being delusional is my way of coping against reality // multi-fandom // 19
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Phainon — My Way Of Life
read this first!
cw: knight!phainon, fem!princess!reader, animal cruelty, manipulation, grooming (but not sexually), emotional abuse
an: to be honest i've been writing bits and pieces of this au since i finished 3.0 (the same day it was released) because phainon is such a sweetheart that i cant help but feel like he's too good to be perfect, thus, this au. and i havent really wrote a sequel yet, to be honest, but what i do have written up is the prologue, which is this... practically just parts of what i've already written compiled into one lol. im assigned to the OR so im not sure if i can write up a sequel soon but i do have ideas already hehe
The infant’s wail echoed through the marble‑lined corridors, the sound bouncing off vaulted ceilings until it spilled into the royal nursery. In the obstetrician’s arms—swaddled in linens still warm from first breath—the newborn finally quieted, and at the sight of such, Her Majesty’s lips curved into a rare, unguarded smile.
Moments later, attendants had bathed and bundled the child in soft blanket. The newborn slept now, cheeks flushed, unaware of the world he'd entered. Beside him lay another babe, barely a few months older, yet already every inch a princess; Her gown an explosion of pastel silks and seed‑pearled lace. Tiny fingers fluttered from the ruffles, reaching instinctively for the newcomer.
"Look at them," the Queen whispered quietly, as if she might shatter the spell if she spoke a little louder. The princess’s chubby hand closed around her companion’s.
"Have you chosen his name?" Her Majesty turned to the young woman—her maid, still resting on the bed, the sheets pooling around her waist.
"Phaenon," The maid said, voice velvet‑soft. "He will be called Phaenon."
"Phaenon," the Queen repeated, letting the syllables roll off her tongue. "The Bright One."
Her gaze lingered on the intertwined hands of her daughter and the maid’s son, a tender cradle of fingers—royal lace against humble clothing.
The Queen leans closer to the toddlers until her words brush the downy curls of both children, whispering.
"Phaenon... May your light forever chase away my little princess’ shadows."
Thus, marks the beginning of two lives fated to always be intertwined.
They grew up within the same garden walls, the princess and the boy named Phaenon. Raised under two very different ceilings but always ending up beneath the same sun-dappled canopy—feet muddied, laughter echoing off marble columns, the air between them always thick with make-believe kingdoms and imagined rebellions.
It was innocence, in the purest form of the word. Two children, barely old enough to count past twenty on their fingers and toes, who didn't yet understand borders or bloodlines, only the strange gravity that drew one to the other.
"P-H-A-E-N-O-N," he spelled it slowly, crouched beside her in the dirt, a twig scratching the letters into the soil between them.
"You spelled it wrong." The princess frowned, brows furrowing.
"No, I didn’t." He responds in protest.
"You did." The little girl tilted her head, braid slipping over her shoulder. "It’s Phainon. Like phaíno, to shine. I heard it in Father’s study. Your name is Greek. That’s how it’s supposed to be."
He hesitated, glancing down at the letters.
"But… my mother said..."
"Besides, I like it better with the i," she interrupted. "It's prettier."
And that was that.
He stared at the name in the dirt. And then, with a sigh that almost sounded amused, he watched as her little hand was already scribbling again in the dirt, the stroke of the 'i' tall and proud.
"Fine," he muttered, a little too easily. "Phainon, then."
The princess beamed, victorious.
That night, he carefully crossed out the old spelling on the little wooden tag he kept hidden under his pillow, carving a wobbly 'i' in its place.
Their mothers often watched them from the veranda, sharing quiet conversations behind gloved hands, their laughter soft like silk rustling in the breeze. Her Majesty insisted the two play together, said it was good for the princess to have someone constant, someone who didn’t look at her and see a throne.
So, they had play hours in the garden, poetry lessons shared between two cushions instead of one, toys not handed over, but passed between small fingers.
And for a time, they were safe. Phainon laughed freely, and the princess learned how to give as much as she received. There were tea parties with unevenly poured cups and games of hide-and-seek that always ended with both of them giggling under the same curtain, their tiny feet sticking out.
But not everyone agreed.
They weren't supposed to be friends, that much, the King clear with every tightening of his jaw.
"You are not equals," the king growled to the little boy one day, voice as cold as the steel of his crown. "She is of royal blood. You are not her friend, you are hers. She commands you."
Phainon stood still beneath that glare, hands clenched behind his back after his hand was ripped away from the princess's own. His own father stood beside the king, face unmoved. A wall of tradition and stubborn loyalty.
Phainon didn’t understand all the words, but he understood the tone. And the way the King’s hand lingered on the hilt of his sword even while speaking to children.
Later, when the King was gone, silence filled the space he left behind, until Her Majesty gently broke it. She kissed her daughter’s forehead, then turned to Phainon and combed his snowy white hair with her own fingers.
"You are more than what they say," she told him, voice quiet like prayer. "And to her, you’re more than even you know. And her thoughts are all that should matter."
Behind her, the maid stood quietly, a flicker of something knowing in her eyes. She had always understood the cost of being near royalty, and as much as she worried for her son, she trusted in Her Majesty more.
But childhood does not protect against the cruelty of the world forever. The quiet world they’d built of play and storybooks eventually shattered.
It happened in the same week.
The Queen’s room was sealed first, rumors fluttering through the castle like moths drawn to flame: an illness, a poison, a betrayal. By the time they carried her body out under black velvet, the maid was gone too—disappeared without a trace.
Not even a funeral, not even a grave.
Phainon cried the first night. Curled up beside the princess on her bed, he clenched the hem of her nightgown in his fist, as if it could keep him tethered to something that hadn’t vanished.
Both were still too young to understand death, but were old enough to feel the emptiness it brought. The princess reached out and ran her fingers through his hair.
"She said you were bright," she whispered. "So don’t go dim."
Phainon didn’t answer. He only cried quieter.
Time, as it always does, moved forward—uncaring.
The laughter that once echoed between the hedgerows wilted like the roses left untended. The princess no longer ran barefoot across the grass with Phainon trailing behind her, no longer insisted they chase fireflies until their fingertips glowed.
They were growing up... and apart.
It wasn’t sudden. It was slow. The space between them grew not with a single moment but with a thousand small silences, like frost creeping over a windowpane, easy to miss until everything was cold.
The princess became a fixture in court: upright, poised, learned in the languages of diplomacy and cruelty alike. Every step she took was watched, weighed, recorded. Every mistake was punished before it could become rumor.
Phainon, too, was growing. But unlike her, he grew like a shadow that had forgotten how to be a boy.
Without his mother’s hand to smooth back his hair, no warm voice to remind him that he was more than what they told him he was, there was only the King.
And the King was merciless.
"She is your purpose," he would say, voice like steel scraping bone. "You are not her friend. You are not her equal. You are hers. You exist because she lets you. Because I let you."
"You’re the sword sheathed at her side. Her creature. Her proof of power."
Phainon would nod, like he understood. He was still so small then—barely taller than the armrests of the thrones—but the words lodged in his ribs like splinters, festering.
"She doesn’t need your friendship," the King would sneer when Phainon dared to ask why she no longer looked at him the way she used to. "She needs your loyalty. Your obedience."
And when the King judged Phainon ready, he gave him a lesson, one he would never forget.
"Now, Phainon."
The 9-year-old looks up with big eyes, his face framed by a mop of snow-white curls. His Majesty towers over him, regal and imposing, but Phainon’s gaze quickly drops to the table. There, cold and gleaming, lies a small knife.
His hands twitch at his sides.
From across the table, the soft, terrified hissing of a kitten echoes. It's chained now—an iron collar around its tiny neck, the other end of the leash held in the King’s hand.
"This kitten hurt the Princess, didn’t it?" the King asks, his voice calm, but weighted, the kind that makes your stomach twist into knots.
Phainon’s lips twitch into a frown. His eyes glisten, wide with guilt. He doesn’t want to look. Doesn’t want to answer. But he nods, just barely.
"He did," he admits, voice trembling, nearly swallowed by the stillness of the room. A pout pulls at his mouth, quivering like he’s holding back tears. "I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I was supposed to protect her."
"No, no. Keep your tears, boy."
The King’s voice is quiet but firm, sharp enough to halt the trembling in Phainon’s lip. He doesn’t raise his voice, instead, he lowers himself, crouching just enough to meet the child’s eyes across the heavy oak table.
"Let this be a valuable lesson," he continues, gaze locked on the boy’s wide, blue eyes—eyes that are too young for what he's about to see, and yet too old to ever forget this moment. "You can't always protect her. She's bound to get herself hurt, one way or another... but..."
The word hangs there, a sharp hook in the air. The King watches him, making sure the boy doesn’t miss a single word.
"...There’s always something you can do to whoever dares to hurt her."
His Majesty’s voice never rises, but the tension behind it tightens like a drawn bowstring. Then, slowly, deliberately, he pushes the blade across the table, and the hilt stops just inches from Phainon's trembling fingers.
And then, with terrifying ease, the King lifts the hissing kitten and drops it on the table.
The creature scrambles, chain rattling as it claws at the polished wood. It’s small. Helpless. Hissing. Ears flattened. Tail lashing.
Phainon flinches.
"It's your job to ensure the Princess is safe," the King says, no longer a lesson but a command. A command that Phainon has carried since he first learned what her name was. "Or, at the very least... get revenge on those who hurt her."
The boy stares.
The blade.
The kitten.
The King.
"...You know what to do, don’t you, Phainon?"
His breath hitches.
The color drains from his face.
Still, the knife waits.
Phainon trembles.
His tiny shoulders shake as he stares at the blade, then at the King, and finally at the man standing silently behind His Majesty—Phainon's father. There’s no comfort in his presence. The man doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. His expression is unreadable, even as Phainon's eyes shimmer with unshed tears.
"I-I can’t." Phainon chokes out, voice cracking like thin glass. Terror wraps itself around his words. "I can’t."
Blue eyes flick to the kitten again, its fur puffed in fear, its hiss now a desperate whimper.
"He didn’t mean to hurt her," Phainon pleads. "He was just scared."
The King doesn’t blink.
"I’m afraid you don't have a choice," he says, still with that eerie calm. A cold decree wrapped in velvet.
"It hurt the Princess," he continues, voice unflinching. "The moment it did, it stopped being a living being."
He leans on the table, not getting any closer, but his words, his presence felt heavier. Like it was enough to fill the room, to crush the air from the boy's lungs
"It’s a monster now. Do you hear me, Phainon?"
The boy swallows hard, blinking past the blur of tears. He looks at the kitten again—still hissing, still trembling.
"But he..." Phainon begins, voice soft, breaking.
"The moment it hurt the Princess," the King cuts in, low and final, "it gave up its right to live."
His voice doesn’t rise, but it sharpens like the blade between them.
"Think of her cries. The pain in her voice. Her tears—" his tone dips into something dark, something that coils around Phainon’s heart and squeezes. "—and all because of those claws."
The kitten whines.
Phainon stares.
And the knife waits, still, and terribly patient.
Phainon doesn’t move.
He just stares. At the kitten, at the chain, at the trembling bundle of fur crouched on the table before him. But as the King’s voice continues, low and relentless, something begins to shift.
He’s no longer seeing the animal at all.
Instead, it’s the Princess he sees.
All he sees is the scratch on the Princess’s cheek.
The red that soaked into her sleeve.
Her lip quivering.
"It hurt her." The words fall from his lips, quite and hollow. His voice no longer shakes. His hands no longer tremble.
"It hurt her."
"That's it," the King says, voice like silk.
He watches as the boy reaches for the blade. Small fingers close around the hilt. The metal gleams.
The kitten hisses again, louder now, as if it's sensing something.
Phainon leans in, drawn not by hatred—no. Not even by rage. But by something... colder. Something he just learned.
Duty.
"...Now," the King murmurs, like a prayer or a curse, or perhaps, both. "I'll ask you again."
"You know what to do to those who hurt the Princess, don’t you, Phainon?"
The boy doesn't answer.
Not with words.
At the age of nine, Phainon took a life for the very first time.
And thus, he became her shadow. Silent, swift, ever-present. He followed her everywhere now—not as a companion, but as an extension. An arm. A blade.
He stopped asking for stories at night. Stopped humming the lullaby his mother used to sing when she brushed his hair. He stopped spelling his name in the dirt.
All he knew was how to wield a sword.
All he knew was being a knight.
All he knew was being hers.
The King was pleased.
The shadow had taken shape.
Phainon was never meant to shine. He was meant to burn—for her.
But beyond the palace—far from the King's gaze—Phainon wore a different face.
To the townspeople, he was kind. The kind of kind that never asked for thanks. The kind that carried baskets for old women and walked street children home during storms. He remembered their names. Remembered birthdays. Helped patch broken fences with his bare hands and paid out of pocket for medicine when a healer couldn’t be summoned in time.
When he smiled, it was real, soft at the edges, like morning light peeking through shutters. They called him The Perfect Knight. A flicker of warmth in a place where royalty rarely stooped low enough to see dirt on their boots.
"Such a good boy," the bakers would say, handing him extra rolls. "That’s a noble heart, that one."
He wasn't sure why he was doing what he did, but perhaps it was a shadow of what his mother once taught him, echoes of a time before the King rewrote him from the inside out.
But there is one thing he's sure of....
He's in love with the princess.
He loved her the way the King taught him to. The way a blade might love its sheath. The way a shrine loves the god it houses: devotion soaked in dread, worship steeped in dependency.
He consumes her with his eyes from a distance, always from a distance, because that was what shadows did. Though she barely noticed him. Not truly. Not like before.
She had grown into her crown. Her voice sharp, her spine steel. Her eyes, once full of sunlight and laughter, now held the weight of ruling too early, of losing too many things too soon.
Sometimes, he wondered if she missed their garden days. If she remembered how she used to trace letters into the dirt, if she remembered every smile she gave him before her mouth learned how to frown with dignity, every laugh before it was replaced with silence, every touch before she stopped reaching for him at all.
But he never asked. And she never said anything.
He just served. Always.
Anything for his light, his star, his sun.
And like all things that orbit too close to their star, he was burning from the inside out.
Phainon was in the room when the King said it.
He hadn’t been summoned; he never was, but he stood by her as he always did. Unmoving, unacknowledged.
"Her betrothal will be announced at the Festival," the King said, voice clipped and final. "A prince from across the sea. Wealthy. Fertile. That’s all that matters."
The words left the King’s mouth like a verdict.
Phainon didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
But inside, something cracked.
He looked at her—at her—sitting tall beside her father, silent and unreadable. Her hands were folded in her lap like a good heir. Her eyes forward. Her crown, a little heavier than usual.
She didn’t protest. Of course she didn’t.
She had been taught not to.
And so, quietly, something began to stir in him.
It started small.
A slip into town disguised in worn clothes, no insignia on his shoulder. Then another. And another. Phainon slipped out of the palace, and none of his fellow knights stopped him. No one ever did. They all knew him as the loyal one, the sword at the princess’s side. A boy who would die before he disobeyed.
The townspeople gathered at the edge of the square when he called. He stood beneath the statue of the old Queen, the one whose smile he barely remembered, but whose absence carved the path to where he now stood. His cloak pulled low, moonlight silvering his hair.
He never used the word rebellion. Not once.
He called it restoration. Correction. A return to what should have always been.
He didn’t want blood. Gods, he didn’t. Not hers. Not ever.
"We do this quietly," he told them. "No blades unless you must. No fire. We win hearts, not wars."
Because if she ever looked at him with fear in her eyes, if she ever thought him a traitor instead of a savior... He was sure he wouldn’t survive it.
This wasn’t just about the kingdom. It was about her. It had always been about her.
And even as he planned her father’s downfall, Phainon still prayed she’d understand. That one day she’d look at him not as the shadow she outgrew but as the light that refused to leave her side.
But things didn't go quite as he planned, there was a variable in his plan that he didn't expect, didn't think of happening...
The princess was meant to smile. To nod. To accept the prince’s jeweled hand and become a symbol, not a sovereign.
But she stood now, right there in the throne room, her voice sharp, unwavering, cutting through generations of obedience like a blade through silk.
"I refuse the betrothal."
She didn’t flinch even when her father turned to her. Didn’t lower her gaze.
"I will not marry him," she repeated. "I will not tie myself to a man I do not know to please a throne I am already an heir to."
Those words were like a balm to Phainon's soul, for the first time in years, he felt something bloom in his chest. She was still in there. His princess. The girl who made him spell his name in the dirt.
The King, however, did not feel the same.
The back of his hand cracked across her face.
A gasp tore from the maids in the throne room, sharp and ugly. She staggered—staggered—and Phainon moved without thinking, his footfall silent, breath caught like prey in a snare, and was quick to keep his liege on her feet.
As his sapphire gaze turned to look at the one across them, he didn’t see a man anymore. He saw a threat.
"You know what to do to those who hurt the Princess, don’t you, Phainon?"
The plan was supposed to be bloodless. But now? He stopped thinking of it as prevention. As resistance. He started calling it what it was.
Revolution.
And this time, there would be blood.
He made use of his status and privileges as the crown heir's personal knight; He knew where the guard loyalties fractured, knew which generals still grieved the Queen, which councilmen resented the King, and most importantly, the people trusted him.
Phainon was practically everywhere. Whispers in corridors, secret meetings in cellar taverns, folded letters inked with the sigil of a sun.
The night they rose, it was quiet. No drums. No banners.
Phainon planned it perfectly. The guards loyal to him moved swiftly through the corridors, disarming without killing where they could. He had studied the castle like a living body: where it bled, where it healed, where it could be broken.
And at its heart, the King.
"You traitor. I made you." the King hissed. "You would kill your King?"
"No," Phainon said softly, drawing his blade.
"I would kill the one who raised its hand against her."
But revolution, he learned, doesn’t end with a king’s death.
It spreads.
The man's blood had barely dried on the stone when the castle doors were thrown open, and the people surged like a tide. Phainon had expected fire, but fire with purpose. Order, not chaos.
A clean slate.
He had orchestrated everything down to the breath: which gate would fall first, which noble to spare, which guard to bribe, which lie to whisper into which ear.
It was supposed to be over—The King was dead.
But the revolution had grown teeth he hadn’t sharpened......
And now, they're about to bite her.
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Phainon — Meant to Be Yours
cw: royal knight!phainon au, fem!princess!reader, violence but not very detailed, usual shan stuff lol
went into amphoreus not caring about anyone, went out loving the cute golden retriever man. also, i've been hyperfixated on epic the musical lately, so i may or may not have been inspired by odysseus in the ithaca saga for some parts here lol
In the whispering winds of fate, it was always said karma had a way of catching up with you—silent, inevitable, like shadow hot on your heels. In a world that spins in circles, our deeds reverberate and circle back, a reminder that what goes around comes around.
So, it was never a surprise, not really, when your father—the king, draped in the shadows of corruption and tyranny—was torn from his throne in a storm of blood and fury, undone by the very hands he once crushed beneath his own. The storm of revolution, fueled by the flames of injustice and the cries of the downtrodden, descended upon the castle walls like a vengeful deity, casting the king from his lofty throne into the harsh reality of his own making.
In the unforgiving tides of change, the pendulum of justice swung without regard for innocence or guilt, and revolution—in all its fury—can easily blind you with its smoke. You never stood by your father’s cruelty; every protest smothered beneath his iron will, your voice swallowed beneath the weight of his crown. Yet, to the eyes of the enraged masses, you bore his blood, wore his sins like a second skin.
And so, you too, must burn.
But he wouldn't let them.
Your escape dissolved into a blur in your mind; Screams tearing through the air, a sea of crimson rage, and his hand gripping yours like a lifeline. In the other, his sword sang death, striking down anyone who dared raise a hand against his liege. His white hair caught the glow of the mobs' torches, almost golden in their flickering light. His blue eyes, usually so gentle, were now steel-cold with purpose. His once-pristine armor streaked with blood, icy to the touch, but his hand... his hand wrapped around yours is....
Warm.
Then, it hit you all at once.
The sudden, jarring shift from chaos to stillness.
One moment, the world was fire and fury—voices raised in furious chants, torches blazing, the glint of sharpened weapons amidst the mob.
The next, silence.
Heavy, almost sacred. The kind that presses into your ears like cotton, makes your breath sound too loud. The forest wrapped around you like a blanket soaked in earth and rain, grounding and unreal all at once.
And then—him.
A pair of blue eyes, wide and searching, locked onto you. Worry etched into every line of his face. Not just concern, something more akin to fear. Like he'd just watched you disappear, and wasn’t sure if you were really back.
"Your Highness?" Phainon’s voice breaks the quiet, low and cautious, like he’s afraid even the sound might shatter you. He doesn't move closer, just watches, eyes flicking over the slight tremble in your hands, the way your breath stutters like your body hasn’t quite remembered how to breathe in peace.
You’re pale, shaken, and at the sound of his voice, as quiet as it was, you finally look at him. No longer through him, but at him.
He takes a cautious step forward, each movement measured like he’s approaching a wounded creature, because in some ways, he is. You’re already so close to unraveling, and the last thing he wants is to be the thing that pushes you over the edge.
There was no point in asking how you were. It was written all over you; in the tight set of your shoulders, the haunted glaze still clinging to your eyes, the way you swayed slightly, like your legs weren’t entirely convinced they could keep holding you up.
So instead, he does what Phainon always does—chooses gentleness.
"May I carry you?" he asks quietly, his voice a breath softer than the rustle of the leaves around you. He doesn't reach for you, doesn't presume. He has never touched you without your explicit permission. That’s just who Phainon is. Always waiting, always asking.
Always yours, for as long as you'll have him.
"We need to find shelter for the night," he adds, glancing around the thick trees, the canopy swallowing what little light remains. "We’ll be safer here than anywhere else in the kingdom.”
You don’t say anything—just stare at him, eyes wide and unreadable, like you're still somewhere between this moment and the last. But then, slowly, your head moves in a small, almost imperceptible nod.
It’s enough.
Phainon hesitates for just a breath longer, searching your face one last time for any sign of protest. When he finds none, he steps closer and carefully lifts you into his arms. You don’t resist. You don’t flinch. You just let him. He holds you like you’re made of glass and memory, something fragile, something precious. Like a wounded creature he’s afraid to hurt more than the world already has. His arms are steady, though. Warm. Grounding.
"With my honor as a knight," he murmurs, barely above a whisper, his breath brushing against your hair, "I’ll protect you."
And with that promise hanging between you, he carries you deeper into the woods, away from the flames, the shouting, the wreckage of a day that nearly stole everything. Searching for somewhere—anywhere—you can finally rest.
You didn’t know how long he walked, only that the rhythm of his footsteps and the steady rise and fall of his breathing lulled you into a kind of daze. Time slipped sideways, minutes, hours, you couldn't say. You barely registered the way his arms tensed, his body instinctively bracing at the distant sound of hooves pounding against earth.
But you did notice when he began to lower you, gently, beneath the rough arch of a shallow cave. The cool stone met your back, and suddenly the thought of him letting go was unbearable. Your hands clung to the fabric of his cloak, your fingers trembling, eyes searching his like they could stop him from leaving.
He paused. Saw the silent plea in your gaze.
"Stay here," he whispered, his voice warm and low, as if it could wrap around you like a second cloak. His eyes held yours—steady, unwavering, like they always had. "I’ll be back."
Phainon stepped out of the cave, his movements measured, deliberate, planting himself firmly between the riders and the one thing he would not let them take, the shadows of the cave behind him concealing you. There was no fear in his eyes, only steel. A cold, quiet confidence etched into every line of his face.
"I’d like to believe no good men would pursue the royal heir to do her harm," he said, voice calm, almost conversational.
The riders stared him down, eyes narrowing, hands tightening around the hilts of their weapons. Their silence said everything, fury simmered behind their eyes—righteous, bitter. The kind that doesn’t listen. They were revolutionaries, that much was clear.
The one at the front swung down from his saddle, his boots hit the earth with a thud, knuckles bone-white, clutching around his weapon.
"Step aside," he commanded. "The princess has to pay for her father’s crimes."
Phainon didn’t move.
"She’s done nothing wrong," he said quietly, the edge in his voice sharp enough to cut. "You’d punish a girl for her father’s sins?"
One of the other riders let out a bitter laugh. Disgust curled his lip.
"Not her mistake? That bastard’s blood runs in her veins. She is part of the throne. And you.." he spat, full of scorn. "What has become of you, Phainon? Some fallen knight guarding the tyrant’s daughter? You’d betray us? Turn your sword against your own people?"
Phainon didn’t blink.
"If protecting the innocent is treason," he said, "then yes, I'll proudly be a traitor."
His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword.
"Kill her father. Burn the palace to ash. Do what you will, if that’s what your justice demands... but you will not lay a hand on her."
Silence followed. Heavy. Suffocating. The forest itself seemed to still, the only sound the restless whisper of leaves caught in the wind.
The riders didn’t respond, but they didn’t have to. Their expressions spoke volumes—feral and cold, eyes flicking between each other, weighing the cost of moving forward.
Because they knew who he was.
Phainon. The perfect warrior. The man whose blade had never faltered.
And here he stood, sword unsheathed not for the king or the palace…
But for the fallen princess.
"This is how you defend your people, knight?!"
The rider at the front steps forward, fury distorting his features into something near feral. His eyes burned with a hate that had nothing to do with justice.
"You’d betray us, betray your oath, betray this kingdom, and the country you swore to protect… for some pampered little princess?!"
Something in Phainon’s expression shifts. The air grows colder around him, the atmosphere dense with a sudden, cutting stillness. Gone is the composed mask he always wears; what replaces it is anger, sharp and honed like the edge of his blade. His gaze narrowed, sharpened into something unforgiving.
"Don’t you dare pretend this is for the country’s sake," he said, voice low and laced with venom. "You’re not here for justice. You’re here for blood. You’re no different than the king you claim to hate."
The words land like a slap. The other riders stiffened, anger radiating off them in pulsing waves, but it was their leader who reacted first.
"Don’t you dare compare us to that bastard. We’re trying to fix what he ruined. We’re trying to build something better." His sneer deepens, lips curling in disgust.
Phainon took a step forward, slow and deliberate, never breaking eye contact.
"I don’t care what you're trying to do," he said, voice quiet, but sharp enough to cut. "Do what you must. Raise your banners. Burn the city. I don’t care..."
"...But you will not harm my liege."
The leader lets out a laugh, dry and mocking, tinged with disbelief.
"Your liege?" he spat. "She’s the tyrant’s spawn. And you, great knight? You've been reduced to a loyal lapdog, clinging to a dead order."
Phainon’s grip on his sword tightened, knuckles paling, the cold in his eyes enough to send out a warning for the rider to seize his comments.
"Watch your mouth," he says darkly. "I don’t care what your grievances are with her father. She is not him. And I will not let her suffer for his sins."
"She’s his heir," The leader snarled. "She’ll turn out just the same. She’ll sit on the same throne, make the same decisions, spill the same blood… And a traitor like you will be right there at her feet, worshiping her like a good little mutt."
"You don’t know a thing about her." Phainon snaps, "She’s nothing like her father. She’s been silenced, like a doll on display, dressed up and paraded around as a symbol. If you think she’ll become a tyrant, you’re blind."
"Gods, don't tell me you've fallen for her?" The leader’s expression twisted, ugly and mocking. "You really think she gives a damn about you?"
"Of course not," Phainon replies swiftly, flatly. "That doesn't matter."
The leader just laughs again, louder this time, leaning into the sound like it shields him from the weight of Phainon’s glare. His smirk grows wide, sharp, vicious.
"Then why, oh why, are you risking your life for her, hmm?" The leader’s voice drips with mockery, his posture relaxed, his amusement dripping into every word that slips past his lips.
"What do you get for defending the princess? Her favor? A smile, perhaps? Or something better…" He grins, teeth flashing. "Like her body?"
Something snaps.
In a blink, Phainon closes the distance—no hesitation, no warning. One hand fisting the leader’s collar, the other drawing his sword with a metallic hiss. He slams the man hard against the nearest tree, bark cracking under the force, the blade pressed to the vulnerable skin of his throat.
"Keep your tongue in check." Phainon’s voice is barely a voice at all, more like a growl ripped from deep in his chest. "Don’t you dare speak of her like that. Not another word. Do you hear me?"
But the leader only grins wider, unshaken even with a blade to his throat. In fact, he seems to revel in it.
"You protect a woman who’d throw you to the wolves the moment it served her," he spits out, eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "You think you matter to her? You’re nothing. Just a pawn she’ll sacrifice to save herself."
"I’m not protecting just any woman." Phainon sneers, a rare sight for the kind knight. "I protect my liege. I don’t give a damn if she values my life or not. That’s not the point. You speak of things you don’t understand."
He presses the sword harder against the man’s throat, but still, the man smiles.
"You've been blinded," The man hisses, smirking like a man with nothing left to lose. "She doesn’t care about anything but herself. Just like her father. A pampered, selfish princess."
He leans forward just enough for his words to feel like poison he’s trying to inject right into Phainon’s veins.
"And you? You’ve doomed yourself for her. She’ll stab you in the back the second her life’s on the line. Mark my words."
Phainon doesn’t flinch.
"You don’t know her."
Phainon's words are quiet. More breath than voice, like a warning carried in the wind. He presses the blade closer. The tip bites skin. A thin bead of crimson wells up where the blade meets the skin of the leader’s throat.
"And I’ll cut down every last fool who dares to speak of her that way."
And then… he does.
One swift motion.
Clean.
Precise.
The forest falls silent.
The only sound is the soft thump of a body hitting the leaves crumpled on the ground.
A moment later, the man’s head rolls across the ground, eyes wide with the last expression he ever wore; that twisted smile, frozen in time.
None of them move.
Phainon stands over the body, sword slick with crimson, breath slow and steady.
No triumph.
No rage.
Just duty.
The other riders could only stare, stunned into silence, eyes darting between their leader’s lifeless, decapitated body and the knight who stood above it. Phainon remained still, breath heavy, blade lowered but still slick with blood.
"You… y-you killed him…" one of them whispered, the words cracking with disbelief.
Phainon didn’t even blink.
"I did."
His words hung in the air.
The riders exchanged nervous glances, shifting in place. One man’s hand trembled as it hovered near his blade. Another backed toward the horses.
"You’re a murderer," one of them dared to say.
Phainon’s head turned slowly in the speaker’s direction, his eyes sharp and full of disdain.
"I am a knight."
He took a single step forward, slow, steady, like he had all the time in the world.
"And you..." He swept his gaze across them.
Chaos nearly erupted. One man lunged for their fallen leader’s sword. Another tried to mount a horse that reared up and shrieked in fear. Hooves thundered against the forest floor, the horses stamping nervously, catching the scent of blood. The rest froze in place, unsure whether to fight or flee.
Still, Phainon didn’t move. He simply watched. Detached. Unbothered. Like he was watching children flail through a game they didn’t understand.
Then, he spoke again. Calm, quiet, and chilling.
"None of you are going anywhere."
The words cut through the rising noise like a blade. And just like that, everything stopped. Horses snorted, pawing the ground nervously. The riders froze mid-movement, caught between instinct and dread. No one moved. No one dared breathe.
"Y-you… you’re going to kill us too? Just like him?" One of them, voice trembling, forced himself to speak.
Phainon’s eyes flicked to the corpse at his feet, then slowly back to the man.
"It’s nothing personal."
His voice was calm. Too calm.
"But as long as any of you breathe, my liege remains in danger."
Another step forward.
The air grew heavier.
"We’re falling back," someone said quickly, hands half-raised, as if they could bargain their way out. "Our leader’s gone… we won’t hurt Her Highness anymore,"
But it was already too late.
Phainon gave no reply because the time for words had ended.
The forest was filled with the sound of quick, brutal justice. Thuds of bodies hitting the earth, gasps cut short, steel slicing through flesh. Phainon moved like death made flesh—silent, unstoppable, precise.
When it was over, the woods were quiet again.
Only he remained standing.
Him and the horses.
Phainon stood among the fallen, sword in hand, his breath steady once more. He wiped the blood from his blade on the tunic of one of the fallen men, then he turned back toward the cave, toward the only person who mattered.
Back to his liege.
You didn't say anything when his gloved hand appeared in your vision again. You didn’t flinch at the crimson streaks staining his armor, didn’t ask about the blood still clinging to his sleeve. You didn’t have to. The stench of iron lingered in the air, faint but unmistakable. And still, he looked at you with utmost gentleness.
"Let’s keep going, Your Highness," he said, voice soft and warm again, like it hadn’t just spoken death into existence. He smiled, gentle and careful, as if that alone could soothe the storm in your heart, your mind.
And of course, you took his hand.
Neither of you spoke as he guided you deeper into the forest, looking for somewhere to stay the night. His grip is steady, his pace measured. The silence between you was no longer heavy, just there. Present. Like a companion rather than a burden. The first time the silence was broken was when the trees thinned and a clearing revealed itself, a meadow bathed in moonlight. Not ideal for rest, but safe enough for a fire. The tree line was distant enough not to catch if the flames rose too high.
Phainon didn’t hesitate.
He swiftly went to work, gathering timber and stacking firewood, his movements practiced, and you watched confusedly as somehow, someway, he coaxed a spark into a flicker, then into a steady flame—a pleasant warmth against the biting cold of the night, casting a golden light against his blood-slicked armor and you tried not to look too closely.
He turned toward you, eyes softening again.
"Please," he said gently, gesturing toward a nearby rock. "Have a seat, Your Highness."
The rock was jagged, uninviting, but it was better than the ground. And somehow, the offer didn’t feel like an order. It felt like kindness, one born out of genuine concern.
You sat.
Phainon got down on his knees before you, slow and deliberate, the firelight casting golden shadows across his face, his eyes meeting yours, those bright, steady blues searching for something, asking without words. For what, you weren't sure, but you trusted him enough to give him a small nod.
As you did, he reached for the hem of your dress, lifting it just enough to expose your feet, still in those heels. He handled them like something sacred, fingers brushing delicately over the worn straps as he undid the fastenings around your ankles. Then, the shoes slipped off with barely a sound.
A quiet sigh escaped him as he took in the damage: raw, red skin and blisters blooming along your soles. His expression twisted into something pained, like it physically hurt him to look.
"You should’ve told me," he murmured, the words barely louder than the crackle of the fire. His brow furrowed, soft and earnest, looking at you akin to a puppy kicked by its owner. "I would’ve carried you."
"It’s fine, really." You shook your head gently, trying for a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. "You've already done enough. I didn’t want to ask more of you."
"It's my duty to care for the princess."
"And I'm no longer one."
"You'll always be a princess."
You pause at his response, glancing to meet his eyes as he met yours with unwavering devotion, no hesitation in his voice, no doubt in his features.
"For as long as I live," He added, "You'll always be a princess to me."
The silence that followed was heavy, not uncomfortable, but weighty, like something unsaid hung in the air between you. You had to look away, unable to hold the intensity of his stare, you let your gaze drift back to the fire, its flickering light dancing across the clearing like it, too, was trying to avoid the weight between you.
Behind the veil of quiet, you heard the soft clatter of metal as Phainon shed his armor. Piece by piece, it hit the ground with dull thuds, leaving him in the worn fabric beneath. Then came the rip of cloth, sharp in the still night, and you realized he was tearing his shirt.
He didn’t say a word.
Just reached for your feet again, gently cradling them in his hands as he wrapped the makeshift bandages around the blistered skin, his touch impossibly careful.
"Phainon." You said his name softly, as he continued his current task.
"Why didn't you join them? Why didn't you kill me?"
That made his hands still.
His gaze flicked up to your face, searching. He was quiet for a beat, before responding.
"Killing you is never an option." Was his simple, yet blunt response. "I could never do such a thing to you."
You frowned, unable to make sense of it.
"But… of all people, you have the most reason in the kingdom to drive your sword through my chest," you murmured, "The only thing standing between you and your freedom is me. You don’t have to do this. Any of this."
There's the slightest hint of a sad smile on his face, chuckling softly at your words, but there's no humor in the sound.
"I don't 'have' to do anything, princess. I choose to protect you of my own free will." His eyes softened.
"But your oath-" You opened your mouth to protest, to remind him of his oath, of duty, of his supposed loyalty to the people.
"Was to you." He cut you off, quiet but firm. "Not to the King. Not to the throne, not the palace or its people."
He paused, voice dropping to something barely above a whisper.
"My oath has always been to you."
You paused at his words, trying to make sense of them. His loyalty… his devotion... it didn’t make sense. Not in a world that had taken so much from both of you.
"You’re the son of my father’s personal knight. From the moment you were born, you were shackled to me." Your voice softened further. "Our births are only months apart. That wasn’t a coincidence."
Phainon didn’t interrupt. He let you speak, his hands still and steady at your ankle.
"You were forced to train and to be my shadow since we were children, don't you ever wish to be free?"
"Forced?" he repeated softly with a smile, almost amused. "I’ve never been forced to do anything, princess."
"But you were." You looked at him fully now, your brows furrowed. "Just like your father before you. And his before him... and if the system hadn’t been dismantled… your children would’ve been bound to mine. The cycle would’ve never ended."
There was a long beat before he spoke again.
"My family never regretted our duty. We’ve protected every heir of your bloodline with our lives," he said, his voice quiet but sure. "And I’ll do the same for you."
Then something in him shifted. His features softened, the faintest of smiles tugging at the corners of his mouth—gentle, knowing.
"But... you’re wrong about one thing." He looked at you with a strange tenderness in his eyes.
You blinked, caught off-guard by the warmth in his voice. He didn’t look away. Didn’t even blink.
"My children...." he said slowly, voice laced with something unreadable, "...won’t be doing the same for yours."
"What do you mean?"
But all you got in return was that smile. That quiet, secret-laced smile, like he was tucking something important behind his tongue. He gave your ankle a gentle squeeze. Comforting. Familiar.
"You’ll understand later," he murmured, voice almost lulling.
"Don’t push yourself, Your Highness," he said softly, skillfully shifting the topic. "We’ve got a long journey ahead tomorrow."
He stood, gathered the remnants of his torn shirt, and moved to tend the fire again, like he hadn’t just shaken your world with a few quiet words.
"I'll try..." you murmured, your voice tinged with hesitation, your eyes fixed on his back as he knelt by the fire, tending to the flames with care, keeping it alive to somehow keep the coldness of the night at bay.
"Thank you... for everything."
Phainon glanced over his shoulder at you. Your weariness was plain on your face, carved into the way your body sagged slightly under the weight of the day.
“There’s nothing to thank me for.” His tone was quiet, like it always was, but beneath it was a quiet warmth that never seemed to leave whenever he spoke to you. “Get some sleep, princess.”
You didn’t protest again.
Despite the jagged rock beneath you, despite the ache in your limbs and the open sky above, it didn’t take long for sleep to claim you. The day had wrung you dry—body, heart, and mind—and the sound of the crackling fire, the distant rustle of trees, and Phainon’s steady presence nearby became the lullaby that finally allowed your guard to fall.
It wasn't until your breathing had evened out, deep in sleep, that Phainon stood up from the fire. The flickering glow cast long shadows across the clearing as he moved, silent as a ghost, towards you. He crouched beside you, eyes tracing your features like he was memorizing every curve, every eyelash. His fingers reached out, brushing a few strands of hair from your face with a gentleness that didn’t match the crimson stains still dried against his skin.
"My kids being the knights of yours?" He muses, a quiet laugh curling at the edge of his lips. "Don't be ridiculous... my kids wouldn't be doing the same for yours..."
"Because my kids will be yours too, princess."
His expression stayed soft, but there was something darker flickering beneath it—a quiet hunger, possession cloaked in tenderness. His hand moved again, hooking a single lock of your hair around his finger, bringing it close to his face. He breathed in, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, as though the scent alone grounded him, drawing it in like a man savoring something he believed— no, he knew belonged to him.
“Yours,” he whispered, “You hear me?”
The wind rustled gently through the trees, carrying his words into the night, where they vanished like smoke with no one else to hear them but himself. He stayed like that for a moment, eyes locked on your sleeping face, watching the faint shifts of your breath, the flutter of your lashes. You looked peaceful. Vulnerable.
"I'm sorry for what happened, princess. But you understand, don't you?" He questions you quietly, as if you could hear him, still making sure his voice is quiet, so as to not wake you.
"Your father was a tyrant, a dictator..." He murmurs, his fingers moving to caress your cheek, watching as you stirred faintly under his touch, but did not wake, "He was going to marry you off to someone else."
"Surely, you understand why I urged people and started the revolution, don't you?"
His fingers trail lightly down your cheek, pausing at your lips, his breath hitching ever so slightly as his thumb grazes over the soft curve of your mouth. He exhales shakily, as though even this contact is almost too much.
"The only reason I was born was to be yours,” he whispers, a quiet conviction in his tone. “And thus, you, in turn, have always been mine. Law of equivalent exchange.”
His voice is low, fond, but there’s an undercurrent of something far heavier—something dangerous—coiling just beneath. He inhales sharply, as if steadying himself, and glances away from your lips like a sinner resisting temptation.
"That old man never should’ve tried to interfere," he adds, almost as an afterthought, his jaw tensing like the memory alone is enough to reignite his fury—the same fury that led to your father's downfall.
His finger lingers against your lips, then shifts, trailing down to hover just over your abdomen, his eyes now fixed there, unblinking. The soft rise and fall of your breathing beneath the fabric of your dress seems to hold him captive.
"Once all of this dies down.." he murmurs, more to himself than to you, "I’ll take you somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one knows your name. A little house, tucked away from the world… where you’ll be safe. And then—"
His breath hitches again, this time heavier, filled with desire.
"Then I’ll give you my children. As many as you want."
His gaze darkens as it lingers on your stomach, and his lashes lower as he exhales through his nose, eyes fluttering closed like he can already see the future blooming there. His future. Your future. Your shared future.
"I’ve waited my whole life," he breathes, almost dreamlike. "And now you look at me like I’m your savior...."
There’s a pause, still heavy, and then his eyes open again, trained solely on your face. His expression softens at the sight of your sleeping features.
"It’s only a matter of time," he says softly. "Just a few more years... or months, if I’m lucky."
His thumb traces the corner of your mouth again, delicate and adoring.
"Right, princess?"
A soft chuckle escapes him, warm and hushed and laced with something that doesn’t quite sound sane.
"You don't need the palace, the crown, the throne.... I'm already here. I am all that you need." He murmurs, fully believing his own words.
"You're mine." He breathes out, a silent declaration with only the stars above as his witness.
"You will be mine."
-
prequel!
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— be still, my beating heart

the world has a rather cruel way of playing its jokes. it paid you no heed amid your desperation, watching passively as your wings were clipped before you could even take flight. and yet, when you began to accept such a fate, you were given new ones to soar and see the world you once dreamed of. the world may be cruel, but it gave you a new meaning and opportunity all the same.
(despite your newfound content, you almost wish you weren't given so many headaches to deal with.)
INCLUDES : king!mydei ; knight commander!phainon ; scholar!anaxa + knight!reader
CONTAINS : gn!reader, 13.5k wc (sobbing pls give this a chance... it's just a number... haha...), royalty!au, fluff (kinda), angst (if you squint), brief mentions of blood, some lore and character exploration fitted into the au (kinda), underlying darker themes (bc royalty aus are scary at times,,,) but still very much sfw !! i think... slight spoilers for their past/backstories (mainly anaxa's if you haven't played 3.2/read his first character story + some details of phainon's alose mentioned in 3.2) with some deviations
A/N : guess who is pushing their knight!reader agenda again !! for the third time :D once again royalty aus my beloved u will always be famous to me o(TヘTo) (also can u tell who is my favourite haha...)
various!hsr ver.

Becoming a full-fledged knight was never your intention, much less the personal knight of the king himself. If life had gone the way you’d planned all those years ago, you are sure you would have laughed in the face of whoever told you this would be your fate.
After all, you? A knight? For the then-crown-prince-now-king?
You?
Ha! As if you would let yourself become something like… like that. A tool, a pawn, a weapon easily disposed of when the cracks start to become too noticeable and the once sharpened edge too blunt to be of any use.
Honour? Integrity? Justice?
What use is there for such lofty ideals in a world where deceit and poison-laced saccharines and empty promises for something greater, something far beyond the scope of your isolated bubble was the only familiarity you had.
You’ve witnessed it countless times — the noble rise and the disgraceful fall of your kin. Having watched your siblings and cousins be subjected to the almost manic control of your family elders, you swore you would do everything in your power to escape their clutches; even if you had to reject everything you knew and start with nothing once more.
And yet, when your desperate attempts to retain your autonomy began to slip through, when your efforts to diverge and leave your own traces in this world were all but thwarted without a moment’s hesitation, the doubt began to settle like morning mist.
Maybe you were never meant for something greater. Maybe you were destined to be overshadowed by your family’s bygone history, dispirited and made to be forgotten by the elders who loathed disharmony in their control. Maybe this path was always fated to be yours to follow, to trudge in the weathered footsteps moulded in the shape of your ancestry. Generation after generation, stuck in an endless cycle of ash and sweat and metal and the suffocating stench of iron. Never to be free.
In the end, you were just a puppet to be controlled, your prodigious talent for the sword an attribute for them to weaponise.
But then he came in like a raging storm, your once gloomy and hopeless world bursting into a vibrancy you never once thought possible. In a seemingly impossible feat your shackles were shattered, a fate which had never been yours to claim suddenly handed back to you by that outstretched calloused hand and kind gaze unfitting for such a battle-haggard boy. Even so, despite such outward expression being a noticeably stark contradiction to the boy’s sharp features, his smile did not waver, nor did his patience for your eventual acceptance of his hand.
Perhaps you are a hypocrite — perhaps you are a spineless fool who cannot break away from the destiny instilled by those elders. But if this decision allowed you to devote your all to something wholeheartedly, to step into a world where those so-called lofty ideals may not be so out of reach, then you would gladly be one; even if it meant walking down a path carved by the very same wretched footsteps you loathed, the imprint of your own the last to be seen from that bygone legacy.

Side step. Downward strike. Duck. Envision your opponent standing overhead, their sword raised with both hands and ready to strike down. Pivot. Parry with an undercut. When they’re off balance, lunge and strike them at their opening—
“What have I said about overworking yourself?”
At the sudden voice, you startle. Luckily, your sword did not drop, and you breathe a faint sigh of relief before turning to the source of the voice. You shouldn’t have been surprised considering you already knew who would have such a profound voice and presence, but seeing your king leaning against the wall of the training grounds still manages to catch you off guard.
With your independent training now interrupted, the adrenaline guiding you through the motions vanishes. Flexing your stiff fingers, you roll your neck while making your way to the sidelines while trying to ignore the weight behind his accusatory gaze. When reaching the benches, you come to a stop, pick up your water bottle, and give a fleeting glance towards the intruder.
“Your Majesty?” you ask, voice lighthearted in a way that tries to ignore the underlying meaning behind his presence. “What are you doing here?”
He huffs. “That’s what I should be asking you.” Mydei regards you with scrutiny, arms crossed and lips pursed as you guzzle your water. “What are you doing here at this hour?”
“Well, I asked you first!” Is what you would counter with if he wasn’t your king. Alas, he is. And so the very apparent status difference between you prompts a much tamer response to spill after having wiped off the excess water clinging to your lips.
“Training, Your Majesty.”
…Perhaps you should have gone with your initial response. Had you done that, maybe the ominous clinks of jewellery would not be steadily growing in volume, nor would the brooding aura of an upset king (your king, you must remind yourself, for you alone put yourself in this predicament) be slowly encroaching on your back amidst a suffocating silence. Eventually he comes to a stop behind you, his presence heavy and lying in wait like a predator watching its prey.
You gulp. Is it too late to run? Most definitely. Will you at least try? You’re not an idiot. (You learned from your first attempt that it was useless to try. It was also very embarrassing. Never again.)
With almost robotic-like stutters, your head turns towards your right — towards the shadow currently looming behind you. When your eyes meet, your mind draws a blank. What were you doing? Where are you? Who are you? Why must you suffer like this instead of some other knight?
But then he parts his lips, narrowed gaze and deep-set frown still etched into his features, and suddenly you’re reminded how tough love is your king’s speciality.
“Are you aware how late it is?” he asks, tone firm.
“Um, I wasn’t exactly keeping track.” Had his glare not darkened, you would have thought that answer to be sufficient enough. Clearly it was not, and you scramble to conjure a more sufficient answer. “If I were to guess, however… quite late?”
“Very. Past dinner, no less.”
Oh. You knew time flew while you were training (the gradual darkening of the sky said enough), but to think you missed dinner? Maybe you’ll be able to snag some leftovers if you’re lucky enough. If not, then you will simply pretend hunger is nonexistent and your problem is solved.
Even so, if your king is known for his horrendously stubborn and competitive whims, then two can play that game!
“That’s too bad,” you sigh. “And here I was hoping I could spar with you, Your Majesty.”
At that, he brings a clawed hand to his head before releasing an exasperated breath. “Don’t be foolish, [Name]. It is late. You should get some food, too.”
“What?” you drawl, a grin slowly appearing on your lips. Raising a gloved hand, you try your best to hide your smile from Mydei’s suspicious expression. “Don’t tell me you’re… scared to lose, are you?”
You don’t even get the chance to blink before he is standing before you, eyes closed and a strained, twitching smile stretching his lips.
"A spar, you say? Sure. Let’s spar."
Well, that was easy. Hurting a man’s ego sometimes really is the way to go.
Making your way to the centre of the training ground with your sword in hand, you begin to think maybe this wasn’t the best method. Sure, you got what you wanted and managed to train a little longer, but having a murderous king standing opposite you and cracking his clawed gauntlets isn’t the most pleasant of visuals.
Well, whatever! You asked for this, so you must see it through; even if you won’t hear the end of it from him afterwards.
Taking a slow breath, you adjust your feet’s positioning and shift to find your centre of balance. Raising your sword at eye-level, you exchange a single nod. With a precise step, you close the distance, and—
Clang!
Within a second, your training sword flies out of your grasp and out of sight. A dull thud is heard, but all you are focused on is the glint shining off the clawed, gold-plated gauntlet as it withdraws from the position your sword once occupied.
Silence.
“...Your Majesty,” you start, voice hesitant as you try to process what just transpired. “Is it just me, or do you seem more agitated than usual?”
Mydei is relatively expressionless as he stands upright and cracks his neck, as though it were just a regular Tuesday.
“Hmph. There is no such word in the Kremoan dictionary. It’s because you skipped dinner to train. Again,” he stresses with absolute certainty you’re almost inclined to believe his words. Almost.
Despite how long you have been Mydei’s personal guard, you are yet to see a single dictionary in Kremnos. With how often he uses that phrase, you would think there would be at least ten of them in the royal library, not the figment of his imagination and temperament of an agitated cat to be his source.
But you don’t tell your king that. Instead, you opt to stare at your sword lying pitifully in a cloud of dust on the opposite end of the training grounds. “I see.”
“Do you now?” he asks, an undertone of scepticism woven within his tone. “Because the last I recall you saying that, you continued to skip dinner for your personal training. It is fine to train, but over-doing it and neglecting your health will only harm you.”
“Yes, yes,” you sigh, peeling off your gloves as you bypass him, heading straight towards the outer ring where your water bottle was previously left. “My king’s natural instinct to take care of his subordinates has triumphed once more. I concede.”
“If you know, then start listening to me.” His head shakes at your theatrics, joining you at the sidelines with your once flying sword now securely in his hand. You retrieve it with gratitude before stowing it away securely and taking another sip from your bottle. He lingers behind you, quietly helping pack away the equipment. You’re not sure what exactly is going through his mind, but you are enlightened soon enough.
“Come drink with me.”
You pause, the hand towel pressing against your neck also pausing in its ministrations as you process your king’s words. “You mean your pomegranate juice with goat’s milk?”
He gives you a strange look — all scrunched brows, narrowed eyes, and a downward curled lip. You’re almost inclined to poke the midpoint of his brows and tell him to loosen up lest he wants to get wrinkles early, but, alas, you fancy not being on the receiving end of his unamused stare for a change.
“What else?”
“You’re right. I apologise for assuming there would be something different for once, O fearsome king of— ow, ow, ow!”
Your words are promptly cut off by the biting cold metal entrapping your left cheek. Despite knowing escape is futile, you still try to free your cheek from your king’s bullying. It, as expected, fails, and so you’re left to do what you do best — complain. “What was that for?!”
“For being so cheeky,” he retorts. For extra measure he gives your cheek another squeeze before letting go. You jump away at the presented opportunity and cradle your poor, abused skin, pointedly ignoring his deadpan gaze and huff at your antics. “Don’t worry. There will be an assortment of cheese and other accompaniments as always.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll meet you in your chambers, Your Majesty.”
As you are about to trudge towards your quarters, his figure steps in front of you and blocks the way. When meeting his gaze, you find him already looking at you in a mix of confusion and mild annoyance.
“Why?” he asks, and you’re left wondering how this man is the king of a nation.
“So I can have a shower and change into non-sweaty clothes…?”
“Just use my private bathroom.”
“But what about my clo—”
“I still have some of your spares from prior visits. All clean,” he quickly adds, possibly seeing your attempts for a rebuttal.
That fiend. Of course he would look so proud of himself knowing you have no arguments, nor the will to argue, left in you. At this point, all you want is a nice shower and some food, all of which he has offered and knows you won’t refuse.
With yet another defeat fresh in mind you release a long sigh, accepting your fate once more as you begrudgingly fall into step with your king who looks far too pleased with himself, if his satisfied smirk is anything to go by.
Seriously, with how often he calls you into his office and personal chambers for a drink or some food, one might think you’re his personal attendant; you may as well be at this rate!
Well, at least he seems to be in a good mood. In the end, that is all that matters to you.
---
A curse. A sin. A stain upon the royal family’s name. That is what Mydeimos, the once celebrated crown prince of Castrum Kremnos, became known as after the prophecy was foretold. Without a question for the prophecy’s legitimacy, his infantile body was cast aside and thrown into the endless abyss by the man known as his father, King Eurypon, while his mother, Queen Gorgo, died by the king’s treachery after challenging him to a duel shortly after his descent.
…Or so he was told by his teacher, Krateros, who followed after him with the Kremnoan detachment after he resurfaced from the endless depths of that river at the tender age of nine. As it stood, Mydei’s childhood evaded him. He knew he hadn’t led a typical life. He'd grown up fighting endless monsters in an attempt to evade death, learned to read, write, and speak both the common tongue and his mother tongue after nine-years-old, and was forced to adapt his newly undying body to the overworld while traversing the lands. The phantom pain of injuries sustained never faded despite its physical evidence stitched anew without a lasting mark. His senses took a while to completely adjust, the new sounds and sensations leaving lasting remnants for days at a time.
And then would come the nights; the nights where he would dream of the mother whose face escaped him. They came frequently — every night, even. Truth be told, the young prince learned most of his fighting through those dreams. Where his mother awaited him by the flickering firelight, a training session would soon follow. They would spar, him left huffing while she remained unperturbed, and the same conversation would flow without diversion. She would praise him; he would ask why they learn to fight; she would give her response; he would question the philosophy; she would eventually relent and agree with his view, explaining her reasons. And, as in every dream, his mother left with the same parting words,
“I no longer put my faith in any oath or doctrine. Now, I have just one role… That of your mother, Mydeimos. Your guardian…”
And then it would end. And every time, the crown prince would wake up, go about his day with the detachment, and futilely hope for a sequel to his dream. But as was the cycle of life and death, that dream repeated endlessly and without cease. There was no closure, no elaboration of wisdom or guidance she departed him with.
While he never fully understood her words, he continued to traverse the lands with his detachment. Life and death came frequently. Sometimes it would be expected, other times it would grab him by the collar and steal his breath. Regardless of the many partings Mydei witnessed, the pain always lingered. That much never changed even as he became older; he just learned to hide the pain better, to not show any weakness.
His travels eventually led him to the territory of an influential family — one renowned for producing highly capable knights, as well as the budding rumours of the elders’ tyrannical control over their domain. Wealth clearly was not an issue, but rather the skewed distribution between the rich and the poor. The detachment was commissioned to put a stop to their oppressive reign and, after having witnessed the effects first-hand, it did not take long for them to purge the land of its dictators.
And then he stumbled upon you, alone amongst the carnage and debris with a listless gaze directed to your former home and a broken sword discarded beside your kneeled form. Maybe it was the spur of the moment — of your untapped potential or even the budding guilt of wrecking everything you once knew — but he was crouched in front of you with an outstretched hand as the words, “Come. Join me to see the birth of a new king,” escaped him before he could dwell on his next destination.
In truth, Mydei was unsure why he felt compelled to see through the territory’s reconstruction and stability. It was none of his business, and his people were not the patient type when it came to aimless pursuits. And yet, upon witnessing your eyes regain some of its light at his proposal, he found himself uncaring of their protests. He would bring order to the land himself if it came down to it.
Luckily, his men agreed and the restoration was a smooth process over several weeks. Poverty was gradually overturned, a democratic system would be established after their leave, and the people finally experienced peace. They were even celebrated in honour of their feats for freeing the citizens from the suffocating ruling, departing the next morning with you as their newest addition under Mydei’s behest.
(You had nothing left, you’d claimed to him the night of the celebration after sharing a drink, having lost your purpose after being caged for so long. He merely gave you a reason to soar once more.)
From travelling with his group, fighting side by side and experiencing losses together, to usurping the throne under King Eurypon’s ruling, you eventually found your place beside him after his ascension to the throne as his handpicked personal knight. The years flew by — some longer, others shorter. But throughout it all, it hadn’t taken long for Mydei to grow fond of you.
Perhaps it was your lost, broken shell he saw fragments of himself in back then among the carnage and debris which caused the first crack in his heart.
Perhaps it was your innate talent for the sword he witnessed first-hand after sparring you for the first time in the open planes to test your abilities for himself.
Perhaps it was how you gazed at him with purpose and renewed devotion, watching from afar as you dedicated yourself to honing your abilities in an effort to be useful to him.
(You would never be a burden, Mydei found himself thinking once. The very notion itself left an uncomfortable stir in his heart.)
Perhaps it was your expression when you first tried his cooking, him growing bashful in the face of your starry eyes after forcing you to take a break during your self-imposed training.
(Mydei was grateful it was nighttime. God forbid he let you see him so flustered just from you enjoying his cooking.)
Perhaps it was when you stood by his side for the first time not as the comrade he travelled and faced numerous hardships with, but as his personal guard who would forever stand by his side.
(Oddly enough, Mydei anticipated your knighting ceremony more than he did his own coronation. For having been raised with the ideology that overthrowing his father and becoming king was everything, the newly crowned king found himself overwhelmed with something inexplicable when you swore that oath before everyone in attendance, touching your knelt-form’s shoulders with the tip of the ceremonial sword, and handing you the kingdom’s royal insignia to proudly boast on your person.)
Perhaps it was when he spotted you chatting with Phainon back when he was a rookie and not yet the knight commander, who would follow you around like a puppy trailing behind its owner and pester you for the smallest of things; joining you to the water fountain, asking to watch you train, helping you with whatever menial task you decided to pick up for the day, somehow convincing you to be his personal instructor — just whatever routine of yours he could slot himself into.
(It struck Mydei as odd whenever the scene of you both together would cause his heart to clench. It was a pain unlike what he was used to experiencing, more akin to the air knocked out of his lungs and pin pricks settling deep within the beating organ. The mere thought of Phainon having your attention alone was enough to agitate the king, but maybe it was your easy acceptance of the starry-eyed rookie’s presence in your life which hurt a little more.)
Perhaps it was that time you threw yourself in front of him to stop an assassination attempt in his room in the dead of night when all but you both and the assassin were asleep, quickly disposing of him before Mydei rushed to catch your wounded form from hitting the bloodied floor before turning to him asking if he’s alright as though he was the one injured. He’d given a withering stare in response, offering no response as he picked you up and placed you on his bed to patch your fresh wounds.
(He’d given you a stern lecturing, reprimanding you for being so reckless and getting injured as a result. You’d quietened down then and offered an apology but, rather than his unintended harsh words, he’s almost certain it was his trembling hands as he tried to bandage your torso, the subtle shake in his voice he desperately tried to mask as disapproval, and the distraught manner he held you in which made you back down.)
Perhaps it was when he’d caught the way that blasphemous scholar started to seek you out on his own, having always been known to keep to himself unless absolutely necessary, even refusing palace summons were you not the one to personally guide him upon his arrival.
(In the beginning Mydei chalked it up to nothing but a passing curiosity during the scholar’s first visit to the palace, his gaze lingering when you walked away. But when Anaxa started to only ask, or demand rather, for you to be his escort otherwise he wouldn’t come to the palace — despite his personality, his discoveries are still one the best — a strange discomfort welled up within him. Sometimes Mydei thought himself to be petty when intercepting you both during the garden strolls, but when reminded of how that scholar would glance at him over his shoulder with a smirk before resuming his bickering with you, he believed some petty acts can be justified.)
Perhaps it was the days he spent by your bedside, gripping your hand as he barked out for all those well-accomplished physicians to do something to rid you of the lethal poison flooding your system while he could only sit and wait and pray for you to survive this, that you wouldn’t leave him alone. Not when you promised to remain by his side eternally.
(Despite running himself haggard, clinging to the fraying hope you would survive the longer the days dragged on, his wellbeing was nothing in comparison to the choked call of his name, voice hoarse from lack of use and eyes misty as they adjusted to the light. Despite all the words and nags and repressed emotions he all but wanted to tell you — because why would you take such lethal poison meant for him when you knew of his high tolerance? How something like that would have affected him far less than it did you? — Mydei deflated with relief when your cold hand touched his cheek in assurance, clutching desperately to the warmth beginning to seep through your palms as proof of life.)
Perhaps… it was nothing in particular; perhaps it was just you. Unapologetically. Wholeheartedly.
But really, if Mydei were to truly pick a moment where this inevitable downfall of his started, then it would no doubt be the day you were both about to reach the main outskirts with his resistance in tow the night before the Kremnos Festival, his goal to overthrow that man within grasp. The day you pledged to be his entirely.
Mydei had no expectations. He merely followed the path he chose and the fate awaiting him at the end of his journey. He was the crown prince. He was soon to be the king who would govern the land and do everything in his power to bring peace and prosperity to his people. Even if it took unimaginable sacrifice, countless losses, and surrendering his own freedom; everything he desperately wished to avoid in this inevitable power struggle.
He had long since accepted what the rebellion would entail.
And yet there in the heavy downpour did you kneel, one fist clenched atop your soaked heart and the other wrapped around the hilt of your sword wedged in the soil. Mydei could not hear anything happening around him; nothing but your clear voice as you made a vow that changed his life from there on out.
“Allow me to be yours, Your Highness. Your sword, your shield, your confidant, your friend… Whatever it is you need, allow me to assume that role. You don’t need to selflessly sacrifice yourself any longer. I pledge to be yours to use however you see fit, so please allow me to remain by your side eternally and fight for you until death itself forces me away.”
(…How could someone look so sure of themself? How could you say those without an inkling of doubt seeping through? How could you put so much trust in him when he himself had many doubts about his own capabilities?)
It was then, through your clear words and blindingly resolute eyes, did Mydei allow himself to dream once more — to hold onto the hope that, at the very least, you would remain beside him. Selfishly, just this once, he wished to have something to call his own without spilling his entire being for the sake of fate.
And so when he knelt down to match your height and accepted your pledge, the then Crown Prince, soon to be King Mydeimos made a vow to himself; to protect you from those who wished harm on you or tried to get you out of the way in an effort to target him, no matter the route it took to do so. Because regardless of the many potential threats that were to come once he purged the castle, the one thing Mydei refused to give up was you.
“Have you found something deserving of your protection as well, Mydeimos?” He faintly recalled his mother’s voice, the familiar words settled deep within his memory. Despite how long he had travelled with the Kremnoan detachment, Mydei could never give an absolute answer to that question. The answer was always there — just out of reach.
But as Mydei stared at you, your warm smile having melted the frigid rain from his subconscious, he could finally answer his mother’s question with full certainty.
Yes, Mother. I have. When I return home tomorrow, you can rest easy.
(Even now, as he watches in amusement when your lips pucker from the sweetness born from his preferred version of pomegranate juice, he vows to keep you safe from the dangers posed from those beyond this room.)

A languid yawn escapes you. Resting in the shade of a large oak tree secluded from the palace, you allow yourself to relax. Dashes of honeyed marigold slip through the gaps of the leaves and paint your leisurely form in dappled warmth.
Barely anyone knows of this spot other than yourself and Mydei (given the fact he is, y’know, the king and all), so you don’t have to worry about being disturbed in your rare, blissful moment of peace and quiet.
Sighing contentedly, you slowly melt further into the lush grass. Now, if only it could be like this every day—
“Fancy seeing you out here!”
…Of course someone would ruin your rare, blissful moment of peace and quiet just when you thought about it. A knight never rests as they say, and whatever higher being is out there looking over you seems rather keen on keeping it that way.
Maybe if you just keep your eyes closed they will take the hint and—
“Uhm, [Name]? I know you’re awake.”
…Darn it.
A resigned sigh escapes you. With great reluctance, you peek your eyes open. Through blurred vision you see a figure hovering over you, clad mostly in white, black and gold. Blinking a few more times and gently rubbing your eyes, the hazy outline becomes clearer, the smudged outlines merging into defined lines.
“...Hello, Commander.”
A bright smile lights up Phainon’s expression after your attention focuses on him, the corners of his eyes crinkling in glee. Really, what need is there for the sun when you have someone who is the very epitome of it right above you?
“There’s no need to be so formal. You can call me by my name, you know…”
“I’m merely treating you with the respect you deserve, Commander.”
The young leader visibly deflates upon your insistence, the upright tufts of hair drooping in tandem. His lower lip further juts out in a pout as he mutters, “Sometimes I wish I were still a rookie. At least you called me by my name back then.”
When catching his sulking mumbles, you merely give him a deadpan stare before releasing a low sigh. Hoisting yourself up, you scoot backwards until you can rest comfortably against the base of the tree. Probably having sensed your nonverbal invitation, he wastes no time joining you under the shade, his prior down-trodden mood instantly wiped off and replaced with an unmatched radiance.
Now, you would never outright admit to having favourites among the knights; that would just bring on more troubles and questions than you would like, and you already have your hands full with some of the people you know. Yet — again, never would you admit this to anyone outright — you could never deny the inherent soft spot you have for the young man. Aside from you being the one to introduce him to this haven away from the main palace years ago, it was probably his stubborn charm and constant presence which inevitably made you grow fond of him. He also has rather amusing reactions to certain things, so much so he can be like an open book at times.
A soft rustle. A gentle jab. You’re snapped out of your reverie when strands of white and gleaming cyan appear from your peripherals.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks, eyes slightly widened and head tilted in curiosity.
“It’s nothing,” you begin. “Just got caught up a little in my… thoughts…” Phainon blinks and tilts his head once more when your voice trails off. Yet you pay it no mind.
This time, you are solely focused on his looks; more specifically, how unusually dishevelled in contrast to his typically neat and tidy appearance.
While his hair being messy is nothing out of the ordinary, you spy more out-of-place strands than usual, all sticking out in sporadic directions. Despite the light colours taking up the majority of his uniform, it usually remains clean even during training sessions. Yet right now, prominent marks of dirt stain the once snow white of his apparel, his collar and cuffed sleeves slightly askew from their usual position. Despite this contrasting appearance, what holds your attention the most is the dark discolouration located on his wrist.
Perhaps noticing your intense gaze focused elsewhere, his eyes follow your stare.
“Oh. When did that happen?” he says, relatively unconcerned for the bruise blighting his skin.
You frown. “Commander, how did you not notice ”
“I suppose I might have gotten a little distracted, haha…” he trails off, sheepish. There is an awkward laugh as he lightly scratches his cheek, his eyes settling everywhere but on you.
Seriously, how is this guy the leading knight commander?
(…Well, actually, someone who can spar with your king for several days and nights in a row is more than qualified to be a knight commander.)
Without warning, you surge forward. Perhaps caught off-guard, Phainon stiffens, frozen in place as you gently hold his injured wrist and bring it closer, turning it over and lightly brushing your thumb over the amalgamation of deep purples and reds and blues.
“...They didn’t do anything to you, did they?”
Perhaps sensing your apprehension, he encloses his hand atop of yours and gives it a soft squeeze. “I am the knight commander, remember? Compared to before, things are different now. Besides,” he adds with a light smile, “it’s been a long time since then.”
His gaze holds yours in gentle assurance, leaning forward slightly. When remnants of his body heat brush against you, a sudden wave of awareness at your lack of distance has you hastily lean back.
“Really, you need to be more aware,” you reprimand, awkwardly coughing as your eyes resume scanning over him intently in search for other possible marrings on his person. “It’s not good to make others worry so much, you know.”
Okay, so maybe you might sound a little hypocritical — but it’s different when it concerns someone else! At least when you do it, it occurs away from lingering eyes, unlike him who practically prances around in his messy appearance.
When you hear no response, you pause. Typically, this would be when he had some playful quip or sly remark about how you’re not any better than he is to retort back with, often accompanied with that charming, boyish grin and teasing gaze of his. Usually, he would give a playful nudge to your shoulder as he recounts the times he found you dishevelled and roughed up with dramatic flair, often in pursuit of getting a reaction out of you before tending to your superficial wounds with a tender touch.
You find none of his usual antics this time. Instead, when you lift your eyes to meet his, there is an uncanny solemnity in his expression, his once spirited and mischievous gaze now shadowed with uncertainty. And when he opens his mouth after a beat longer than you would have liked, a flicker of doubt flashes briefly across his features before it settles into his shadowed contours, disappearing as though it were never there.
“Does seeing me like this make you worried?”
You blink, confused at his sudden switch in attitude. “Huh? Of course it does. Why wouldn’t I be worried about you?”
A beat of silence.
“I see…”
Something creeps into you then. Slow. Subtle. Discreet.
You’re not sure what it is about him. There has always been a subtle quiet nagging feeling in the back of your mind, whispering there is more to him than he lets on.
Is it that friendly demeanour he automatically has on display regardless of who or what he encounters? Or is it how his expression dims when he turns away, eyes dull and expression grave once he no longer has to put up such charades? Is he even aware how frequently his smile does not reach his eyes at times? How he looks as though something unfathomably burdensome weighs heavy on his shoulders as he plays the part of the hero people make him out to be?
…Does he even realise how worried it makes you when that sullen countenance of his has been increasing in frequency in recent times?
With a resigned sigh, you quickly discard such thoughts. Instead, you pat the space beside you before shuffling back down onto the grass in a comfortable position.
“Rest here,” you clarify, prompted by his furrowed expression spurred by confusion. “No one else other than His Majesty knows of this spot, so you can rest comfortably without worrying about onlookers.”
And when his downcast expression shifts into something far brighter as he readily scoots himself closer beside your seated form, you think it’s fine if he never tells you his story. If he can live the rest of his days free with his past behind him, then there is nothing more you would ask of him.
---
Phainon still dreams vividly of that day.
When he closed his eyes, the screams and the wails and the cries of sheer terror rang loud in his ears.
When he closed his eyes, he saw his father fighting to his last breath with a broken sword in hand.
When he closed his eyes, an all-too familiar heat licked his skin and ebbed away in a brief moment of reprieve in this hellish nightmare before returning with renewed fervour.
When he closed his eyes, his mother was in front of him once more screaming for him to run away all the while being ripped apart by those monsters.
When he closed his eyes, a pungent mix of ash and sulfur and iron burned him from within.
When he closed his eyes, his childhood friends were swallowed by the black tide and turned into the very monsters which destroyed his home.
When he closed his eyes, their voices asked, “Why, Phainon? Aren’t we the best of friends?”, their anguish and betrayal evident as he steeled his heart and drove his sword through them to grant eternal peace.
When he closed his eyes, her outstretched arm and final smile dissolved into smoke, billowing away with the ashy wind and distant cries.
When he closed his eyes, that harrowing embodiment of the reaper itself stood before him, a grim reminder for what had been done and what he strove to vanquish.
And then he wakes up. When he returns to slumber, the cycle repeats itself.
Phainon can still remember it. All too well.
Even as he journeyed across the lands to find a sense of belonging — to find a reason other than vengeance to pick up the remnants of his former self and piece them back together to feel whole once more — not for a single moment was he free from death’s shadow. It clung to him incessantly, its vice-like grip unforgiving in its grave reminder of his true purpose, of how the happiness he felt throughout his travels were fleeting remnants of his past hopes, of how the simmering anger and inevitable retribution for his people would come to overpower the temporary relief he’d been desperate to seek refuge in.
Regardless of how much he tried to dispel that nauseating voice, Phainon knew it would only be a matter of time until his psyche would give out.
In the end, his hatred would consume him. Entirely. Irreversibly. Unapologetically.
It continued like that for a while: wander from place to place; temporarily stay in a tavern or a makeshift camp; help the locals in whichever manner he could; build superficial bonds with those he encountered; move to the next destination; repeat.
It was a tiring routine, one which led to constant doubts about his own character and the purpose he had in the world when all was dark and silent, but it was a routine nonetheless.
And so he trudged on, roaming the land with but one clear goal in mind: to become stronger to kill that cloaked reaper.
Amid his wandering, he heard through word of mouth the rise of Castrum Kremnos’ new king. Former King Eurypon was slain in the winner’s duel of the Kremnos Festival, the challenger and recently coronated monarch having turned out to be the crown prince thought to be dead years ago. The tales Phainon heard kept piling up: some discussed the prosperity and improvements accomplished after he took the throne, while others spread exaggerated rumours of his feats on the battlefield.
But if there was one thing which stuck to the young wanderer, it was how strong this king supposedly was; the exact quality he strove to improve.
And that was how he found himself in a spar with said king until there was a victor. After much persistance and persuasion to be let in by the guards stationed at the gate, the king himself appeared at the site of the commotion closely followed by you, who Phainon assumed to be the personal knight he’d heard through various gossip.
King Mydeimos was curt in his speech, something Phainon thought went against royal etiquette. (Maybe Kremnos didn’t bother with trivialities such as etiquette?) But it mattered not, for his one and only purpose was to be part of the royal knights in order to get stronger.
“Stronger?” the king scoffed. There was an almost imperceptible mocking bite to his words, but it was soon forgotten when he tilted his head back with a cocky expression. “Then let us see if you are worthy. If you can best me in a duel, I will accept you as one of my knights.”
Contrary to Phainon’s thoughts, the duel lasted ten days and ten nights. They were both utterly stubborn, a feat he thought no one rivalled him in until that duel. Even so, the young man never realised how exhilarating it was to clash with someone of equal match, to be able to go all out without worry. Strength truly was unlike any other quality, both in the merits it brought and the weight it forced upon the wielder.
The duel came to a draw after the tenth night. It was you who stepped in, adamant in your decision even after Mydei’s bitter mutters. You’d approached them both with water and towels in hand. He never noticed how parched he was, nor the sheer amount of sweat and grime which clung to him until your deadpanned once-over.
(He had never rushed to bathe so quickly before in his life. He had also never expected a king of all people to look bashful at their subordinate’s scrutinising stare. The more you know, he supposed.)
The following morning marked his official instatement as a knight. Mydei, though with a rather begrudging acknowledgment, commended his prowess with a brief comment about his expectations before you stepped forward as his tour guide. The tour of the palace grounds was… efficient, to say the least. You showed him all there was to show, not forgetting to include some side quips about areas to stay away from and shortcuts within its grand structure. And just like that, his first day ended with a hearty meal.
The following days gave way to a few discoveries.
One, were all Kremnoans hard to get along with, or was it just those he encountered? Every time he tried to strike up a conversation with a fellow knight (or warrior, as they liked to call themselves), Phainon found himself on the receiving end of either a blank stare, a gruff response of some kind, or the cold shoulder, all of which left him awkwardly laughing on his own. But it was fine! Most of them were responsive in their own way, and there were some who even initiated the conversation before he did!
Two, they took their training very seriously — more so than he anticipated even after hearing about their battle-oriented traditions. In what he expected to be relatively light sparring sessions turned out to be full on tournaments, each opponent going all out in their matches. Considering who their king was, it really should not have been so surprising. (Then again, he himself wasn’t all that different when considering his competitive streak…)
And three, you were different compared to your first impression. While, yes, you came off as rather cold and stand-offish in the beginning, Phainon’s gaze somehow managed to trail toward you. He noticed you were always standing in the distance in some manner; always observing, always alert and at the ready. From what he managed to catch, you cared more than you let on to your peers whether they knew it or not, as shown through the subtle acts you did for them.
But he’d seen it in your eyes — in the way you sometimes spaced out with an all-too familiar shadowed expression as though the weight of the world was a burden too heavy to carry on your own. And, perhaps, you had noticed it in him as well when you allowed him into your space in quiet, reassuring company.
Maybe it was then when Phainon realised he wasn’t alone in this desolate world. That maybe, just maybe, you could both carry this weight together. (Two is better than one, as they say, so perhaps sharing such deep-rooted burdens could help you both as well.)
And for a while, he believed it.
He believed it when you allowed him to follow after you back during his rookie days. Unlike the king’s impressive brute strength, Phainon found himself drawn to the finesse of your swordsmanship. There was an undeniable artistry in the way you fought, your movements fluid and light as though you were dancing in the air itself. He never knew the way of the sword could be so beautiful, so utterly captivating; not until he fought you. Even when he lost there was no voice of self-loathing echoing within his mind, just pure admiration for you and your skills.
(It was then Phainon knew he wanted nothing more than to learn from you. Under your guidance, he was certain his eventual vengeance would turn successful. You were apprehensive at first. Perhaps you never thought to take on a student before him, hence your hesitance. But it was fine. He was nothing if not stubborn, and could be very persuasive when he wanted to be, which became evident when you eventually relented two weeks after his relentless pursuit with a weary sigh. He’d somehow found himself enjoying your company along the way, eventually making it a habit to tag along wherever you went. You never seemed to mind either.)
He believed it when he stumbled upon your anguished form all by your lonesome. It was in the dead of night. He was unable to sleep and decided a late night stroll and some fresh air would do him some good, only to have come across the scene where numerous training dummies laid in tatters while you were hunched pitifully in the centre.
(Phainon detested his inability to move, utterly frozen and helpless at your tormented cries of self-loathing. He wanted nothing more than to run to you, to kneel down to your crouched form and tend to your wounds, to provide you a comfort he himself wasn’t even sure he was capable of giving. And yet he could do none of what he desired. Instead he only gazed from the shadows in agony as you abruptly stilled, slowly stood back up, grabbed your previously discarded sword, and resumed what you were doing. He couldn’t remember how long he remained there watching you. By the time he regained his senses, dawn had risen.)
He believed it when you stood in front of him against your comrades without hesitation. Phainon knew it would take some time for him to be accepted by the pre-established knight order. They were all familiar with one another before the current king had taken his throne, having gone through unimaginable sacrifice and loss to get to where they stood. As such, he did not mind when they were particularly harsh during the spars against him. But when you appeared and defended him from their assaults, getting angry at the people you were more familiar with on his behalf, Phainon felt as though a new world had been opened up before his very eyes.
(They just wanted to make sure he was strong and capable enough to protect their land and king. He knew that. As such, he had no qualms with their harsh methods of training, even when his hands trembled and his knees buckled under their relentless attacks. If this would prove himself to them — prove his worth that he, too, had a right to stand and fight with them — then he would endure, and endure, and endure. Phainon never liked to rely on the help of others; if he could help it, he would be the one to help all those in need. And yet, in that moment when all said and done where only the two of you remained in the abandoned training grounds, your form crouched and gaze filled with unimaginable concern for him, Phainon found himself not minding being on the receiving end of your outstretched hand if it meant you would fuss over him like that.)
He believed it when you found him during a particularly rough night and let him find comfort in you. He’d been walking aimlessly in the gardens after one of his recurring nightmares in the hopes of cooling off. Phainon wasn’t sure what exactly he was expecting from his decision, but you finding him and offering your shoulder to lean on definitely were not on the list.
(Admittedly, it was a moment of weakness he never intended to show anyone — especially not to you. You were the last person he wanted to be seen as weak to. He wanted to show you the fruits of his labour under your teaching, to show you he was capable of handling whatever was thrown at him. And yet, when you looked at him with that warm, knowing gaze, his head was on your shoulder before he knew it. Maybe… maybe he could allow himself to want something for once. Maybe it was okay to be a little selfish, even if it was just during those brief fleeting moments where only the two of you seemed to exist.)
He believed it when he chanced upon you resting in the garden, your back against the lush grass and head angled towards the sun. He remembered tilting his head at the thought. You always reprimanded him for doing so (“Do you want to go blind?” you would huff and shield his eyes with your hand, unknowing that was the reason he continued such a trivial action), so what spurred you to go against your nags? To find the answer to such a riddle, he took it upon himself to sneak up on you, a cheeky line or two ready on the tip of his tongue to tease you about being a hypocrite.
At least, until he saw what — or rather, who it was you were gazing up at.
Mydei.
Phainon froze, feeling nothing more than a complete outsider.
That was the first time Phainon had seen you so… relaxed? At ease? Happy?
He paused. The word sunk into his conscience, descending into the abyss of his raging thoughts. You never showed such an expression with him. Sure, you allowed yourself to relax in his presence more so than when in others — a feat Phainon held very dear to his heart. You laughed and joked around with him, shed your carefully structured armour the rest of the world was only allowed to see, let him be privy to your vulnerabilities…
And yet — and yet, and yet, and yet — he had never once seen such an expression from you before; you, who seemed so unequivocally content sunbathing with the feared king, who also had an adoring expression the young knight had never seen before.
Phainon would not necessarily call himself a jealous man, nor one who covets what others have. It was ungentlemanly, an ugly vice unbecoming of the chivalrous knight he wanted to be — of who he strived to become. Someone worthy, someone reliable, someone capable of protecting others.
Yet there he was, hidden in the shadows watching from afar with clenched fists, a spiralling mind, and a rotten heart. Amongst the few intelligible thoughts in his chaotic mind, a dark cloud hung above him. Suffocating. Maddening. Unbearable.
Everything he vowed to never become suddenly seemed to be the only voices he could hear. Those revolting voices he once shoved down without a moment’s hesitation lingered a second longer, the words akin to poison-laced honey having sunk into the depths of his psyche before he could snap himself out of the trance and walk away.
If he were to climb to a higher position, to become someone of a more influential status… would he become someone you could rely on like that?
(Even now, as he finds himself fixated on your peacefully dozing form under the oak tree with his hand shielding your eyes from the burning sun, Phainon can only hope that hideous green monster never sees the light of day; at least, not around you.)

Today is not your day.
First, you overslept. Usually that wouldn’t be so bad — after all, who doesn’t need a lie-in every now and then? However, you missed the usual breakfast time, today consisting of your favourites. How did you know that, exactly? Well, your king had ever so kindly enlightened you on such crucial information after instructing you to run twenty laps after showing up to the scheduled training session late. You were rarely late, typically even being an early riser when there was morning training scheduled. But of course on one of the few days you were late, he was there overseeing the session.
(And, of course, since everyone was in attendance he couldn’t let you off without a disciplinary punishment of some kind. Go figure.)
And as if that was not enough, your oh-so beloved king decided to rain on your parade once you finished the laps by reminding you of a certain scholar’s visit, and how you are to once again escort him to the audience room.
Now, you are no stranger to this eccentric man. With how long you’ve been stationed in the palace, it would be more surprising if you weren’t at least acquainted with him. Even more so when considering how familiar you have become with him across the years with his… anticipated visits. At least he always had some rather interesting stories to share each time; some about his students and how “challenged his school of thought” (which he would boast with a proud expression and a rather hearty laugh of sorts), others rambling about how the other scholars in the Grove would get on his nerves with “meaningless drivel” and “unoriginal opinions unbefitting of their scholarly title”, as he would so eloquently put it, as well as even some stories detailing his latest experiments and the progress of ones he had previously shared with you. (And how they blew up in his face. Quite literally.)
Yes, since you’re so familiar with him, surely you wouldn’t have such a hard time finding him, right?
Wrong, apparently. You have been searching for the past hour with no luck — yet another thing added to your amazing day.
“Seriously, where could he be? It’s not as if he has anywhere else to go,” you mutter to yourself, bottom lip caught between your teeth as your narrowed gaze sweeps across the palace gardens for the fifth time.
“Ahem.”
Jolting at the abrupt sound brushing against your ear, you whip around with a hand on the hilt of your sword. Upon seeing that familiar nonchalant face, however, your previously tensed and battle-ready form relaxed. A sigh escaped you as you turned to properly face him.
“Oh. There you are, Lord Anaxa. To—”
“Anaxagoras.”
“—what pleasure do we owe this visit of yours, Lord Anaxa?” you continue, smiling at the visibly unimpressed man.
“Pray tell, are you being sarcastic with me right now?” he asks, arms crossed and expression as monotonous as his voice. “I find it hard to believe you happened to conveniently forget the reasons for my visits.”
“I am in no position status-wise to be as such with you, my lord.”
“I see. So you were.”
“Respectfully, my lord, I was not.”
“Your words implied if status were not an issue, you would be sarcastic. Therefore, you were.”
As though sure in his deduction (which was very much accurate, but you choose to not confirm what he already knows), he crosses his arms with a raised chin, narrowed eye, and a haughty huff; you have all but half a mind to strike him with your sword’s handle. But you refrain with all the self-control you can possibly muster. You would never hear the end of it with how much he tails you during his sporadic visits, after all. He complains enough about Lady Aglaea, the most renowned seamstress across the lands as well as one of Mnestia’s most cherished priestesses, and adding what he nitpicks about you? Yeah. No. You don’t need your ears to be bleeding any time soon.
Sure. He’s always been a little… vain? Prideful? Egocentric? Really, Anaxa is a lot of things, his penchant for getting under people’s skin and uncaring demeanour in regards to that being the key dominating factor. Rumours about him spread like wildfire. Some surrounded his rather questionable methods, but most surrounded his blasphemy. After he arrived in Castrum Kremnos for his first official audience with Mydei, you didn’t find anything of what they said in the stoic young man. Even so, you maintained a cordial distance, unwilling to entangle yourself with someone who had the potential to ruin your king’s reputation.
Well, up until you chanced upon him practicing one of his proposals requesting more funding and magic-imbued equipment for the Grove of Epiphany to a stationed dromas, that is. You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop on him and some of his rather… outlandish propositions meant for his discussion with Mydei, which you would have heard later in the meeting room regardless, but the way he practically waxed poetic in his long-winded speech, paused, then muttered something along the lines of, “No, no. That fool won’t appreciate nor understand such flowery prose. I’ll need to simplify it for him to understand,” all the while feeding and stroking the dromas with an unexpected gentleness struck a chord in you.
After all, someone who treats the dromas kindly in the way he did couldn’t be a bad person, right?
As it turned out, he was just a well-accomplished scholar who could get pretty cynical at times; namely when it came to the matter of the gods. (You’ve heard rumours of one too many complaints officially written by the various temples in Amphoreus. Despite their differing beliefs, they all seem to agree on their mutual resentment for Anaxa, a feat you find oddly impressive considering the sheer number of temples there are in the empire.)
“What has your mind so occupied?” he asks, brow raised and face closer than you last recall it being.
You blink. Once, twice. Without missing a beat, you respond, “I was thinking about how grateful I am to be your escort, my lord.”
“How quick-witted of you,” he says, deadpan. Anaxa straightens up and appears by your side, and you take that as your cue to begin the walk to the audience room.
Contrary to your initial expectations, the walk is relatively silent; peaceful, even. While you find some of his stories to be entertaining (particularly the manner in which he tells them), you feel you deserve some peace and quiet after the morning you had. Ah, the breeze is so lovely—
“So, have you considered my proposal?”
Nevermind. You spoke too soon. The breeze is horrible.
You inwardly sigh, already knowing where this conversation is going from the sheer number of times you have gone through it. “I’m afraid I don’t follow, my lord.”
Once again, Anaxa regards you with an unimpressed stare. “Are you playing dumb again?”
“I don’t know, am I?”
“Well, then. I suppose I’ll have to jog your memory.” With a fist raised to his lips as he gives a — rather dramatic, if you might add — clearance of his throat, the scholar turns to you, a smug grin stretching his lips. “My proposal for you to be my most cherished assistant, of course.”
“Oh,” you begin with a sigh, “while I’m grateful you think so highly of me, my lord, I’m afraid I’ll have to kindly refuse your proposal. Anything outside of the sword is beyond my capabilities, I fear.”
“Hmph. That’s what you always say. So you do remember after all,” Anaxa accuses, a petulant frown tugging down the corners of his lips.
“Perhaps my answer is just unchanging, my lord. My—”
“—loyalty lies with my beloved king. Yes, yes, I have heard it all, so spare me the theatrics.”
You frown. “Don’t—”
“—speak so dismissively about His Majesty or tarnish his name, lest you want to add treasonous snake to your plethora of nicknames, as well. Yes, I have heard that, too. And here I was thinking you would come up with something new after all this time,” he tuts, shaking his head in mock disappointment.
Your eye twitches. It takes every fibre in your being to maintain the strained smile tugging your lips, desperately reminding yourself to maintain composure. “My lord, has anyone told you how insufferable you are?”
Unfortunately, this man has a rather remarkable ability wherein your usual composed demeanour seems like a figment of your imagination.
“Plenty, dear knight. Are you only just now realising that?”
“Regrettably, I am well-aware of your…” you pause, grimacing as you try to find the fitting words, “much-to-be-desired reputation.”
“I’m happy to know you’re so interested in me, enough to be a cause for concern over my wellbeing,” he says. Oh, how you long to wipe that smirk off his face. “Now escort me through the palace gardens. You wouldn’t let a frail scholar such as I wander alone only to become lost in such a vast space or, worse yet, collapse in the middle of it all with no nearby help, would you?”
(‘Frail scholar’ your ass. You’ve seen that man shoot one of those plague-stricken monsters creeping up from behind him with such pin-point precision it would put shame on the battalion — he’s half blind!)
“...You talk too much, my lord.”
“And you, dearest knight, dilly-dally too much. Chop chop, the garden isn’t going to be toured itself.”
Lord almighty above, if my king does not strike down this fiend then so help me.
“You just wished harm upon me, did you not?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Lord Anaxa.”
“That’s Anaxagoras to you. And your expression says it all. See? When you wish for something to besmirch me, your lips tighten. Your fists also tremble as if you wish to punch me — to which I will give you the benefit of the doubt since I still want you to join me. And also…”
…If Castrum Kremnos doesn’t want to see another incident, it better pray this man does not push your buttons any further today.
---
Anaxagoras was no fool.
He knew what it meant when his parents never returned home, their faces having long since faded from memory while his sister was the only one to remain beside him.
He knew what it was like to live in poverty, barely having the means to scrape by and eat what could be afforded from his sister’s measly income as an animal tamer.
He knew what it was like to lead an isolated life, having watched from the shadows of the trees as his peers frolicked the grassy fields while he sat alone picking at the fallen leaves or found companionship in the dromas.
He knew what it felt like to be wronged, that one priest always seemingly furious with his childlike curiosity and doubts about the oh-so revered gods as he was thrown out of the temple time and time again.
Even when he barely reached the early stages of his childhood development where his cognitive skills became more prominent, he still perceived things well-beyond his years. Perhaps a little too much.
Anaxagoras was no fool, and yet, sometimes, he wished he were.
His sister never blamed him for the trouble he knew tended to follow him. The money she could have used for herself was instead split into basic needs and funds to buy the items he looked at for a second longer during market strolls. Books, screws, heavy pliers, delicate scales… These were some of the few items she bought him with the money she could have used on herself; the money she should have used to treat herself more often. Yet she would merely smile and stroke his head, the words, “Your happiness matters most to me, Anaxagoras. The money can always be earned again,” always uttered without fail.
Perhaps that was when his endless curiosity for life itself manifested, her support his sole pillar.
(Despite all the trinkets she bought which he held dearly, his most cherished item would be the dromas stuffed toy hand-sewn by her, it accompanying him to bed every night without fail.)
And when he had ever so boldly declared he would become the most knowledgeable person in the whole empire— no, the whole world, she took him seriously. Despite believing her encouragement at face value, he truly realised it during one of their market strolls when passing merchants talked about the Grove of Epiphany, a sanctuary devoted to the pursuit of wisdom, caught his sister’s interest.
(He’d memorised that name in secret — the Grove of Epiphany. If, somewhere in the future, both he and his sister could attend together… would their lives be a little easier?)
Then one day she’d sat him down and presented a stash of funds she had kept hidden; his travel funds to attend the Grove. When he’d asked if she would join him, she refused, instead insisting she would continue making ends meet and remain in their remote city-state as a home he could return to.
Anaxagoras believed her.
Of course he did. He believed she would always be there waiting for him, on the receiving end of his letters sent during his time in the academy, there to greet him when he returned during the breaks, appearing at his graduation where he could amass the funds to support her after everything she had done and sacrificed for him all those years.
Anaxagoras believed her.
And so despite the heavy heart of their parting — of being separated from each other for the first time — he clambered onto the carriage of her merchant friend and waved until he could no longer see her. Thoughts of what new things he would learn and experience filled his mind as the carriage trekked onward, the prospect of growing his boundless curiosity instilling hope for a better future in the young boy for the first time.
At least, until word of the black tide having struck his home reached him halfway through the journey.
Anaxagoras never knew true fear until he was rushing back. The bile which would not go down no matter how hard he swallowed; the thunderous beats of his heart having drowned out everything around him; the suffocating grip which clawed at his throat.
When he drew nearer to the place he called home, a sense of foreboding rushed through him all at once as he sprinted harder. It came in the form of a creeping darkness, spreading its tendrils far and wide with nowhere to run nor hide. The panic, the tangy metallic scent, the mayhem, the loss of breath, the smoke, the screams and cries and wails and—
And then the silence. When all was laid to rest, young Anaxagoras found himself fearing the silence more than he did the chaos.
He stumbled at the sight of the corroded ruins, his breath knocked out of his lungs when the dread became too unbearable and rendered him imobile. There was no one to answer his desperate cries. There was no one to console him as he weeped amid the debris. There was no one to wipe away his tears as he silently stared at the area his house once occupied. There was no one to reverse time back to when his sister sent him off to the academy and instead take her with him to avoid the tragedy. There was no one to soothe the rage simmering beneath the despair. There was no one — no god — who answered his desperate pleads for help.
He was alone amid the carnage, the destruction his to bear in its entirety.
When the realisation there would be no help struck, that the gods everyone had revered so deeply would never extend their hand to the likes of him, Anaxa knew he had to take matters into his own hands. It was he who controlled his own fate, not the voice of some unseen being. He had to gain power, and what better way was there than to see through to his enrollment in the Grove of Epiphany? It was every aspiring scholar’s dream to attend and receive education there and yet, for the boy who had lost everything with not even the gods on his side, his only motivation was his beloved sister’s wish for him to attend in hopes for a better life.
The enrollment was nothing special. Perhaps it was his family’s connections, or maybe they just saw the talent within him at a glance, but he got in without hassle. The school lived up to its reputation, knowledge found in every nook and cranny if searched for. His teacher, Empedocles, was understanding and kind, his wisdom far beyond anything Anaxa could have imagined before attending the school.
And yet it wasn’t enough. There had to be something more; something he could dedicate his entire being to.
Then, as though the puzzle pieces fell into place, he came to learn of Thalesus, the First Scholar’s, theory of souls, and how life, as well as the composition, movement, and transformation of matter, all stem from souls themselves. Alchemy, he came to realise, and how it could be the answer he had been searching for all along. After all, since all living things had the same origin, why would he be unable to sacrifice himself to resurrect his sister?
It was the rope he clung to without hesitation, throwing himself into alchemy without pause. His teacher voiced his concerns, but Anaxa took little heed. This was his path — this is what his purpose was for.
Then one day, he succeeded. His left eye was no more, but he managed to see his sister once more… Even if it was for a brief moment. A moment in which she did not say anything, but just the sight of her one last time was enough for him. That momentary exchange soothed his ailed heart in a way he nearly forgot about, and he was able to give a proper send-off with closure.
Despite the resurrection not happening the way he’d planned, Anaxa discovered a new path after his desire had been laid to rest. To continue the study of souls and prove the scholars of the Grove truly knew nothing about the First Scholar’s depth of study.
His achievements soon racked up. He soared academically, brought new ideologies and questioned the tried-and-true. The matter of the gods, however, was what sullied his name.
The Foolish. Demised Scholar. The Great Performer. “A dromas wrapped in finery.” (He never knew why people thought the latter title to be an insult. If anything, Anaxa took that one as a compliment.) He gained many aliases throughout his academic pursuit, but what did that matter? All it meant was people were acutely aware of him, and that was the greatest gift he could have when his whole purpose was to educate them on the real truth of the world.
And when he was soon to establish his own school, the Nousporists, Anaxa was sent as a representative of the Grove of Epiphany to Castrum Kremnos to establish communications. It was there he met you; the personal knight of the newly crowned king.
He hadn’t thought much of you at first. You were merely doing your job to guide him through the palace grounds, ensuring he wasn’t led astray. You hadn’t talked much either. Not that he minded; in fact, he was rather grateful you weren’t the overly chatty type to talk his ear off (there were enough of those back in the Grove as it was). The escort was quick with no detours. Simple and efficient.
He appreciated it, truly. And yet, when you walked away with a quick bow and respectful, “I wish you a pleasant audience, Lord Anaxagoras,” his gaze followed you even after you’d rounded off and disappeared behind a corner. It was an inexplicable feeling, that long-forgotten emptiness back when he lost everything having abruptly resurfaced with your departure.
But he shook it off and walked into the audience room where the recently ascended king awaited. It was merely a scholar’s curiosity. Nothing more, nothing less.
It didn’t take long to note your habits during the two week-long stay at the palace.
Through observation, Anaxa came to realise your tendency to linger in the gardens when you had no immediate duties. With how stoic and business-like you were, it never occurred to him how gentle your expression could become when cradling the flowers. Sometimes when he would take a stroll by himself, he would catch you dozing peacefully under a large tree, your armour shed for lighter and more comfortable clothing.
(Heh. For someone so rigid, you sure had a knack for finding ways to slack off. It was rather amusing when he frequented you more often, sometimes choosing to reveal himself while other times he remained hidden and observed from afar.)
He also observed your rather bad habit of overworking yourself late into the night. He never meant to snoop, but when the crisp sound of a sword slicing through air and haggard pants could be heard in the stagnant evenings, it was natural to let curiosity guide its course. Had it not been for curiosity, he would have never stumbled upon your moments of weakness, where frustration took you by the throat and reduced you to a crumpled heap in the training grounds and he could only watch from behind a pillar.
(Hmph. Really, you were already skilled enough as it was — more so than any knight he had ever seen. Seeing you tell yourself to be better, that you would never be able to protect anyone at this rate… a strange pang pierced in his chest at the thought of you doubting yourself.)
He also noticed how he was the only one you would call by name. Your lower status with the king forbade you from saying anything other than “Your Majesty” or “His Majesty” and, despite how familiar the overly friendly rookie knight seemed to be with you, you rarely addressed him by name. In fact, Anaxa heard his name uttered by your lips more times than that knight’s! Phainon, if he recalled correctly.
(Truthfully, Anaxagoras shouldn’t have been as elated as he was upon the discovery, but the self-assured smirk could not help but to slip out at times when either of the two happened to pass by and catch you saying his name.
…Even when you eventually turned to using a shortened version after he’d annoyed you on a particularly bad day. He would take the small wins, however, as you did use his original name for some time.)
And, eventually, he discovered your stalwart nature. Again, he hadn’t meant to snoop, but it wasn’t as though he expected to stumble across the gaggle of knights discussing his less-than savoury rumours. You were amongst the roster, polishing your sword amid the rowdiness when they turned the spotlight to you asking for your thoughts. Having upset you just two days prior, Anaxa was almost certain you would partake in such trivialities against him — you had been giving him the cold shoulder, after all. Only… you hadn’t. You ended up doing the very opposite. “Please refrain from such ridicule. He is a guest of His Majesty, and it is our duty to remain sharp against unforeseen dangers — not participate in blatant slander.” There was a slight pause, and Anaxa was almost grateful he allowed his curiosity to get the better of him once more upon hearing your next words. “Besides, those rumours seem far too exaggerated. Lord Anaxagoras isn’t as bad as the gossip makes him out to be. A stubborn and prideful man he may be, but he has much passion for his cause; something I find admirable compared to those who only know how to run their mouths with nothing to show for it.”
(He would have stifled a rambunctious laugh at your brazen words, if not for the obnoxious heartbeat that rang loud in his ears nor the rapid flush which rushed through his body. A hand was placed above the erratic palpitations in a futile attempt at calming the restless orgain while the other dragged pitifully slow down his face, only stopping to try — and fail — to cover the trembling grin which split his lips and let loose a few shaky chuckles. Really, he’d thought amid the last breathy laughter, fully slumped and slid down against the base of the looming pillar. You’re making me almost want to be a little more greedy, my dear knight.)
His departure after those two weeks was nothing special. King Mydeimos came to personally see him off, sharing a brief word or two regarding future relations between Castrum Kremnos and the Grove of Epiphany, while the main figures who worked in the palace were by his side. Despite saying his farewells and climbing into the carriage, Anaxa found himself unable to tear his gaze away from you even after the carriage began its trek back. It was reminiscent of when he first met you, and he could not help the quiet laugh which slipped out at the realisation.
It wasn’t until a fair few years later did Anaxa come to realise what that curiosity of his truly was — of what it had evolved into.
It happened during one of those utterly stifling banquets he loathed, all because he had to show face in at least one of them each year. As it so happened, he hadn’t publicly appeared in any for the year. So what did that old coot of a teacher do? Why, he gave Anaxa that familiar smile before kicking him out into a carriage conveniently on its way to the end of year banquet hosted at Castrum Kremnos, of course.
Really, if he had it his way, Anaxa would have spent this precious time cooped up in his office surrounded by all his alchemical experiments — not loitering in the back of the ballroom with a flimsy champagne flute and grimacing at all the gossipmongers surrounding him.
Utterly ridiculous. Did those people have nothing better to spend their time on? He pitied them, truly, to do nothing but waste away in a stuffy room and exchange faux pleasantries with one another.
Having had enough, Anaxa promptly stepped out. The cool evening air was sufficient, and he decided a stroll around the gardens was due. It had been a while since he wandered around on his own, becoming used to you escorting and indulging him with conversation.
Funnily enough, the moment he’d thought of you, you appeared in his peripheral vision. Stood in the distance, side profile visible to him. While he wondered what brought you out to the gardens, he supposed he really shouldn’t have been so surprised to see you in the place he knew you frequented most. And for such a stuffy occasion such as the banquet, he really didn’t blame you for being outside.
Just as Anaxa had smoothed down his suit and cleared his throat in preparation to walk over to you, he froze. The sight he witnessed had him rooted before he could even take one step.
Anaxa had met that brutish king more times than he would have liked. As with his usual outlook, he mostly regarded the monarch with nonchalance, sometimes a slight admiration if a good argument was brought up in their negotiations, and other times a subtle annoyance when his garden stroll-escort with you was interrupted. Yet, seeing you both together under the dim moonlight away from the suffocating crowd and caught in your own world made him feel as though he were imposing on something he should have not. An unfamiliar sensation stirred in his heart. And yet he could not look away, seemingly enraptured.
Such blind, unwavering loyalty... Though a fleeting thought, Anaxa could not help but wonder what it would take for you to direct such beguiling devotion to him instead.
(Even now, as he watches from the sidelines how your unshakeable devotion to your king’s sudden interruption during the garden escort blurs the rest of the surrounding world into an incomprehensible blend of colours, he cannot help the fleeting hope you would one day gaze at him like he was your entire world and more.)

TRIVIA TIME !!
well, more like WORLD BUILDING-SLASH-LORE TIME !!, but i digress. anywho i just wanted to add in this little segment to try and explain the au world a little more, mainly the composition of amphoreus !! this was mainly done for myself bc i kept having inner battles abt whether i wanted castrum kremnos to be the kingdom where everyone resided in with mydei as the sole ruler, or if i wanted amphoreus to be an empire made up of various nations (like how it is in game basically). i ended up going with the latter bc i ended going down an entire rabbit hole creating the world of a fic that most likely won't get a continuation of sorts, but it was fun to imagine and made it a little easier writing the backstories, hehe !!
anyway here are some key notes which hopefully explain it a little more for those interested ^^
Amphoreus = empire
All cities (e.g. kremnos, okhema, etc) are the kingdoms in amphoreus with their own ruler/democracy
Amphoreus has multiple leaders to discuss state affairs (basically hsr main chrysos heirs but not all - like castorice is aglaea’s right-hand in a way + the executioner bc adonia is no longer a nation, or phainon & anaxa who lost their homes) with aglaea as the main/overseeing leader (empress but not really. She just wants to create beautiful clothes ;w;)

if you enjoyed this, reblogs and/or comments are greatly appreciated <33
@milk-violet heres ur tag <33
#honkai star rail x reader#hsr x reader#anaxa x reader#mydei x reader#phainon x reader#honkai star rail imagines#hsr imagines
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IM CRYING. THE GAL GADOT COMMENT IS KILLING ME




some Superman (2025) letterboxd reviews I wanted to share.
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ITS A CASSANDRA CAIN FIC‼️ THESE COME BY EVERY CENTURY 🙏🙏
Any love for our girl Cass 🥺
✿ Weightless things
cassandra cain x reader
cassandra cain comes home to you

Cassandra walks into the apartment like a shadow returning to its source.
The air is still, moonlight spills through the half-open curtains in ribbons, silvering the hardwood floor and painting everything in soft, forgiving light. The night outside is humming— city pulse, distant sirens, someone laughing too loudly down the block.
But in here, there is only silence.
She closes the door soundlessly and removes her boots, her suit is flecked with ash and dirt from a rooftop fight she didn’t want to be in. Her knuckles are sore. Her muscles ache with the kind of fatigue that only comes when the world’s noise has pushed too long against her quiet.
She breathes differently when she sees you.
Curled on the couch like something sacred, limbs tangled in a blanket too big for one person but not quite big enough for two. Your breathing is deep, your mouth slightly parted. One hand tucked beneath your cheek like it’s holding a dream in place.
Cass watches you.
She always watches you like this.. the way artists admire sculptures, or warriors admire stillness. Like a thing she never knew she needed until she was standing right in front of it. Until she could hear the soft, sleeping proof that something in her world remained untouched by violence.
You, a civilian.
You’d laughed when she called you that once . You teased her, said you weren’t that boring. She didn’t mean it like that. Cassandra doesn’t use words carelessly. To her, “civilian” meant not broken.
She crosses the room on bare feet, every step reverent.
Cass kneels beside the couch. Her gloved hand hesitates in the air, hovers over your shoulder, then lowers to gently brush a loose strand of hair away from your face. You stir only slightly, like a flower turning toward sun and then relax again.
Then, with care that doesn’t match the way she throws herself off rooftops for a living, she slips onto the couch behind you. It’s awkward at first— there’s not much space. But you make room even in your sleep, sighing contentedly as you shift just enough for her to tuck her body around yours like armor laid down.
Her arm drapes over your waist. Her forehead presses to the back of your neck. And she breathes.
This— this is what home feels like.
You smell like lavender and clean cotton. She lets herself melt into it, feel the rise and fall of your chest beneath her palm like a lullaby she’s still learning the words to.
Cassandra doesn’t dream often. Sleep comes in fits, rest is rare.
But in this moment, wrapped around you, she understands peace in a way the world never taught her. You murmur something half-coherent in your sleep, her name, she thinks, or something close to it— and your hand finds hers, fingers curling instinctively around her own.
She nearly breaks.
She nestles closer. Her nose presses to your shoulder blade. Her hand tightens around yours.
She doesn’t need words.
But if she did, she might say:
I’ve walked through storms to find you.
In the stillness of your shared quiet, Cassandra finally lets herself believe in weightless things— love, rest, the idea that she doesn’t have to fight everything to deserve something good.
You sigh again, deeper this time, and shift closer in sleep, as if even unconsciously, you know she’s there.
Cassandra closes her eyes.
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I LOVE MAPS AND CASS OMG. Never knew I needed an artwork with them both
BATMAN AND ROBIN!!!
i can't tell y'all how much I love them!! Maps my purest angel and Cass my babygirl!!
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Yours, never ours
Pairing: Damian Wayne x Sister! Reader (platonic), Tim Drake x Bruce Wayne's daughter
Warnings/tags: implied stepcest, talks of neglect and child abuse, daddy issues, descriptions of violence and blood, damian doing his best.
Synopsis: Damian secretly treasures every moment he gets to spend alone with his blood sister, bonding and hopefully mending the bridge between them. However, there's a topic that keeps bothering him and needs her to tell him the truth. Or, Damian asks his sister a question about their father and ends up learning just how far his shortcomings can go. (He also struggles to supress his desire to murder Tim Drake)
Continuation from If Walls Could Talk.
Check the AU's masterlist for more
"Why do you call him that?"
It was one of those rare evenings where they were working in the same space, together. He was finishing some extra homework on coffee table, sitting on the ground near the fire, and Ukthi was on the couch, programming her latest project.
It wasn't common they had time to just be together, alone. Both their schedules were packed and they led very different lives. Regardless, Damian enjoyed these moments even more because of their rarity.
They were alone, everyone else out doing their own thing, so it was just the two of them. The blood siblings. Standing together and bonding as they should. As they always should've.
Not so long ago, she wouldn't stand being in the same room as him, too scared and too resentful to so much acknowledge him, so the fact they've come to moments like these are proof of how much they've advanced in their relationship.
Of course, Damian doesn't blame her. With time, he's come to the realisation of the extense of the pain his actions inflicted on her, and the dreadful consequences that came afterwards. She has every right to resent him, even to try and claim revenge upon him. He's grateful she gave him a chance, as fragile as it feels sometimes.
Which is why he tries his best to strengthen their newly found bond, to value every second of these rare moments as if they were the last. Each one feels a step closer to redemption for his mistakes, his agravations against his sister.
He can't speak for the others, but it's not his bussiness to care whether they're trying too. They should be aware of their actions as well, just like he does. And frankly, he doesn't want them to intervene now. To interrupt his time with her and steal her attention.
"What do you mean?", she looks up at him with a confused gaze (not so long ago, she never looked at him in the eyes. Having her turn her attention towards him still makes him feel weird)
But there's been something pestering his mind lately. A question. An enigma he can't quite understand. Something only she can give him the answer to.
"Why do you refer to our father like that?"
She visibly tenses, but her face doesn't betray any particular emotion.
He would admire her for such skill, if it wasn't so damn effective against him as well. He hates not being able to read her out of all people.
They're supposed to be understand each other better than anyone.
"Like what?"
He squints his eyes at her in annoyance.
"You know what I mean."
"Is it because I call him Bruce instead? Well, everyone else does. It feels more natural. You're the weird one in this house, Dami."
He ignores the flutter in his chest when she calls him that.
"Yeah, but that's because the others aren't really his children. They're not used to call him anything else."
Besides, he's sure he heard Richard and Tim call him Dad a few times. Accidentally, but still...
At first he didn't pay mind. Mostly because they were still on thin ice and he refused to entertain her presence any more than he had to, but he it was there.
"Tell your father to stop treating me like a baby. I don't need his concern now."
"Your father is an asshole sometimes."
Then they started to patch things up, spend more time around each other, and he started to notice it more.
"Should I tell your dad you got into another fight?"
"Geez, your dad really needs to improve his security system already."
He thought it was some joke. A form of protest against Father's authority, like Todd likes to do. He was her big brother the most afterall, he must've influenced her a bit.
But she kept doing it. And when she does, it comes out so...naturally from her. As if she doesn't think deeper of it. As if it's normal.
He needs to know why.
"Why do you always say 'your father' or 'your dad' when we talk about him?"
Silence.
Her fingers twitch on the keyboard. She shifts in her seat, suddenly avoiding his eyes.
"Well, he's your father, isn't he?"
She replies nonchalantly, like she's just stating a fact and doesn't understand what he means. Her face going neutral once again.
But Damian knows better.
He has had time to know her better.
He's willing to admit now that he failed her. There's no excuse for it. To say they weren't always on the best terms is an euphemism. A sanitised version of the events.
When they first met, she tried to bond with him, like everybody else. Seeing like a misguided child who needed help, and his newly found younger brother. But Damian hadn't appreciated her intentions, nice as they were.
Back then, he was still fresh from the League, from his grandfather and mother's teachings, and he just found out he wasn't Batman's only biological kid. That he wasn't even his firstborn. He had a blood sister, and the traitorous voices in his head (sounding suspiciously like Mother) whispered how she was a threat to his position. That she stood in the way to his birthright.
And he listened. Acted accordingly how he was taught and tried to slice her throat on her sleep. Eliminate the threat. That act was what sealed it.
Even if he couldn't bring himself to finish the job in the end, he still ruined whatever chances he might've had to have a solid bond with his only blood sibling. Years passed, both living under the same roof, yet the distance only grew.
By the time the regrets were eating at him, it was too late. It has taken him blood, sweat and tears to simply be allowed to stay in the same room as her. And how could he blame her? He still has dreams of that night, when his sword draw a line that separated her throat and her blood coated everything around them.
They've gone a long way since those days. Yet he feels there's still a lot more to do.
"He's your father too." He replies. "Ours."
Silence again.
She inhales deeply, and exhales like it weights on her.
"It's a bit more complicated for me, Damian."
"Why?"
He doesn't understand. Sure, he knows Father might've not been the best at it, especially with her, but he's still Father. Hey the ribbon that ties them both together through blood.
So why does she never say "ours"? Why does she keep denying their connection?
Why does she keep separating herself from Damian?
He wants to understand.
"He's been a father to you, to everyone. Not to me. Never to me. Therefore, don't expect me to call him something that he's not."
"But he is—"
"Not for me."
The sudden coldness in her tone makes him flinch. It leaves no room for reply.
It's been a while since he's heard it directed at him. He hoped to never hear it again.
She seems to notice, for she relaxes her expressions instantly and sighs with a regretful face. She finally sets her laptop aside and turns her body to face him.
"Look, Damian. You're a smart kid. Probably one of the sharpest I know. But there's stuff you simply can't understand, and this is one of those."
He frowns at her words. "I'm not a kid. You can tell me."
"I just did and you still didn't get it."
"Then help me to!"
Her eyes look straight into his own. Baby blue eyes, identical to Father's, piercing at him with a severity that reminds Damian of the times he's been on the receiving end of a dissapointed look from other set eyes just like those...
Blood is thicker than water, indeed.
No matter how much she tries to deny it. It's there, within her, running through her veins. In her very core. She's Bruce Wayne's daughter in all ways.
And his sister.
"Damian," she speaks up again, and something in the way she says his name makes him sit up straigher. "I understand you love him. He cares for you. You've been taught since birth who he is and how you're meant to be an extension of him. Of his legacy or whatever bullshit your mother told you. But to me," she sighs again, averting her eyes towards a wall. "To me he's just the man that lets my and my family live in his house. Someone I share DNA with, and that could be a potential candidate to give me blood or a kidney shall I need it. That's it."
"But—"
"Let me finish." He shuts his mouth inmediately. "He's never been there for me. I didn't even know he was my father until Mum brought me here. And in all the years I've been here, living under his roof with his surname, he hasn't even tried to bond with me. I worked myself to exhaustion just for his attention, to make him proud, but I got nothing. He's made me feel Iike I wasn't enough, like I didn't deserve his love or anyone else's but my mother's." Her voice cracks at the last part, making Damian's chest ache at it. His hand twitch with the need to reach out for her, but thinks better of it.
They're not close enough yet for her to accept his comfort. She would take it as pity and close herself off again.
So he stops himself. No matter how much he wants to try. How much the sight of her unshed tears in the corner of her eyes hurt him.
She shakes her head as if to snap herself out of it, rubbing her eyes with her fingers like she was cleaning off some sweat. She coughs softly and looks back at him. The wet glint in her eyes gone.
"He's your father, Damian. Not mine. That's why I'll always refer to him as such. Because it's what he is. Because that's just how things are, and I'll appreciate it if you accepted it already."
"But he—"
"Damian, please." It's the first time he hears her pleading at him for anything. It unsettles him. "Let's not talk about this anymore, okay? I'm tired. And you won't get it no matter how much I try to explain it. So, let's leave it here."
For once, he doesn't insist.
Not because he's satisfied with her answers. Far from it, even. But because he's never heard her use that tone with him nor anyone. Just like he's never heard her voice crack when talking.
His sister is a proud and stubborn creature. She would rather stab herself than so much admit she needs help. Has gone unhealthy lenghts to appear strong even when she isn't.
So for her to display this fraction of vulnerability, although accidentally...it means she's had enough.
And Damian has to respect that.
Last thing he wants is to push her away.
"Alright." He replies, his tone betraying how unsatisfied he is at how the converstation ended. "I'm sorry, Ukthi." He mutters sheepishly, but she hears him.
She smiles, gently. "Thank you, Dami."
It's embarassing something so simple makes his heart flutter so much and his cheeks redden. He scowls, pretending to be annoyed, and tries to return his attention to the book while she chuckles.
For a moment, everything is at peace. Ignoring the storm in his heart at the revelations and feeling like a piece of the world fell on him.
Having the same father is precisely what ties them together. It's the core of their bond, the reason they exist in the first place. They both have his blood running through their veins, something no one else can understand. Being Bruce Wayne's heir is a weight he can only share with his blood sister.
To know she doesn't even acknowledge Father as her own, that she draws an invisible line between her and Damian without realising...it stings in a way he can't explain. It worries him too.
Because if she were to officially deny her connection with Bruce Wayne, she could separate herself from all of them. Damian included.
He doesn't want that. He can't allow that. She's his sister. His. He can't lose her. Her place is right there, with him and Father, standing by their side when—
"What are you guys whispering about? Can I join?"
Oh, and here he was thinking it was going to be a peaceful evening.
As if his sister's sincerity hadn't shaken him enough, now he has to endure the most agravating thing of all there is.
Timothy Drake.
He doesn't care it's Drake-Wayne in paper. He refuses to recognise this asshole, this traitorous worthless worm, as his family.
To make it worse, Ukhti inmediately turns her face towards him, rising her eyebrow in a playful manner.
"I though you were going to be busy today."
He looks at her with the same kind of expression.
"I wrapped it up earlier than I planned. Crazy, uh?"
Damian's eye twitches, his hand clenching dangerously around the edge of the book. He calculates the right angle to kill Drake if he throws it at him.
The bastard has the gall to stare at her as if she's the only one in the room. In front of him.
He dreads to think what else they might've been doing behind everyone's backs..
She doesn't notice the growing wrath coming from her brother, still looking back at the intruder with a smile.
"And you decided to come and spend time with us instead? I'm flattered."
"Well, maybe I missed you, guys." He shrugged his shoulders, placing his hands on her shoulders from behind her seat, brushing her hair out of the way. "And I don't trust you out of my sight so long. Who knows what you'll be up to?"
She gasps dramatically.
"Me? I don't know what you mean. I'm an angel. Isn't that right, Dami?"
It's then when Drake finally looks at him...with the utmost indifference.
"Oh, hi there, Damian. I didn't see you from here."
Damian exhales through his nose. Oh, there are so many ways he could tear this son of a bitch apart. He deserves a slow, painful death. Fitting for his crime.
The nerve of displaying his indecency so openly when he's there, not caring at all...Damian wants nothing more but make him bleed out with his sword
If only he told Father. He knows he would punish Drake accordingly, but insisting enough, he probably wouldn't mind allowing Damian to take care of it himself.
But he can's say anything for now.
Ever since he caught them that afternoon in Drake's bedroom, kissing like it wasn' the first time nor the second, he's been spiralling almost to insanity on how to deal with the discovery. One only he is aware of.
He told himself he will wait to the right moment. Drake is a damn genius, there's no way he would fall for a trap. Hell, he's always two steps ahead of everyone, including Batman sometimes.
No. Damian knows better. He has no option but wait. If he exposed them now, it might hurt Ukthi more than Drake himself. And Damian won't let that happen.
So he tries to focus back to this book, telling himself that it's okay if Drake sits right next to her, way too close to be appropiate. He closes his eyes and counts back to ten when he hears the asshole whisper something in her ear that makes her giggle and punch him in the arm softly.
I'm right here, you piece of shit.
Right on cue..
"My little brother is here, idiot. Don't push it." He hears her mutter back.
Now it's his turn to get flustered.
Of course, she'll be the one with decency and consideration out of the two. Another reminder of how Drake doesn't deserve her at all.
"And? He has his own bedroom. He can leave if he wants."
Damian feels his face burn with rage back again.
Oh, Timothy, you're so dead. You're a dead-man walking and you don't even know.
She lets out an annoyed sigh, promptly turning her face away from him.
"I'm not going to kick him out to his bedroom. He was here first."
Yeah, that's right. He was here first. He's been her brother far longer than Drake has been...whatever the hell he is to her. If anything, he's the one who should leave.
Maybe forever. Damian will be more than happy to help with the process.
Completely oblivious to the younger boy's annoyance, or simply not caring, he wraps an arm around her shoulders and brings her closer to him, much to the boy's horror.
Without a single sign of decorum, he lays his cheek against the crown of her head and sighs pitifully. While attaching himself around his Ukthi like a snake.
"C'mon, I've been working my ass relentessly these past days. Barely got to sleep at all. Don't you feel sorry for me?" He whispers again.
She lifts her head to look at him, a playful glint in her eyes.
"And what do you want me to do about that?"
"I don't know. Maybe you could join me on my naps."
She huffs, her eyes still locked in his.
"As if you'd ever behave long enough for us to actually nap."
"Hey, not my fault you look so damn cute sleeping in my shirts. I'm just a man, you know?"
She chuckles, shaking her head.
"Right. Poor you, unable to repress your manly impulses when a helpess girl is in your arms."
It's him who chuckles this time.
"Helpless my ass. You know exactly what you do to me."
"Is that so?"
She tilts her head innocently at him, blinking like she doesn't understand what he means.
Damian closes his book loudly enough to make them both snap out of it and look at him.
Tim merely raises an eyebrow.
"Oh, you're still here? Don't you have homework to do or something, Dami?"
The boy ignores him and stands up, walking towards his Ukthi. He clenches his fists when she tries to remove Drake's arm from her shoulders when he approaches, but the bastard tightens his hold.
I will make you beg for mercy, Drake. Just you wait.
"It was a pleasing evening, Sister. I hope we can repeat it soon enough."
She nods at him with a surprised glance.
"Oh, of course. I won't mind, I think?"
He smiles at her, heading to his bedroom to and cut his pillow into million pieces with his sword as he pictures Drake's face in it.
And as if the son of a bitch hasn't aggravated him enough..
"Goodbye to you too, Dami. Geez, what's up with him today?"
One day.
One day, Drake, I will make you pay.
Just right before he turns the corner of the hallway, he throws a look at them.
His sister is laying completely against the worm, relaxed in a way that's not usual in her. They keep whispering, and she drops her head into his shoulder. Burying her nose in it with her eyes closed in what seems like a pained expression.
And in that moment, Damian's heart beat stronger, fuelled by something else than anger.
He might not be your father, he thinks. But you'll always be my sister.
That's right. It doesn't matter how much Father has failed her. How everyone else in this house seems to have abandoned her in some way or another.
Because he'll be by her side forever.
I'll protect you and care for you no matter what.
Even if that means getting rid of one of his brothers to do so.
Taglist: @cybergoth1, @i-simp-for-women, @luludeluluramblings, @odetothemaiden, @cxcilla, @dawnbreakerswife, @0bticeo (to all of those who showed support in the previous part 💖 thank youu)
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People who use ai to create "art" are talentless and passionless.
If you don't have the time or skills to learn a craft just say so.
Everyone loves to shit on Artist and how it doesn't make money but still goes on to watch movies listen to music and play video games as if there isn't an artist behind the very creation of the thing we consume. Stop trying to pretend as if artists aren't important. Stop trying to pretend as if their craft is useless when you go and use ai.
You want the glory and attention of it without actually doing anything to deserve it.
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Cass should have some of this personality in fics 😭


another fun thing about cass is that as soon as she gains the ability to speak, she becomes a little shit
batgirl vol 1 #7
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Ao3 does not need an algorithm, you're just lazy
Ao3 does not need a 1-5 star rating system, you just want to bring down authors writing for FREE
Ao3 does not need automatic censorship, it is an archive, therefore anything can be posted
Writing or reading about something illegal does not mean the author nor the reader condones it, if that were true, you could never read a story involving anything negative
Purity culture is ruining fan culture and you all are fucking annoying
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“…nothing on MY mind but Aura-Farming….”
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Sure, she dug up a corpse and all, but she apologised 🥺

#i support cass' rights and wrongs#dc comics#batman#batfamily#batgirl#cass cain#cassandra cain#batgirl 2000
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THIS ARTSTYLE IS LEGIT GORGEOUS WHAT???
a cassie that i forgot to post
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THIS ARTSTYLE IS LITERALLY GORGEOUS
a cassie that i forgot to post
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ITS GAY MONTH


MAKE THEM CANON
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Past Forward ( P R E V I E W )

a/n: sorry for basically ghosting this blog LOL, anyways, I did promised I will make a smut... since last last year, I'm sorry, life got hectic, college is killing me, and now maybe just maybe, I can have some time. I got into Batman Beyond these past few days, take note I only watched the first season, i'm still in season 2, so um, I was working on this project! Basically, I got inspired by ATSV Layla and Miguel, so here's a little preview (I got the whole thing mapped out, even made some original enemies, I'm wondering if you guys fw this, this is still under construction...) I also try to write this fic like how the episodes would run iykwim
before you read (BYR): terry mcginnis x reader, reader uses she/her pronouns, English is not my first language, reader hinted that she has golden skin ONLY because she's a hologram, but her features won't be specifically described, I use a name for reader, but trust me on this one please
likes and reblogs are nice, but i wanna know if you guys would want to read more of this in the future!
If someone told Terry McGinnis his life would change because of a small box. He would've laughed in their face. No, really, he would.
It all began when Terry arrived at the Wayne manor with the purpose of bringing Bruce some more news. As has become their routine, he notices something strange like another suspicious prick getting too much power with his money or some strange experiment gone wrong, he would grab his bag, and leaves Hamilton Hill High before Dana could even ask him out on another date, knowing that he would cancel it because, well, Batman duties, he mutters curses under his breath, and his chest begins to swell with guilt. He sighed and made the decision to handle it later, like… Usually, he does, but occasionally he wonders how much is too much until Dana grows tired of his excuses and dumps him this time.
"Bruce?" He calls out, descending down the secret cave, the occasional flapping of bat's wing can be heard, but not from Bruce yet.
Weird, he thinks, but didn't question it at all. his house, his whereabouts. Terry would wait like he usually would do, until his mind was bugging with too much guilt from earlier with Dana, damn it, you know what? If he isn't here, then maybe it won't hurt to look around, with a click of his tongue, Terry pushes off the computer and let his feet lead him away.
Terry actually did just that. He glanced at the previous outfits of the heroes Bruce had worked with, but he didn't say much about it because he knew that this family had some distant ties. Bruce didn't even want to discuss it, and Terry, curiously, didn't criticize him for it. Then he went down further and saw some accomplishments, tokens from his adversaries, a dinosaur, and a vault.
Terry had never given this vault much thought, but now that he had, he gave himself a half-shrug and decided to take a look around. Bruce rarely visits this area, so he didn't think there would be anything special inside because he half expected it to contain a ton of valuable artifacts from the Wayne family's history or perhaps some antique classical paintings Bruce had purchased when he was younger. To Terry's dismay, however, there is only a single sleek black box lying in the center of the space. He was hoping to get Dana some pretty jewelry as a token of appreciation for yet another failed date that he had to cancel. "What the…" he mumbled, picking up the old, dust covered, and sealed box with the Wayne-Tech insignia, it looked like it hasn't been picked up for years now.
"I thought you had learn your lesson by now not to stick your nose in my business." A gruff voice echoed, it didn't make Terry jump, as if, he was already used to Bruce's ways that he even adapted it, he just dusted off the boxes dust, treating it some kind of precious relic, after all, this one looked old as it is. "Why hide this?" Terry asked, examining the box with great interest. Bruce did not answer at first, he stood behind Terry, hand in his cane, more shadow than a man in light. "That wasn't meant for anyone," Bruce finally replied, his voice lower than usual. "It's a prototype. One of my… more unconventional projects."
Terry arched a brow, finally turning around to look at him, the box still light in his hands. "Unconventional how?"
Bruce walked away without another word. Typical, Terry thinks.
That should have been the warning.
__
As soon as he returned to the warmth of his bed, his body screamed in agony. Damn that assassin that was Commissioner Barbara's husband, that chick sure had beaten him severely, but he wasn't complaining—more pain, more gain! He wasn't certain if he had said that correctly, he groans to reach for his alarm clock, until his arm hits something, it fell right on the floor with a gentle thud and realized that it was the little box he had previously grabbed from the cave. He became interested in it, particularly if Bruce had given it the term "unconventional" because, since when did his projects become unconventional?
"Alright, let's see this unconventional project." Terry says with a snort as he cracked the box in the middle half expecting a mini-drone or some failed batarangs prototype he could use for the next mission, yet instead, inside revealed a black sleek capsule, like a cosmetic case designed by Pior meets Wayne. He frowned at the sight, this is the project Bruce tossed aside? His disappointment was immeasurable, he finds the old artifacts more interesting than--
It pinged, it was powering on with a soft hum, and Terry moved his hand away in shock, what is it? A bomb? Some kind of gas? Oh he is so in trouble if its both, he can't even throw it out of the window! He began to panic, "wait, wait, no, no, stop, abort, abort!" he slapped the case with his palm repeatedly. He swore he lets out a scream of a girl when the top pops off.
Now, he expected everything that he is so sure he wouldn't live to see another day. Literally, anything.
He did not expect was her.
There was a flash of gold and... glitters? and... he sniffed his nose, was that perfume? He was so confused, but the sight made him more confused than a monkey discovering a phone for the first time when there's a 10-inch-tall strutted out of the case like she was descending a red carpet gala, she looked a doll out of her case. And one thing for sure, this golden holographic woman is a fashion nova. The dress was gold—a bold, unapologetic yellow that refused to whisper in a room built for murmurs. It was strapless, but not in the soft, delicate kind of way; no, this bodice was sculpted, intentional, twisting at the center like it was daring gravity to challenge her. The fabric was gathered just beneath the bust, folding into itself with a kind of chaos that somehow felt regal.
A striking cutout curved over the midriff, as if someone had carved the line of an overly drawn breath into silk. It demanded attention rather than pleading for it. The gown was weightless and floaty, as if it may turn to light if touched too soon, and it was knotted at the waist in a sunny piece of cloth before flowing down into a waterfall of gauzy layers.
“Eugh.” The hologram wrinkled her nose, as if the decor of his room greatly offended her. “This room looks like a typical teenage boy’s habitat—oh, hello.” Her eyes landed on Terry and she gave him a scrutinizing playful gaze. “Sweetheart, you look like you could use a serious makeover.”
Terry blinked, staring at her like he’d just discovered fire. He shook his head, is this really a project Bruce worked on? and for what reason? God, this is too much for one night. “Wha…” No. That sounded rude. He knew better than to say that around women.
“Who… are you?”
The hologram smiled, casually fixing her hair before winking at him.
“V.I.P.—Virtual Intelligence Protocol." She gave him a slow look, up and down, before she grinned with mischief, and he did not like that smile at all.
"And you and I? We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
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Spoiler alert !
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