huff, “At least you can be trusted to be quite the honest man.”

(You do not remember your wishes from the previous night, and he does not remind you, keeping the events a close-kept secret in his heart. A small part of him is disappointed, but the larger part of him is more endeared than ever with you.)

────────────────────────

It is ten months into your marriage when the first time you are intimate with Mydei comes, and you realize that he has fallen in love with you.

He does not tell you, but you know. And you are grateful for the fact that he does not utter the words because, in your heart, you wonder if you could truthfully whisper them back.

You care for Mydei. That much is as true as the sun’s promise to rise from the east and set in the west. When he rises from bed beside you with a low groan and moves tiredly to put on his armor, you know you care because tiredness in his face pulls a frown onto yours. And when he looks at you with a fond, exasperated look as he ushers you to fall back to sleep, you know you care simply because the stretch of a smile on his face is enough to soothe you back to slumber.

It has been ten long months since your marriage. You have not seen your father since the day he handed you over to your husband, but you would tell him now not to worry.

He is a good man, father—you think you would say—he drives me mad and is as stubborn as a stone unmoved by the river’s current, but he has never let me want for anything since the day the duty of caring for me became his. You need not worry.

Mydei is a soft man who was molded into the role of a warrior early on. Like the finest of silk, he is delicate to the touch but most durable for the wear and tear of everyday use. He is used to training every day, to putting his needs last and his duties first. He is good at wearing a face of indifference and masquerading through his day as though he cares little for the fact that he is still in his youth, shouldering the burdens of the previous generations and their mistakes. And, as a husband, he is the same. Soft and gentle as he holds you, but firm and unmoving in his principles. He indulges your whims and silly requests with patience and little bickering (apart from the kind that is simply meant to poke fun at you, of course), but he does not let you forget that you are the queen of this land and that your duties come first.

He is the perfect example of discipline and patience—you did not expect it, but he is. He is not the cold warrior you had believed for so long—and sometimes, you are reminded that he is very, very human. It is a rare reminder indeed, but every once in a while, the young boy in him breaks free and makes his emotions troublesomely apparent.

At least, they are troublesome for him. Not for you, however.

“Mydei, do not sulk because I was friendly with other nobles,” you chuckle.

He sulks harder at that, curling a deeper frown on his lips before he stubbornly mutters, “I do not sulk.”

“But you are sulking right now,” you poke at his cheek, earning a huff from him. “Jealousy is unbecoming of a king as mighty as you.”

“Nothing is bothering me,” he says. A lie. “I am perfectly fine.” Another lie. “I do not get upset by these petty matters you accuse me of.” By now, you would say he has mastered the art of fibbing better than wielding his lance.

“It would be impolite of me not to treat our guests with friendliness, you know.”

“Friendliness does not need to consist of laughing at such horrible jokes,” he bites, crossing his arms. “Those were terrible jokes.”

“They were,” you nod along, stifling a giggle as he remains with crossed arms as you boldly seat yourself on his lap. “My poor husband. He is pouting.”

“I am not—”

You kiss his (pouty) lips gently, cupping his cheeks. He stills, pausing before letting out a shuddered breath and letting his arms uncross to hold your hips.

“You live just to drive me mad, don’t you?” He breathes, rubbing up and down your hips as you move up, sitting closer to him as he grunts.

“You do not seem to hate it,” you whisper, glancing down at the bulge in his pants. He does not even try to hide it—has no shame and does not even try to hide the arousal between his legs that stands fully erect, hidden from your view by nothing else but cloth. (Why would I feel shame in finding my wife alluring? you can practically hear him ask. You are almost certain that is what he would say if you teased any further.)

Mydei’s jaw tightens, his hand gripping your waist tighter as he tries to maintain control. “No,” he finally grunts after a few deep, labored breaths. “I do not. I could never hate you.”

“Really?” You hum, pressing a hot, open-mouthed trail of kisses to his neck as he shivers. “Perhaps you should prove it.”

For a moment, his hands grip your hips tighter—almost enough that you believe he’ll give you what you want. But he’s quick to let go of them just as fast, sighing as he whispers, “No. Intimacy simply to ease my bad temper is not what you deserve.”

“And if I want it?” You raise a brow in a challenge, making him study you closely. Mydei, as you have heard, has the eyes of his mother. They are the color of truth dipped in gold honey—his eyes cannot tell lies. They hide nothing, bearing everything to you with sun-soaked flecks that bore into your own gaze.

You tell him your own truth with your own gaze: I want this. I want you.

And he accepts. With a shaky breath, his body presses against yours as he traps you against the wall, filling any and all space that offensively keeps you away from his touch. The heat that radiates off of his skin is palpable even through the cold metal, and when he leans down, lips brushing just barely over yours, the warmth of his breath sets you ablaze—starting from your lips, making its way down to your fingertips.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” he rasps, voice just barely above a whisper.

“Yes. It occurred to me the other day that we have never completed our marriage, you know,” you breathe. “Shall we be husband and wife tonight, Mydei?

Mydei’s hands shake as they rub your hips slowly, his body trembling slightly at your words. In excitement, maybe. Or perhaps impatience. His control crumbles little by little, and when your lips brush against his with a teasing, phantom touch, he lets go of his resolve entirely and lets out a guttural sound—something crossed between a grunt and a moan. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Tonight you will be mine.”

“I have always been yours. So take me,” you goad, “Take your wife and mark me as yours.”

His control snaps at that. Cradling your cheeks in large, cold gauntlets, he angles your head up and kisses you deeply, hungrily, desperately. It’s warm like his touch but burning like his desire. It does not take long before it turns into a needy, impatient kiss, the two of you pressing into the other harder as if trying to melt into each other’s skin.

“Take off that wretched armor,” you huff, “Touch me.”

He groans, quickly slipping off the gauntlets and tossing them to the floor. “As you wish,” he murmurs, and before you can stop him, he tears your robes open from your chest, pulling the fabric away as if unwrapping a present impatiently and catching a glimpse of your bare chest.

“Mydei!” you shriek. “I liked those robes!”

“You act as though I cannot have the seamstresses replicate it as many times as you want,” he snorts. He doesn’t slow down—not in his persistent trail of kisses along your collarbone and not in his wandering hands that feel every inch of you and your curves. “They were in the way. The only thing that suits your skin is my touch.”

You whimper as he quickly moves, tossing you onto the mattress and hovering over you, shedding himself off his own clothing as quickly as he can—nothing left but his underwear, the thin cloth doing little to hide his thick, bulging erection. You eye it, half-lidded gaze falling hungrily over the trail of blonde hair at his navel and the thickness of his hidden cock.

“They will question what happened when you present the torn ones to replicate,” you huff. “Have you no sense of shame?”

“Why does a king need to find shame in desiring his wife?” Delicately, his finger traces along a breast, mapping along your skin until it circles your nipple, making you gasp as you arch into his touch. “Why would I find shame in wanting to rid my wife of what separates her from me? Anyone who tries to shame me for it will come to find a rather undesirable fate.”

“You are impossible,” you breathe, gasping when he leans down, latching his lips onto one breast and rolling his tongue around the pebbled nipple, the other traced by his thumb and pointer finger as he rolls and tugs at the skin. You mewl, grasping at his shoulders as you mewl, “M-Mydei—”

“Yes,” he hums, interrupting you. “That is my name. Say it a few more times, just like that.”

His lips move off of your breast. The string of saliva that connects him still to you is a scene that is utterly vulgar enough to make you shiver as he moves to the other breast, giving it just the same amount of attention. Except his fingers…well, they wander further down your body, trailing over your belly and moving until they find the hem of your panties. You gasp as he tugs them down, exposing your wet, needy cunt to him before he teasingly moves to feel at your entrance, collecting your slick between his pointer and middle fingers.

He pulls away, bringing his hand up to stare at his fingers, separating them so a web of your wet arousal connects the two appendages.

“Mydei,” you whine. “You scoundrel!”

“What?” he chuckles. “Can’t a man appreciate the wonders of his dear wife’s beautiful body?”

“You are filthy and obscene,” you hiss. “Hardly a respectable trait for a king.”

“Then I will be an improper king,” he decides. “If that is what I am considered for appreciating my dear wife.”

His fingers are back in an instant, plunging into your entrance and prodding at your walls as if to find something— “Fuck,” you wail, body spasming as he hits a particularly sensitive spot in your walls.

“Ah,” he grins, “I found it. The place that makes you sing.”

“Horrible,” you sob, whining softly as he thrusts his fingers back and forth, back and forth inside of you over and over and over—until your nails leave crescent-shaped indents into his shoulder where you grasp onto him. “You are horrible!”

“But you do not feel horrible, do you?” he hums, and his thumb moves to roll over your clit, his eyes admiring the sight of the sensitive bundle of nerves as you quiver at the sensations.

You don’t—that much is obvious when, in a sudden crash of waves, your orgasm washes over you, and you gush around his fingers, wet, messy slick coating them as your walls suck him in and spasm around him tightly. Tight—you’re so tight around his fingers, he can’t help but groan from that alone, envisioning the way you’ll squeeze around his cock.

“Gods,” you whimper, clinging to his shoulders as he helps you ride through the waves of pleasure. “Feels…feels—”

“Good, doesn’t it?” he finishes for you, grinning to himself at the way pleasure breaks over your face like light. “It will feel better—I had to prepare you. Cannot risk hurting my precious, delicate little flower, can I?”

You watch it in a trance as it happens: his fingers leave the warmth of your pussy and leave you unbearably empty, but you watch with wide, entranced eyes as he rids himself of the last remaining piece of cloth, bearing his painfully hard erection to you fully. You gasp at the sheer size of him, and he chuckles at your expression.

“We will make it fit,” he hums, leaning to press a kiss to your lips. “Not to worry, my precious lady. You’ll take me, slowly, and soon, we’ll carve this pretty cunt to fit around me like it was made to take me, hm?”

“Yes,” you whisper, nodding like the idea is the only thing you care for. (And in the moment, it is.) “Yes, yes, yes,” you say greedily, pulling him closer and closer until your chests brush and his forehead is against yours. “Fuck me, Mydei. Take me and make me yours—now, please.”

He groans at the words, eyes fluttering shut before he loses all little traces left of his self-control. Instantly, his mouth is on yours, teeth clashing against teeth as he kisses you harshly, hungry nips at your lips and starved tongue on yours, tasting you as much as he can savor. The tip of his cock presses against your entrance, slowly intruding past your folds and sinking into you inch by agonizingly slow inch.

He’s patient. Even when he is on the brink of insanity, Mydei is patient about taking you.

“You are mine,” he says possessively, and a part of you knows he is still speaking from jealousy. “You feel it, don’t you? The way you take me in? The way you squeeze around me? How your body responds and yearns for me—just as I yearn for you. You’ll never yearn for another, will you?”

“No,” you sob, shaking your head, tears of pleasure coating your lashes as you blink up at him. “No—give me more, Mydei. More. Harder.”

And he listens. Because you are spoiled. You came to him spoiled, and against every bone in his body initially, he could not help but indulge your sweet, needy whims. Every argument, every back and forth, every moment of bickering, you never let him win—not truly. And he spoiled you. He continues to spoil you. When you ask for more, he gives you everything.

“Okay,” he grunts, panting as he rolls his hips and slams into you as you suck him in further into your tight little pussy. “But just be warned that you asked for this, dear wife.”

With that, one leg is hoisted over his shoulder, giving him better access to drill his thick girth into you, pistoning his hips as the tip of his cock kisses perfectly against the sweet, spongy spot in the back of your walls. He angles so perfectly inside of you, it’s like he carves himself into your hole and molds the shape of himself into your folds. So that only he fits. So that only he can take you. So that only he can be the one you take.

“Yes,” you whine. “Like that M-Mydei—please. Please.”

“You drive me insane,” he mutters, gritting his jaw as he groans lowly when your walls hug around him tightly, squeezing him as his arms quiver and barely hold him upright over you, “Since the day you came to my world and became half of my soul, you have driven me mad. You must take responsibility for that.”

“You should take responsibility for driving me horribly mad first,” you say stubbornly, still so fierce even as you are split open on his cock. He chuckles, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“You’re right. Let me make up for all the trouble I caused you, hm?”

His thumb latches onto your clit, rolling harsh, quick circles as your body arches up into his touch, responding to every sensation he pulls so easily out of you. One thrust, and then a second and third, and by the fourth, you come undone once more, walls erratically squeezing around him.

“Fuck, Mydei—you…you feel so good.”

“And so do you,” he murmurs, moaning softly as he turns his head and presses a kiss into the skin of your leg where it’s hooked over his shoulder, “So, so good—you were made for me. Made to take me. Made to drive me wild enough so that only you can tame me. You wicked, beautiful thing.”

When you sob his name once more, he comes undone himself, spilling hot, thick ropes of his seed into your abused cunt and painting your sensitive walls white. They welcome him, sucking him in deeper, letting him succumb to his pleasure and fuck his load deep into you.

And when he collapses over you, you’re too numb from pleasure to protest at his weight, wrapping your arms around his sweaty body and holding him tightly. “It only took ten months,” you whisper, “But we are officially husband and wife, according to the customs.”

He chuckles, nipping at your shoulder as he buries his face. “I care little for the customs. You are my wife if I say you are—and you have been mine since the day you agreed to take my hand. It is as simple as that.”

“Go to sleep, you fool,” you groan, rolling your eyes as you fight back a smile.

Sleep comes easier than it ever has—you fall asleep against him, fitted where you most belong.

────────────────────────

The night of your anniversary, Mydei is having a bad day.

You are unable to do much but watch from the sidelines as he enters one chamber after the other, meeting with advisors and council members left and right until even you grow weary of how burdensome his schedule is.

After a year of marriage, you are used to his daily matters not allowing him time until later into his day, and you have never been a stranger to the busy demands of political affairs. Your father is a king himself, after all. You were once a princess, and now you are a queen. Therefore, you know, without doubt, that your husband—who is no less consumed by responsibility than your father—will return to you in a foul mood. And it will be yours to contend with.

“You have returned,” you say quietly as soon as he enters your shared chambers. He drops his armor to the ground, one piece at a time, uncaring where they fall. Any other day, you might scold him for such untidiness (though, really, he is not untidy at all. You would not have to scold him on any other day). Today you choose to bite your tongue and focus on his face instead of the misplacement of his garments.

“I have,” he says plainly. Mydei stands. For a long, agonizing moment filled with deafening silence, he stands, and he does not say one word. It makes your skin pinprick with an uncomfortable feeling, making you want to crawl into yourself and hide. His gaze feels scrutinizing. Always. Something about the piercing, golden amber of his eyes staring into you makes you uncomfortably exposed.

Then, he walks.

As if a moment of clarity has struck him, he sets his shoulders back like he’s made up his mind, and he walks. To you. Before you can react, he collapses himself on top of you, draping his weight like a blanket over your unsuspecting body and pressing you down onto the silken sheets.

“M-mydei,” you gasp, glancing at him in confusion as you shift under him. “What are you—”

“No more words,” he huffs, voice heavy with exhaustion. His arms curl around your waist to keep you still. “I have exchanged enough of them for one day. I request but one simple thing—silence.”

“A most impossible request,” you scoff indignantly. “You know well that you provoke argument from me unlike any other.”

“Mmh,” he hums, whether in agreement or mere acknowledgment, you are unsure. Regardless, you frown petulantly at it and expect more—he is meant to persuade you otherwise. (No, my dear wife. You are as gentle as the breeze through the valley, ever soothing, ever constant. That is what he ought to say to you.) “You say this as if I am to find displeasure in it.”

That only seems to irk you more.

“You take pleasure in getting a rise out of me?” You narrow your eyes, glaring down at him as you watch the way he presses his lips to fight back the oncoming smile.

“You put words in my mouth, dear wife,” he murmurs. “I merely meant your spirit is endearing. The…complications that come about it are tolerable at best.”

“So you find me only tolerable?!” you ask in disbelief.

Fondness, as clear as the warm light of the Kremnos sun, settles onto his face and softens the sharpness of his eyes a hue lighter, the amber now glazed in a honeyed glow. He lets out a low chuckle in amusement, and it is softer than anything you have ever heard. Not just from him—no, you have never heard a gentler sound through the entirety of your life. It is as though the Gods have decreed that the first time you listen to something so tender will come from the man they have handpicked to be bound to you.

“Do you willingly choose to hear only the unsavory parts of what I say? If so, then it is a talent I am most impressed by,” he murmurs. “You do not challenge my tolerance. I am unable to find faults when it comes to you, even when you drive me mad.”

“Such a romantic. Have you been spending time with poets recently? You speak as charmingly as one,” you chuckle teasingly as you shift under him, and your leg brushes accidentally against the innermost part between his legs. It brings him to shiver and let out a low grunt, but you do not realize. Not for a while as you try to get comfortable under his weight.

Not until he stops you with a nearly painfully tight grip on your hips as he grits, “Be still.”

“What?” You tilt your head. “Why? If I am to lay under you like your personal mattress, then at the very least allow me to—”

“You torture me,” he says, voice strained.

You blink in confusion. And then—

Ah. You realize soon enough that there is a hardness poking at you. You only now feel it, but it’s been there for some time. Throbbing against your thigh is his erection, separated from you by the fabric of your robes and pressed as tightly against you as possible, and you have been rubbing against it this whole time. The thought should horrify you, but all you can focus on is the way his cheeks take on a flushed hue.

Pretty, you think. Mydeimos is pretty. Just like his name, just like his throne, just like his nation, everything about Mydeimos is pretty. (Mydei—you can hear his grumpy voice correct you in your own mind—you are to call me Mydei.)

“What is that?” you ask through a cheeky, whispered breath.

He exhales shakily, looking at you unamused. “If I have to answer that, I am unsure if you are old enough to be wedded to me.”

You giggle, rubbing a hand along his back as you murmur, “Indulge me.”

“If I must,” he grumbles tiredly. “It is proof that you are what I desire. Does that satisfy you?”

“Exceedingly,” you nod. “Shall I now offer you the satisfaction of fulfilling your desires in return?”

“You do not need to,” he mumbles quietly. Mydei is an honorable man—he is kind to women and children, and he does not see himself above other men simply because he is king. He is a man of principles, if nothing else. Stripping him of his principles is not a simple task.

“And what if I want to?” you pout. “Will you indulge your dear wife?”

“Devious,” he hisses, stiffening when you flex your leg to press more pressure against his hardened cock. “You are a devious, dangerous thing.”

Your hand slips between your bodies at the same time as his lifts up, held over you by two muscled arms that cage either side of your head. You stare up at him, watching the flickers of his expression as your hand carefully untucks his hot, lengthy erection from the confinements of his pants and gives a small squeeze to the shaft.

“Today is a rather special day,” you murmur, “Wouldn’t you say?”

“Of course,” he chuckles breathlessly, groaning as your thumb strokes along his slit, gathering pre cum and carefully smearing it along his tip. “I have survived the wicked schemes of my wife for an entire year.”

“And I have survived the brutal warrior that is my husband,” you grin. “My father will be relieved to hear I am still alive.”

“You mention him while you have me like this?” He grins wolfishly, shivering as you slowly stroke his cock. His eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, his arms waver as they hold him upright above you. “Fuck,” he whispers, “Do not tease.”

“Tease?” you gasp, stopping at the base of his cock and giving him a small squeeze. He grunts, cracking an eye open, displeased. “I would never.”

“Then don’t,” he says roughly, his voice a gravelly sound that shoots an ache straight to your cunt.

“Only because it is our anniversary,” you murmur, leaning up to kiss him gently between his furrowed brows.

Your hand drags along his thick girth, stroking it quickly as he lets out low groans, burying his face into your neck. You can feel him—pulsing in your hand, hot against your neck, heavy over your weight. His breath fans against your skin as he makes pleasured sounds into your ear, making wetness stain between your own legs. And he knows it, too—you’re certain because otherwise, the bite to your earlobe wouldn’t be so tantalizingly slow.

“Happy Anniversary, my dear wife,” he murmurs. “It has been a year of enduring your madness. Won’t you drive me just a little more insane?”

“Happy Anniversary, my darling husband,” you breathe, stroking him faster as he moans into your ear and shivers. “If you are not already insane, I have yet to properly fulfill my duties.”

He makes a sound at that—a cross between a chuckle and a low groan, and with just a few more careful strokes of his aching cock, he spills into your hand, painting your delicate fingers and the intricate stitching of your robes white with his seed. You feel every twitch of him, every rope he spills of thick, warm cum that spills from his reddened tip, and in a daze, you imagine it to fill you to the brim.

And you’re certain he will, too, by the hungry look in his eyes as soon as his blissed-out expression dies out. He opens them, eyeing you like you are the first meal presented to a starved man—and perhaps he is. He is always starved of you, no matter how often you let him get his fill.

“One year since I have had such a beauty to call my dear wife,” he whispers. “How unfortunate it is that you will never get to see the sight of yourself. But I am too selfish to allow anyone but myself to witness it.”

“You talk most when you are feverish,” you tease, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Are you feeling well, Mydei?”

“Not until I have you,” he responds cheekily, grinning in amusement as he leans in to kiss you hungrily. You gasp against his mouth, hands instantly traveling to his hair. “Won’t you look after your sickened husband?”

“If I must,” you sigh playfully. (The slick wetness between your legs almost screams at you to quit your agonizing schemes and simply give yourself as quickly as he wants to take you.)

His fingers tease along your collarbone, trailing just between your cleavage as you shiver. Just as his hands reach for your robes, ready to expose your breasts, a knock disturbs you as you both stiffen—

“Lord Mydeimos,” calls a guard, “There has been an ambush on our patrolling troops outside of the border. It is urgent.”

Mydei stills. You glance at him worriedly.

“Of all times,” he grunts, cursing under his breath.

“There will be plenty of time later,” you soothe, tracing the angry creases in his forehead, “Duty calls.”

He glances at you miserably before sighing, rising from atop your body. But not before planting a soft, lingering kiss on your lips that he reluctantly pulls away from. “Wait for me. I will take care of it quickly and return to you to finish where I have left off.”

You giggle, poking his cheek as you murmur, “I have no doubts.”

———————

Mydei does, in fact, return to you.

Except, it is not in the condition that he left.

He comes back carried by four men at once, ushered quickly into the healer’s wing, and stripped of his armor quickly. You follow along, stumbling over your feet and heart beating in your throat.

“What hap—” You are carefully tugged to the side before you can even utter the words, moved away from the grotesque scene before you can properly get a look at the stab wound in his chest. The blade has missed his heart by just a hair, you hear one healer mumble. It is a miracle that he has lived long enough to be brought back, another whispers.

You hear him groan unconsciously as they clean at the torn flesh, and your knees buckle at the sound.

“My lady,” murmurs an attendant. “Perhaps it is best if you do not witness such a scene—”

“That scene is my husband,” you cry hysterically. “Who else is to witness it? My husband needs—”

“He needs the healers, and they cannot do their duty with your hovering.” You’re cut off firmly. You blink, and even without the tears in your eyes, you’re certain you would look pitiful as you sniffle.

“He promised he would return to spend the night with me,” you croak. “If he does not live to see through to his promise, I will kill him myself.”

“I am certain he fears such a fate more than anything else,” whispers the attendant, gently tugging you along and supporting half your weight. “Come, I am positive My Lord will appreciate a properly tidied chamber to recover in, wouldn’t you say?”

You let yourself be dragged away, turning to glance at Mydei one more time—just in time, in fact, to catch a glimpse of a bloodied rag tossed to the floor by a healer. More blood than you have ever witnessed spilled from Mydei before—if at all.

———————

It takes hours before there is a knock on your chamber’s door, and before you can even rise from your bed, a handful of guards enter one by one, carefully carrying your husband on a stretcher as he unhappily lays with his arms crossed.

“I could have walked myself,” he grumbles bitterly.

“The healers would have my head if I allowed your stitches to be torn, My Lord.”

“The healers could not do anything if I had ordered—”

“Mydei,” you sob, throwing yourself into his arms as soon as they lay him on your shared bed. Your arms wrap around his neck as he cuts himself off and lets out a low grunt of surprise.

And then, he beams. So smugly that even the guards eye each other warily. “Did you miss me, dear wife?”

One by one, they quickly file out of your chambers as your head shoots up, and you glare at him.

“You leave me on our anniversary night to fight an ambush, promise to return to me only to come back bloodied and half alive, and your first words to me are to ask such an arrogantly tasteless question?”

He chuckles, cupping your cheek as he murmurs, “I am fine. It’s just a small cut—”

“They missed your heart by a hair! I heard the healers myself!”

“You know how they are,” he all but huffs petulantly, rolling his eyes as he complains. “I would have been fine to walk myself back, but they insisted that the guards escort me by stretcher—”

“And a good thing they did,” you spit. “If your injury did not kill you, then your ego surely would have finished the job.”

You have never considered the possibility of losing Mydei. Not once in your marriage. Not when you felt no tug for him in your heart, and not even when your heart began to yearn for him more than anything else. A naive little thing you were, you think to yourself—to think your husband is invincible just because he is as strong as he is. Your father’s words had made you think of your husband as nothing more than a warrior at times—a godslayer, a man not even divinity could stand against.

But he’s painfully human. Painfully just a boy who grew into the body of a man and nothing more. Strength means little in the face of chance—and it occurs to you now, as you eye the bandages wrapped tightly around his chest, that by chance alone did a blade pierce through his skin, and by chance alone did he survive and come back to you.

And you will never risk a chance to lose him again without telling him what your heart knows after a year of marriage.

“Do you not have any faith in m—”

“I love you,” you sniffle, the words wobbly and wet like your tear-stained lips. They cascade down your cheeks and collect pitifully at your chin, but you care little for your appearance as you let out an ugly sob and cradle his cheeks. “I love you, and it is the worst fate you have cursed me with. I despise you.”

“That is a rather contradictory statement,” he says quietly as he processes your words. But the tips of his ears are red as his lips fight to stay still at the corners. “Could you repeat that first part without that latter one?”

“You are insufferable,” you glare, still blinking through tears. He chuckles, pulling you closer as he carefully thumbs away the wetness of your cheeks.

“And I love you, as well,” he says gently, “Even though you have possessed me and changed everything as I know it, I love you.”

“Do not scare me like this again,” you command.

“I won’t,” he agrees. With enough conviction that you believe him. For now. For now, you believe him, and little else matters. You let him pull you against his side, curling an arm around you as you reach over and brush hair from his face.

“Did you know that my father called you a godslayer once?” you hum, tracing his cheek softly and wiping away the sweat that lingers on his skin. “I wonder what he would think now if he were to see you.”

“Did he, now?” he asks in amusement. “Far too high of praise, isn’t it? I’m afraid he’ll only be disappointed—I do not know if I could slay a God.”

“What if my life depended on it?” you pout. “Wouldn’t you at least try?”

He chuckles, grabbing your hand from his face and pulling it to his lips, kissing your fingertips slowly, one by one, before he says thoughtfully, “I suppose your father was not wrong then. For my dear wife, I would slay even the divine.”

“In that case, he will be most pleased to know Kremnos and its king are taking such great care of his daughter,” you finally, finally smile, giggling softly, much to Mydei’s pleasure as you lean up to press a kiss to his cheek. He hums, happily accepting your affection as he relaxes further into the bed.

“After a year spent on this land, what is your favorite part of Kremnos?” he asks. And you know—better than anything, you know what he wants you to say.

“The sun,” you murmur.

He frowns. You bite back a smile. “The sun,” he repeats, dry and in disbelief. “The unchanging sun that is the same no matter what nation you travel to? Why not your husband?”

Chuckling, you cup his cheeks once more, leaning to kiss over his eyelids one by one. He closes his eyes and lets you as he relaxes under your touch. When he opens them, you are reminded that the Kremnos sun is the warmest you have ever felt.

“The sun does not shine the same in other nations, Mydei,” you whisper. “In Kremnos, you can find its warmth in not just the sky.”

“And wherever else, pray tell, would you find the sun’s warmth in Kremnos?” he asks, his voice husky as he leans closer.

You smile, and for a moment, you consider giving in and telling him what he wishes to hear. But you decide to tease him for a bit longer, in retaliation for what he put you through, as you pat his cheek before pulling away. You walk to leave your chambers, but not before you say over your shoulder, “I believe I should fetch more supplies from the healers. Your bandages will need to be replaced soon.”

He gapes, watching your retreating figure in shock before he slumps back and chuckles, sighing before shaking his head as he mutters under his breath, “Utterly wicked. Such a wicked, beautiful thing I have married.”

WOW THIS FIC IS FINALLY DONEEEEE.

It was a 23 day wip to a lot of you guys bc a lot of you guys follow me and saw me posting about this fic during the writing process. So you probably know that royal au’s are very hard for me. I find the dialogue to be difficult to get right and I can’t crack the same jokes I normally would through the character’s lines and I also have no idea how royalty would go about filthy talk LOL. So that’s rough. But also world building and handling the political atmosphere in these sort of settings is just. Complicated to me. But royal au’s are also some of my favorite to envision and think about, so these scenes in this fic have been a COLLECTION of scenes that I’ve had from many, MANY attempts at writing a royal au. I’m talking years worth of attempts and compiled scenes that I abandoned and brought back to get added into this fic.

It may have been a 23 day wip to everyone who followed along with my writing updates on this blog, but this is technically a longgggg 5+ year journey that FINALLY saw the light of day, and went through soooo many characters.

First it was for Miya Atsumu from haikyuu.

Then it became a Bakugou Katsuki fic from bnha.

Then it became a Gojo, then Sukuna, then back to Gojo fic from jjk.

Then I was like no no trust me it’ll make for the PERFECT Alhaitham fic from genshin.

Now, FINALLY, it has seen the light of day after maybe 5 ish years as a Mydei fic from hsr.

Would you believe me if I told you I’m hardly an hsr player and I’ve met him for approximately 2 mins total in game? 💀 LOL. I am not really sure why he managed to make me finally really take all these half written scenes from over the years, polish them up, and finally finish this fic, but I did and I am proud of myself.

For my first proper attempt at a royal au fic, I don’t think it’s the worst thing I’ve written. Are there some parts that I wish were executed better? Yes for sure lol I’m just a failgirl writer who is honestly her own biggest hater. But that being said, I really think that I did not fail at my attempt and I think that’s a really big step for me in my silly hobby that I take a little too seriously sometimes.

Anyway, if you read this note, and you read this fic, thank youuuuu for reading all my words lol I know sometimes I have a lot of them. And thank you to miss Carina—if you don’t know her, that’s tumblr user @osarina and she’s really talented and she probably is 70% of the reason why this fic exists. Thank you for hearing me whine about this, and for literally forcing me to finish it. And also for beta reading it and for helping me polish up my sophisticated royal dialogue. AND for helping me figure out scenes when I was stuck. Aka thanks for being my inspo and museeeee hehehe ily

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