seyboo

[seyboo]

Shirtless Carwash [Mydei x f!reader]

Summary: In which... you go into a carwash on campus... but not knowing it was one of those carwashes... and it doesn't help that the one cleaning your car happened to be the most gorgeous man you've seen in your life.

A/N: modernAU!Mydei or uni/college!Mydei, Phainon is an instigator, bullying Phainon, pet name "princess" is used (sorry if this was rushed, trying to get all my drafts out before school starts)

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

It's been a month since you got your first car. It was a gift from your parents, a short while after you fully passed your road test. You were incredibly grateful for it, while knowing you finally had the confidence to drive safely by yourself- and now own your own vehicle.

And today, with your proudly earned car and drivers license, you decided to treat yourself to your first carwash. And it just so happens that your campus was hosting a car wash run by some varsity sports teams. You passed by it this morning when you were on your way to class, and decided to come back after. What are they raising money for? Who cares! You get to have a clean car, see some hot guys, and support your school- just some harmless eye candy. (Because you definitely care about school spirit)

You pull into the makeshift carwash (that is one of the campus parking lots) and already see the boys in action. The entrance with a large sign saying, "Support our Team! Car Wash - $5". These poor boys- these poor hunky boys working in the blazing sun cleaning cars, barely making minimum wage... oh well, it's good thing you're here to support them!

There was already music blasting through a speaker somewhere as you pulled in. Buckets of soap and water littered everywhere, athletic boys in their tank tops and shorts- also everywhere. They were all either spraying water with the hoses and buckets, or laughing with friends on the side. Other students seemed to give in to the hype too. The lot was almost full except for a few last spots at the end. Was a carwash really this popular?

A group of student volunteers wave you over to a spot, and you pulled into a spot, head in. And that's when you spot him.

Mydei.

For some reason you feel time stopping and your heart beating faster now that you see him up close.

One thing- he's incredibly tall. As you fully parked into the spot, Mydei was standing where your window was, but all you could see were his tits clad in a black sleeveless tank. And when he slowly bends down, you finally see his gorgeous face. It's like he was carved by gods- or maybe he was one. His shoulders were broad, matching his huge bulging arms. A jawline sharp enough to cut an apple, his messy blond hair sticking to his forehead and neck, and his golden eyes half lidded and daydream-y as if he was about to go model. Since when did they make men like this?

To be honest you've heard more about him on campus than you've seen him. What sport does he play again...? Well there's no time to think about that, because it seems like you may have underestimated how much your heart could take.

Snapping you out of your trance, Mydei lightly taps on your window and you take this as a signal to get out. You put on your best casual smile to step out and leave the car to him. You push open your door and step out, but you suddenly feel a resistance. You look up and clearly see Mydei, with two fingers pressing on your door, effortlessly stopping you.

"Hey...?" His voice is low and gravelly (hot), but he sounds puzzled. Something else also catches your eye, which was an equally as tall boy behind him with white hair curiously peeking over. You decide to ignore it. Meanwhile, Mydei realizes that you might have gotten confused. "Um, sorry. That's not quite how this works... you're supposed to stay inside."

Oh.

"Oh! Oh- I didn't know, I'm so sorry-" You fumble with your words and almost forget how to speak. Embarrassing. You mentally congratulate yourself for being stupid in front of a cute boy. You thought that you could drop your car off and walk to get a coffee and come back quickly. Is that not...

"Don't worry." His voice is smooth and laid back even though you just made a fool of yourself. And yet, you seem to notice how he has the faintest tint of pink on his cheeks, and can't keep eye contact with you. You figured he was just exhausted. He slings a towel over his shoulder nonchalantly then gets prepared. "Just sit back and let me take it from here."

You nod and sheepishly sit back inside your car and close the door. You sink into your seat, face heating up in embarrassment. Was there something you were missing? But before you could make any more guesses, you glance up through the windshield to catch the exact moment Mydei takes off his tank.

Oh.

And suddenly your brain puts it together and blanks at the same time. He tosses the shirt carelessly somewhere on the grass, revealing his muscular build that confirms your suspicions that he was a god. He was already sweaty- of course he just had to be sweaty... and you could see the red tattoos you didn't know he had all over the edges of his body.

You sink further into your seat and cover your hands in horror with your hands at the realization. It's one of those carwashes- a shirtless carwash. You quickly take a look out the passenger windows and see some of the other boys also shirtless- a crucial detail you missed. There was very much a reason why this fundraiser was such a spectacle. And here you were, stuck in the spectacle that is Mydei shirtless and sweaty.

You watch as he tosses a mixture of water and soap from a bucket, creating a glorious arc that splashes on your windshield. His large hands twist a sponge to ring out the old water and he gets started on cleaning the front. It's unfair how even dirty work makes him look like he's in a cross between a perfume ad and some athletic magazine. It's like the whole world was plotting against you- even the sun was shining down on his sculpted abs.

His shoulders flex, showing off every small ripple of muscle as he squeezes the sponge periodically, to scrubbing the hood of your car. Slowly, your knuckles turn white from gripping your seat. You don't know where to look anymore, or if you even should be looking. Your lap, your phone, the steering wheel... you're desperate to find any of these things more interesting. But it doesn't matter because your eyes betray you, flickering back to the delicious view of Mydei.

He rounds your car to the passenger side first, and repeats the same process. He rings out the towel, watery suds flying and dripping in all the right places. Sometimes you hear a voice from the other side- the white haired guy on your left from before. He's shirtless now too, and washing someone's car as well. You watch as he laughs and points at Mydei, and Mydei says something you can't make out. He's teasing him, you realize. Teasing Mydei. It probably explains why he was blushing earlier, because he was embarrassed. That makes you feel a little better, and you soften at the thought that someone as big and tough looking as Mydei would feel this way. But it's fair you think, most of the boys probably weren't enjoying this.

The rest of it was a blur, until Mydei made his way to your window- and once again, your face heats back up like a volcano. This is insane, you think. He's not even doing this for you specifically, and yet why are you still blushing and sweating even more than he is?

Another splash of soapy water hits your window and you flinch. He drags the sponge on your window- right beside your face, where only the glass separates you. Through the water droplets flowing down, you get the full view of his bare chest and abs. His expression is stoic yet calm, focused only on the task at hand. Honestly, you applaud his patience big time, because you on the other hand are hyper-aware of everything that's happening in front of you. His casual strength, the muted rumble of his voice- warm, rich and unbothered. Yup, fate was definitely mocking you, and it wasn't done yet.

For the grand finale, he does one last wipe down of the top of your car with the semi wet towel. He reaches up and plants his hand on your roof... and your soul leaves your body. This might be the magnum opus of the carwash spectacle. When he lifts his arms higher, every ridge of his muscles are stretching and tightening, drawing your gaze from the tops of his defined collarbones, down to the faint, maddening trail of hair disappears beneath his shorts.

He taps your window again, and now you have to look at him. Everywhere is Mydei.

His white haired friend behind him finishes up washing his customer's car too, sharing a short laugh and waving while they leave. Suddenly, you see him jogging over to your window at the same time you open it, and you hold your breath again. Mydei was about to say something when his friend claps him on the shoulder and interrupts.

"Hey princess! How was your premium car wash? I hope Mydei didn't miss a spot~"

His voice is cheerful, way too cheerful. Your jaw slacks open as you can barely utter a response, let alone know how to respond.

"Shut it, HKS." Mydei shoves him before he can say another word, making his friend dramatically topple backwards with a laugh. Mydei turns back to you, bent over to the height of your open window. "Anyway, you're good to go."

You quickly fish out your money and hand it to him. Mydei politely takes your payment, though his eyes widen for a moment when he realizes you paid extra.

"This... you know it's only five dollars right? You gave extra, I can't take it." Mydei says as he holds your bills and coins loosely in his palm. Phainon who was previously on the floor, overhears that you overpaid, and he quickly stands up and decides to milk this situation and butter it up.

"You know, you're very lucky. Our dear Mydeimos has been purposely dodging customers all afternoon, leaving all the dirty hard work for the rest of us. And yet for you..." Phainon puts on a dramatic pout, that suddenly curves into a smirk. "Well, I suppose I can't blame him. A pretty girl like you shows up? I guess he couldn't resist."

Your jaw slacks open again. You were sure Phainon was just saying this to get more sales, but somehow your chest keeps squeezing in a way you can't name when he says those words. You swear you see a flush of pink coat Mydei's cheeks again, though you brush it off as the heat. You fidget in your seat, trying to seem as casual as possible despite the heat crawling up again.

"Ah- I know. But think of it as... a donation to your marketing department. For the misleading sign that failed to specify it was a-" You comically clear your throat for emphasis. "-shirtless carwash."

Mydei chuckles for the first time, quiet and low. It's a brief sound but it makes your stomach do cartwheels anyway. Somehow you feel pride knowing you made him laugh a little. Phainon on the other hand bursts out with laughter, his salesman persona fading away.

"That's... creative reasoning." Mydei lets out a quiet snort. "I'll let the marketing department know. But I still can't take it."

He puts his hand back through your window with the extra cash. You softly push his hand back, insisting he take it.

"Then take it as a tip. You know, for good service." You say with a smile. You didn't know when you became so bold. Perhaps it was a way to make up for your embarrassment earlier.

"A tip?" He says with a mix between amusement and exasperation.

"Mhm."

"No."

"Yes."

He sighs, not seeing you letting up with this debate. But he needs to treat this fairly, and does not want your extra money. Meanwhile, you just want to reward a hot man, is that so bad Mydei?

"If you make me take this, I'm just gonna use it to buy you coffee." His tone is serious but carries the faintest hint of teasing. His smirk is paired with a light blush, which somehow only Phainon notices.

"Oh? Mydei~ Are you asking what I think you are? Don't tell me I was right when I mentioned how cute she was." Phainon sports a mischievous smile that only gets bigger, knowing that his friend does not usually make offers like this.

You on the other hand are shocked at Mydei's offer. You blush, knowing the implications- and Phainon's teasing smile doesn't help with preventing your delusions being fueled. You actually... have a chance with Mydei?

You weren't sure. Phainon's Cheshire Cat-like smile was a bit suspicious to you. A bit too crafty. So, you thought of a plan to make sure you got even, just in case Phainon was just feeding your delusions.

"Okay... how about this then? Wait, what's your friend's name?"

"Phainon."

"Okay, then how about you keep the tips..." You slowly trail off, giving a mischievous smile pointing at Phainon. "And I get to spray Phainon with the hose~"

"Wait what-"

"Deal. But only if I still get to take you out after."

"W-What...?"

Mydei's response makes you blush and short circuit again. You can't believe he's actually asking you this. You want to confirm if he's being for real, but before you could even wonder, he opens your car door and hands you the hose, placing it in your startled hands.

"...Only if you're comfortable with it." Mydei adds, backtracking a little after feeling shy that he asked you so suddenly. Your heart flutters. Nothing else matters anymore, and you don't feel like you need to give him a verbal answer once you smile and get out, immediately pointing the hose at Phainon and blasting it.

"W-Wait, hold on! Truce- AHCK!!-" Phainon flinches as his chest is sprayed with the cold water, flying everywhere. You giggle as Phainon wipes his eyes, his hair also all wet like a soggy puppy. He stumbles back, giving an exasperated laugh while panting. “This- This is unfair treatment of workers!”

“Yeah yeah, you’ll live.” Mydei shares a gentle smile with you, dismissing Phainon as he takes the hose out of your hands and plops it on the grass. The sound of the other boys laughing and howling fill the background.

“Sorry! At least it’s for a good cause.” You yell out playfully. Phainon gives a small smile despite yours and Mydei’s betrayal. Mydei dries himself with a nearby towel and puts his black tank top back on. He slaps your cash in Phainon's soaked hand before making his way to the passenger side of your car.

“Wait, you’re leaving now? We’ve still got more cars coming!” Phainon sputters at Mydei while also drying himself off with his own spare towel. Mydei leans on your car as if he owns it (and you’d let him).

“Well, it seems I’ve done overtime. So that's gonna be it for me." Mydei replies smoothly. Phainon is almost annoyed at how smug Mydei looks while saying something so blunt in a monotone way. But he decides to let it slide since this is the first time he's ever shown interest in someone so boldly. You yourself are still surprised at the thought of Mydei wanting to be somewhere. With you. "Make sure the cash gets in the box, Deliverer."

Mydei opens the passenger door, but doesn't go in yet. He seems to be waiting for your permission for him to enter, and to start your spontaneous outing. "Well, are we driving princess?"

And with that, you can't even contain your lovestruck smile as you nod and barely manage to throw yourself back in your car. You look over at Mydei whose shoulders are much wider than your seats, and yet he looks at you like it's always meant to be this way.

As you pull out of the lot, sound of laughter and shouts drown out, replaced by the steady rumble of your engine, and the dizzying thoughts of what this "outing" with Mydei might be. Despite the confusion and flushed faces with the carwash, everyone goes home happy. Well, except Phainon, but who cares?

You've got a clean car, supported your school's sports teams, and have the god known as Mydei sitting in your car. And he wants to go out with you.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

[seyboo]

highway (to your heart)

pairing: mydei x f!reader

word count: 3.2k

synopsis: you wouldn't call you and mydeimos friends. the two of you hang out often, but he rarely speaks. when he sends you home one night on his motorcycle, however, cupid shows up in his most unexpected form: siri.

a/n: finally a mydei idea that doesn't get hijacked by phainon LOL i feel like. i did not do this idea as much justice as i liked but oh well 😭😭

You wouldn’t call you and Mydeimos friends.

Your relationship — if it could even be called that — is strange. You are friends with Hyacine, he is friends with Phainon, and both of your respective friends happen to be the most socially outgoing and charismatic people on campus. So on the occasion when these two celestial bodies of extroversion decide to collide, you and Mydeimos are inevitably dragged into the same point in space-time.

You know more about him than you know him, you think. There’s a distinction between the two that feels important. It’s a collection of facts observed from a distance, compiled through circumstance rather than conversation. They are as such:

One. He is a third year student studying mechanical engineering. You learn this when Hyacine drags you to the library with her for a study session the week before finals, insisting that you’ll be “more productive with company.” Productive is not the word you’d ever use to describe the four of you together. Within ten minutes of sitting down, Hyacine and Phainon are embroiled in a passionate debate about the superiority of gel vs felt-tip highlighters with an intensity that has you inching your chair away. 

Meanwhile, Mydeimos silently works through a thick stack of problem questions with equations and greek letters that you cannot make head or tail of. He does not even look up, glasses perched on his nose as he sketches out graphs with a mechanical pencil. Multivariable calculus, he informs you later. You did not know he had noticed your staring.

Two. Mydeimos is on the university’s basketball team. He arrives for lunch one day in a sports jersey and a towel around his neck, longish blond hair still sticking to his temples with cooled sweat. You watch the way he slides into the booth next to Phainon with the loose limbed exhaustion of someone who’s left everything on the court, rolling his eyes as his friend pokes fun at him for being late. This time, you try not to stare too much at the tattoos curling down his biceps and forearms as he drains a bottle of water in one long go.

Three. He has somewhat of a sweet tooth, something that you’re surprised by. You notice this when he always spends a fraction too long on the desserts section when looking through the menu  but never orders any of it. You wonder whether it’s something that comes with being an athlete. “Do you like sweets, Mydeimos?” you ask him one day, when Hyacine and Phainon are at the counter debating (again) about what to order.

He looks up at you, golden eyes flickering towards the menu, before he nods slowly. “You can call me Mydei, you know,” he says after a while. "Mydeimos is too formal."

You know. That is precisely why you choose to use it.

Four. He rides a motorcycle. This fact comes in important, later.

And five. Mydeimos is kind. You feel a little guilty for assuming otherwise at first — mistaking his silence for indifference, his stoicism for coldness. But you soon learn that his consideration is quiet and slips past far too easily unless you’re paying attention. He notices the details. Like the time when you were stuck inside the booth and he offered to help you get water from the drinks bar. Or the way he wordlessly holds out his hand to take yours and Hyacine’s bags whenever you need to go to the washroom. 

He shifts his chair to give you more room when the space is tight. He slides a napkin across the table before you’ve even realized you need one. Small things, unremarkable in isolation — except for the fact that he always seems to notice before you have to ask. Platonically, it’s an attractive thing to notice. Platonically. 

Aside from that, though, you wouldn’t say that you know him all that well.

So, it’s a bit of an awkward affair when Phainon asks him to send you home.

The four of you had ended up at a late night diner after catching an action movie Phainon insisted on seeing, and ended up lingering over milkshakes and fries for longer than you’d expected. By the time you checked your phone again, the last bus was long gone and the ride-hailing apps were being painfully uncooperative. Hyacine had decided to give Phainon a lift home (like the girlboss that she is), but the two of them live on the other side of the city and…

“You’ve got a motorcycle, don’t you?” Phainon says as he slaps his friend on the shoulder. Mydeimos narrows his eyes at him, before he glances at you. An unreadable look flickers in his golden eyes before he nods with a hesitation that you’re not sure whether to interpret as reluctance.

“Alright then!” Hyacine claps her hands together, as if that settles everything. “It’s been a long night. Get home safe, you guys!”

You’re not quite sure how to feel about this. You’re grateful to have a ride home, that’s for sure, but you’ve never really… hung out with Mydeimos without Hyacine and Phainon around. And now, the two of them have already headed off, leaving just you and him in the dimly lit parking lot behind the diner.

The air smells faintly of asphalt and cooking grease, and the only bright shape in the lot is what you assume to be Mydei’s motorcycle. Sleek and black, with crimson accents that catch the neon glow from the sign above the diner, it looks fast even when it’s standing still. The engine rumbles quietly, a low hum that thrums through you when he presses a button and the machine comes alive.

He hands you the only helmet. “Have you ridden a motorcycle before?” When you shake your head, his lips twist almost imperceptibly upwards. “You look a little nervous.”

“I kinda am,” you admit, turning the helmet over in your hands. “Never been on one before.”

“Oh.” You’re not quite sure what to expect from Mydeimos. Maybe a teasing remark, a laugh, something casual. But he doesn’t. Instead, with the same quiet steadiness that seems to define him, he asks, “Of anything in particular?”

You take a moment to think about it. “The… noise?” you ponder aloud, frowning slightly. That sounds kind of stupid. “The cars and the honking and the— uh, you know.” He just looks at you with those unflinching, steady eyes, and you feel a little guilty for the hold up you’re causing. “Don’t worry about it. The ride back shouldn’t be more than… fifteen minutes, I think? I can deal with it.”

Before you can put on the helmet, though, he stops you. “Here.” He holds out a pair of AirPods. “I’ll play some music. Noise-cancelling. Should help, right?”

For a second, you’re caught off guard by Mydei’s quiet thoughtfulness once again. Really, you should have learned by now, the type of man he is. You look down at the offered Airpods. The sight of them makes your heart skip a traitorous beat in your chest.

Hesitantly, you slip them into your ears. Mydeimos reaches over to take the helmet from your hands, before helping you settle it onto your head, adjusting the straps carefully beneath your chin. You try not to fidget when his fingers accidentally brush your throat, all too aware of how nerve-wracking yet strangely steadying his methodical touch feels.

When the helmet is secure, he swings a leg over the bike with practiced ease. You step up behind him, hands hovering for a moment before you place them tentatively on his waist. 

Mydei glances back over his shoulder. There’s a faint, almost amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The knowledge that it’s aimed directly at you almost makes you fall off the back. 

“You’ll need to hold on more tightly if you don’t want to fall off,” he tells you, voice low and steady. “Don’t want to arrive at your home only to realise I’ve dropped you on the highway or something. May I?”

You nod wordlessly. He takes you by the wrists and guides your arms just a little tighter around his midsection, shifting them so that you're gripping his front properly rather than just resting your fingers on his sides. The heat that bleeds through the thin tee he’s wearing is almost scalding.

The engine rumbles to life between your legs. Mydei gives the throttle a testing twist, and the machine responds with a predatory growl. You instinctively tighten your grip on his waist, fingers pressing into the firm muscle at his waist.

“Ready?” he calls over his shoulder. You nod shakily, too scared to let go, and he kicks the bike into gear. The world lurches forward.

The first few seconds feel like a sensory overload. The wind is a constant, pressing force against your body, whipping at your bare arms, your hair. The lights of the city streak past in smears of gold and white. And the cars — they’re suddenly enormous, loud, and far too close. You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, arms tightening involuntarily around the only solid thing in this chaotic, rushing dark.

He must feel it, because he shifts, one hand leaving the handlebar for a moment. You barely manage to make out his voice, slightly raised but calm, cutting through the wind. “Siri, play my driving playlist—” A car honks loudly from behind, jolting you in your seat. “—on Spotify.”

“Playing ‘jogging playlist’ from Recorder…”

Instead of the expected thumping bass or strumming of an acoustic guitar, an entirely different sound floods your ears. Thump-thump-thump. It takes you a moment to figure it out, but this is the sound of someone’s shoes against the pavement. Jogging. There’s quiet, heavy breathing. And then his voice, slightly breathless, too close and melting like candy in your ears.

“—need to just… ugh. Saw her again today at the library. Third floor, near the history section, next to the window. Hyacine was talking up a storm and she was just nodding along. I think she was drawing something in the margins of her notebook. Wanted to see what it was. Wanted to go over. What would I even say though? ‘Let me see what you’re drawing’? That’s just rude. Idiot.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You stare at the back of his leather jacket, unable to string together a coherent thought for a second. This is… a voice memo. A private thought. About you.

“Mydeimos—” you start to say, but your voice is muffled by the helmet, utterly lost to the wind and the noise of the engine. He feels you move, though.

“Save it for later!” he calls over his shoulder, misinterpreting your squirming for more anxiety. “We’re almost on the highway!”

The jogging sounds continue. There’s another deep breath, then his voice comes through again, raw and unfiltered. 

“Phainon’s setting up another lunch with Hyacine tomorrow. I know he is. He thinks he’s being subtle. I should be annoyed, but I’m… not. It’s kind of pathetic, maybe. That I need a whole lunch engineered just for a chance to sit across from her for an hour and maybe say like three words. She’s just so… quiet. Not in a bad way. It’s like she has a whole other world in that head. I want to know what’s in there.”

The bike leans into a smooth curve, turning onto the ramp for the highway. The city lights open up around you, a dazzling panorama, but you can’t focus on any of it when you’re trapped in a confessional booth with his voice. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic beat completely out of sync with the steady rumble of the motorcycle.

The earbuds go quiet. For a moment, you think that the heavens have finally decided to have mercy on you when the next audio loads. A different day, different background noise, and his breathing is more laboured this time.

“Okay. Sprinted like five miles without stopping and all I could think about is the way she ties her hair when she needs to focus. Hair tie between her teeth and everything. That’s it. That’s the whole thought. Five miles for one hair tie. This is becoming a problem. This is already a problem. A good problem? I don’t know. How do you even talk to someone who makes your brain shut down? You’re afraid that you might open your mouth and say something stupid and then poof— all of your chances, gone down the drain like that. I can’t do that.”

That makes your face heat a little. It feels… wrong, to continue listening, but it’s not like you have much of a choice. The careful, quiet man who you’d thought was politely tolerating your presence… he’d wanted to talk to you. The quiet vulnerability in his voice now is unlike anything you’ve ever heard from him.

You try again. You tap his side, raise your voice as much as you dare. “Your phone!” you shout, but he just pats your hand where it’s clenched against his stomach. It’s a gesture meant to be reassuring. His long fingers practically fold over your hand. “I know, the cars are pretty loud tonight! Almost there! Just hold on!”

Another voice memo. He sounds calmer here, his pace even.

“Figured it out today. I think I’m… yeah. I’m definitely into her. It’s not a crush. I can’t believe I actually owe Phainon something for his stupid schemes… I just need to find a way to tell her. I need to… I just need to be brave. Next time. Next time, for sure.”

The memo ends. And then there’s only the hollow rush of wind, dampened by the ANC. The silence is more deafening than the roar of the engine beneath you.

The bike begins to slow, taking an exit ramp. The suburban streets are dark and quiet. You’re hyper-aware of every point of contact, your arms around his waist, your knees pressing against his thighs. The person you’re holding is no longer just Mydeimos, the mechanical engineering student, the basketball player, Phainon’s friend. This is Mydei — the man who struggles to find the right words to speak to you, who runs five miles thinking about you, whose quiet thoughts you’ve just been privy to.

Is he trying to be brave, even now?

Mydei pulls up to your curb and kills the engine. The ensuing silence is suddenly too much, ringing in your ears with the dampened chirp of the cicadas at night. He rolls his shoulders out and runs a hand through his wind tousled hair, before turning to look at you with those steady, golden eyes, completely unaware that his soul is sitting in your ears.

By the time you’ve fumbled the helmet off your head with clumsy fingers, Mydei is already standing next to the bike. He holds out a hand to help you off. “See?” His voice is reassuring when your feet touch solid ground again. “Not so bad. You survived.”

You don’t know what to say. Or to do, actually. The Airpods are still sitting in your ears and you pull them out. The world comes rushing back in its full, mundane clarity. You hold them in your palm, finding them suddenly too heavy.

Mydei’s brow furrows at your prolonged silence. “You okay? Did the ride make you nauseous? You look a little—”

“I heard it,” you blurt out. The words are too loud, echoing down the empty street.

He freezes. “Heard what?”

Your heart is beating too quickly in your chest. “Your… your voice memos. Siri played them. Instead of music.” You watch the words land, see the slow, dawning horror break over his features. The casual ease drains from his posture, just as the faint smile he’s wearing vanishes, replaced by a stark, pale shock.

For a long moment, Mydei just stares at you. His golden eyes are wide. You can see the frantic calculation behind them as he blinks, the rapid replay of every private, vulnerable word he’s ever recorded in his memory. The five mile runs, the lunches engineered by Phainon, his fears, his want. The colour drains from his face, before it floods back almost immediately in a swift flush that creeps up his neck.

“Oh.” It’s the most expressive sound you’ve ever heard him make.

The two of you stand there in silence. He looks down at the ground, at his bike, anywhere but you. You, on the other hand, can’t bring yourself to look anywhere but him. His jaw is clenched, fingers gripping onto the helmet you’d been wearing just minutes ago tightly. He looks utterly mortified.

“I…” he starts to say, and then stops. Swallows hard. “I am… I’m sorry. That was private. I didn’t mean to… I would never have…” He takes a half-step back, towards his motorcycle. “I’m so sorry. I should go.”

The nervous energy that has been coiling in your stomach throughout the entire ride transforms into a single, decisive bolt of courage. You step forward, curling your fingers around his sleeve, stopping him in his tracks.

“No.”

He looks up at you, startled, eyes wide with a mixture of shame and confusion. You don’t give him time to process it. Instead, you close the distance between the two of you, free hand pushing back him back by the chest until his shoulders meet the brick wall of your apartment block with a soft thud.

Mydei lets out a small sound of surprise. His entire body is rigid with tension, parted lips hovering just inches from yours. You can see the faint track of dried sweat at his temple, the bewildered flicker in those golden eyes.

“You talk too much,” you whisper, and the steadiness in your voice surprises even you. Then, you fist your hand in the soft leather of his jacket, and before he can react, pull him down until his mouth touches yours.

It’s as much of an answer as it is a kiss. The culmination of every quiet look, every accidental brush of hands, every mile he’s run thinking of you. It’s you telling him that you’ve heard every word — and that you feel the same, terrifying way.

For a heartbeat, he freezes beneath you. Then a shudder ripples through him, and one hand comes up to cradle the side of your face. His thumb traces your cheekbone with a gentleness that makes your knees weak. His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and then he finally, finally kisses you back.

The way Mydei kisses you is nothing like his quiet exterior. He’s hungry, desperate, full of the words he’s been too afraid to say aloud. He kisses you until you’re breathless, and then some more, like none of it is ever quite enough for him.

When you finally break apart, you have to take a moment to catch your breath. You glance up at him. The flustered embarrassment is gone, replaced by a dazed, wondrous shock. His lips are kiss swollen and pink, and gods, it’s a beautiful colour on him.

“You…” he starts to say, voice rough.

You smile, and your heart suddenly feels too big for your chest. “Next time, for sure,” you whisper teasingly, echoing his own promise back to him. A slow, breathtaking smile breaks his face — the first unguarded one that you’ve ever seen directed at you. It transforms him completely.

“No,” Mydei breathes, resting his forehead against yours as if even that small distance is unbearable. “No more next times.”

And then he kisses you again.

[seyboo]

and they were roommates | sylus

sum: sylus responds to an online ad for a roommate. you suddenly have this tall, well-spoken, handsome man living in the attic, playing classical music, tinkering with things he built, and humming off-key while he makes you pancakes in the morning before disappearing for weeks at a time. cw: modern au, roommate au, slice of life, slow burn, mild language, brief mentions of violence & torture, evols exists here, mutual pining, romantic tension, brief jealousy, alcohol, 3k wc tracklist: le carrousel - james quinn fig. 1 | fig. 2 | fig. 3 | fig. 4 | fig. 6 | fig. 7

The air reeks of mildew, dust, sweat, and disinfectant. 

A lone lightbulb winks tawny overhead, casting ominous shadows along the concrete floor and walls, highlighting the savagery taking place within.

Four men occupy the room. 

Sylus is the only one seated on a chair like a throne, legs crossed—the paradigm of poised, twirling a folding knife between his fingers while a henchman stands in good form at his back. 

The muffled screams have now dulled to wet whimpers. A grown man crying has never been a pretty sound. But Sylus has grown accustomed to it, sometimes dragging the fragmented remains of a man out himself. 

He’s a good foot from the show, watching with all the interest of someone used to brutality. Lowered lids cloak vacant eyes. He sighs for the umpteenth time, leaning back, clearly bored with this game.

Lackey number two rucks up slicked sleeves, swiping the sweat from his brow before getting back to work. 

The victim—a self-proclaimed freelancer discharged from a rival faction, boasting about having antimatter weapons to sell—snivels as Sylus’ henchman drags him across the floor. On his knees, ankles and wrists bound, breath shaky behind the bite of a makeshift gag, the man levels Sylus with a pleading look. 

It’s fruitless. The kingpin is in no mood for mercy. He waggles his fingers, signaling for his henchman to begin another round of mind-warping torture. 

Blood and viscera aren’t Sylus’ thing. 

If he can help it, he prefers more neat, conventional methods for extracting information. Which is why he doesn’t flinch when the goon’s cries rise again as if he’s being electrocuted. 

The lightbulb glints once more, and a moth beating its wings as it orbits it, casts a foreboding shadow below.

Sylus toys with the knife again, mind slowly detaching itself, when his phone lightly buzzes in his coat. 

He catches the blade’s handle in his palm, fishes his cell from his inner pocket, and scrutinizes the screen. Arching a brow, his lips twitch, threatening to curl upward. 

It’s a message from you, your name accented with a lone heart emoji. 

When he draws up the text, your voice invades his mind. He envisions you all frazzled, dramatic as ever, and his heart swells from the imagery.

(You): help me!

It reads half-cryptic. He’s sitting up now, the knife returning to its home with a sharp shlink!

When he starts to feel an inkling of concern creeping in, thumb hovering over the keyboard, prepared to key in a response, another message comes through. It’s a picture of a menu, sharp print against cardstock, the restaurant's name scrawled in cursive at the top. 

(You): don’t know how to read this. i’m hungry as hell and about to have a whole attitude.  (You): heeeeellllp 🚨🚨🚨 (You): and don’t say escargot. i will literally fight you.

This time, he does allow his lips to pull in that Cheshire Cat sort of way. It’s endearing how you need him. How you rely on him to translate what you call “rich bastard speak.” Even if it’s for something minor, he’s grateful to be of use to you. You give him purpose in a world that bleeds grey. The shine of a lighthouse amid a tumultuous storm. 

He’s been there before, the eatery you’re fretting over. They have good liquor and decent grilled scallops. He’s about to send back a personal rec, but then it strikes him—the gleam of silver in the photo’s corner, half-hidden by the menu, but glaringly obvious. 

An expensive watch wrapped around a wrist that’s inherently masculine catches his eye. Bigger than yours, veins and sinew spilling from the links down to manicured nails. 

Sylus’ jaw ticks. 

He knows you’re on your lunch break. Has your schedule down to a science, pocketing it in case he has to do something irreversible to clear his tracks. He’s aware that you primarily work with women—you sometimes vent about the things they do and don’t, using him as a confidant whenever your day is too heavy to shoulder. 

And maybe he’s done background checks on all of them, ensuring they wouldn’t pose a problem later. To you and him.

But you’ve never spoken of a man working in your small, hodgepodge department. A man too close for Sylus’ comfort. Casual familiarity that makes his eyes narrow.

He’s already chased off one deranged ex. He’d rather not come back to you missing while he’s in another city conducting business.

(Sylus): whos that sweetie? (You): ??? (Sylus): the tudor watch. (Sylus): in the corner. friend of yours?  (You): oh! intern. he’s cool peeps. i’m like 6 years older than him and he keeps reminding me. 🙄🙄🙄

Sylus certainly does not release the quietest, most relieved breath. And the rigid set of his shoulders doesn’t slacken upon discovering that you’re not secretly courting someone without his knowledge.

It’s not stalking. It’s ensuring his assets are secured. 

(You): anyway, can you help me? you know i don’t understand this fancy shit. (Sylus): avoid the rack of lamb. its a bit overseasoned. (You): lol (You): you forget who you’re talking to. i sprinkle seasonings on my food until my ancestors whisper, “enough, child.”

He chuckles something throaty, something endeared. And he doesn’t realize he’s let his guard down until his henchman shifts behind him, clearing his throat. Sylus cuts his eyes over his shoulder, daring the man to utter a word. He doesn’t, straightening his tie and returning his attention to the scene ahead.

(Sylus): it might be a bit overpowering even for you sweetie. (Sylus): go for the duck confit or the grilled halibut. those are more your tastes. (You): thank youuuuu! 🙏🙏🙏 (Sylus): pair it with a glass of pinot gris. (You): gesundheit. (Sylus): and be sure to introduce me to your new intern friend before he whisks you out on a date next time. (You): 😛😛😛 (You): jealous?

Sylus doesn’t do jealous. It’s never been a word in his repertoire. Possessive, maybe. A little overprotective, sure. But jealousy suggests uncertainty—belly-baring surrender. Weakness—and Sylus is everything but weak.

He keys in a response that he knows will have you tipping out of your chair.

(Sylus): jealousy would imply that youre not already mine sweetie.

He can virtually hear the cogs turning in your mind when you take a few beats to respond. The resulting surprised dog meme you send makes him stifle that rich man’s laugh behind his hand. 

You’re cute. Do you know that?

Leaving you with something to think about, he concludes your playful exchange.

(Sylus): have fun.

Peeling himself from the chair, he shoves his hands into his pockets, the arms of his coat dramatically fluttering behind him when he turns to exit the warehouse. 

He pays no mind to the cries of agony behind him. Just clips over his shoulder to a stationary henchman by the entrance, “Finish up quickly.”

The sooner he cuts out the middlemen, the quicker the suppliers will start sniffing around themselves.

—

It’s a little past 6 pm when the front door’s lock jiggles. 

Good. Perfect timing.

“You’re home early,” you call from the fridge when that messy thatch of white appears in the doorway. 

He stiffens, taking a little time to appraise you like he didn’t expect you to be home. You snort, kicking the fridge door shut, a handful of grapes clutched in your hand.

You pop one into your mouth, leaning on the countertop. Syus approaches after toeing off his loafers and dropping his coat on the rack. The particles in the air seemingly bend and shift to accommodate him. 

You try not to get hung up on what he said earlier—you know, when he insisted you were his.

Maybe he’d been drinking himself. You had a little Pinot at his behest to combat your flaring nerves. To knock a little sense into yourself.

“Why do you look like someone hacked Mephisto?” you jibe, trying to lighten the mood. 

Sylus’ expression morphs into something easier. Something more like him as his lips pull into that familiar smirk. Without warning, he swipes a grape from your palm, and his eyes shine with a challenge as he deposits it in his mouth. 

“Why do you look like you’re up to no good?” he returns in that deep gravel, tone threaded with a tenderness you’ve never heard expressed elsewhere.

Your jaw shifts. He’s lucky he’s cute. The pinnacle of manliness. Handsome as all hell. You’ve never known someone to make something as simple as eating look hot.

Clearing your throat, you swipe some invisible dust off the counter after finishing off the last of your grapes. “Not up to anything bad. But since you’re home, you can watch a movie with me.”

The silence hangs for a moment. You glance up to see your roomie eyeing you with an intrigued brow. He reaches over the counter to flick your forehead. You let out an unflattering yelp. He’s trying to scramble your brain matter, you just know it.

“Do I have a say in the matter, or are you just going to manipulate me with those dangerous eyes of yours?”

Your heart was already rabbiting in your chest. It works double time now, and your stomach drops to your feet. You’re stricken with something cold. Something halfway pleasant. 

Oh. Oh, he was flirting, wasn’t he?

Opting for coy, you tug at some frayed threads at the end of your sweatshirt, caught between a laugh and a scoff. 

“Unless you’ve got some mysterious phone calls to take, you’re mine for the night. You owe me for babysitting Mephie. You know he secretly wants to murder me.” And for leaving me all by my lonesome again, you inwardly add. 

If at all possible, his smirk deepens until a dimple craters his cheek. You have pins and needles in your legs. What the fuck even is breathing?

“Doubt that. He’s programmed to…appreciate pretty things.” The way his eyes slide to you as pretty things leaps off his tongue—

You typically keep the AC low for the summer. Pretty comfortable for you both. But it feels it’s reached boiling point in your quaint kitchen as your skin grows embarrassingly hot.  

After a deep breath to get your head together, you move to the pantry to fish out some popcorn. Your movements are noticeably stiff as you tear through the plastic, not daring to turn around, lest he get a look at that crooked smile on your face. 

“Batman it is,” you say, loud enough for him to hear above the beep of the microwave when you set the timer.

You feel him between your shoulder blades. Drilling down to the marrow with those brilliant, scarlet eyes before he huffs a laugh, tapping the counter. You peer over your shoulder as he pulls away, disappearing across the house, probably towards his room to change.

He comes back down while you powder the popcorn with seasonings. He’s over your shoulder, static growing between your bodies. And you get a whiff of his worn cologne, of the clean cotton laundry detergent woven into the fibers of his shirt.

You move to the fridge, rifling through it to give your hands purpose. Something to occupy them, to keep them from shaking as you sort through your wine stash.  

“What goes best with popcorn? I’ve got red, white, pink—oh, something I bought ‘cause the label looked cute.”

Propped against the counter’s edge beside you, arms crossed over that unfairly solid chest, Sylus shakes his head. “How about a glass of Michter’s 25? Bourbon pairs best with popcorn.”

“Uh, sure?”

You’re not entirely sure how the two mix. Probably something about the dolce colliding with the saltiness. Whatever. You like surprises. Your roomie’s always had pretty good taste.

He shoulders past you to reach for something at the top of the pantry. Amber gleams in an intricately designed bottle clutched in his hand. You give him a look, haughtily throwing some popcorn into your mouth.

“Has that been up there the whole time?”

You track him with your eyes as he draws two lowball whiskey glasses from the cupboard, then fetches some ice from the freezer. His expression’s amused while he pours. He plucks the glasses from the counter, signaling you to follow him to the living room. 

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to find it, seeing that you’re the height of a gopher. I’d say I found a pretty good hiding spot for it.”

He laughs that bewitching, throaty sound, effortlessly avoiding your foot aimed at his ankle to trip him up. 

—

The TV swaddles you in its sporadic lighting as each scene unfolds.

You turned down all the lights, save for the one above the stove, to add to the ambience. The sounds of scuffling and explosions fill your living room, with occasional quips from your roomie about the exaggerated action and how unrealistic the mobsters are. 

There’s familiarity in the way you sit on the couch. In how Sylus idly smooths his thumb over your ankle, propped in his lap, beneath a throw blanket. He put up with you shoving your cold feet under his thighs to pilfer his warmth until he tickled them and allowed you to use him as a footrest. 

One of his arms is draped along the backrest, clutching his half-drunk glass. He paces himself. You’re already on your third.

He turns to you with a twitch of a smile whenever he feels you staring at something other than the screen. Squeezes reassurance into your ankle before pretending like he’s consumed by the movie. 

That Michter, whatever-the-hell it was called? It’s smooth. Dangerous. It crept into your bloodstream when your guard was down, and your head’s a little fuzzy. Skin warm and tingly, inhibitions slowly sloughing off.

You’re on your sixth round of Sylus-watching when the doorbell chimes. Both your gazes snap to its source.

“I’ll get it,” says Sylus, tapping your foot for you to let him up, and setting his glass onto the coffee table with a soft clack.

You shake your head, feeling like you’re swimming through molasses, eyes all low, smile goofy. “Nah. I got it.”

It’s a feat. Almost losing a fight with the blanket, you make it to the door. Sylus snorts behind you. The delivery driver is kind as he hands you your pizza and receipt.

Somehow, you make it back to the living area. You’re a mess of giggles and sluggish limbs as you fall back onto the sofa beside Sylus after dropping the pizza box onto the coffee table. So close, you could conquer the distance with an exhale.

His thigh’s warm beside yours. Devastating. You contemplate grabbing it, letting your fingers test the rigidness of his quad under the pretense of being tipsy.

He closes the distance for you as if parsing through your nebulous thoughts.

There’s no preamble. No remarkable setup when his arm slips from the backrest to snake around your shoulders. It’s a loose hang. Not tight, giving you room to wiggle free if you’re uncomfortable. You peer up into his face, and his eyes crease with something you mistake for affection beneath the glinting light of a chase scene.

The movie’s no longer interesting. It hasn’t been for a while. You’re warm inside, unsure if it’s a consequence of the alcohol or his proximity. Regardless, you toy with his fingers near your shoulder, smooth over his knuckles, testing the waters.

He makes no move to deter you, instead sinking deeper into the couch, legs spreading a little wider, hold on you a little more confident. He tugs you into his side without really thinking, fingers burning through the layers of skin on your arm.

Your hands drop to his tapered waist to ground yourself through the slurry haze of inebriation and infatuation. His heart is steady in his chest, whereas yours bangs like a war call. You’re close enough to bury your face into the hollow of his shoulder. That warm scent he carries is enough to soften your knees, to loosen your jaw.

Moving on autopilot—or maybe you’re fully aware of what you’re up to—you pitch yourself closer. So close, you’re halfway across his lap, watching his Adam’s apple bob beneath the blue wash of light. Your eyes flit to those full lips, slightly parted, quivering. Those pretty lashes sweeping his cheeks, those scarlet eyes jumping like cinders in a hearth fire beneath.

Your head tilts up. He meets you halfway. Draws you closer at the waist, and you roost your hands on his chest as your lids droop, as his lips pan in.

But the union never comes.

He hesitates for a beat. Hovers, a breath left between your mouths. Shaky, ragged, hot. He drops his forehead to yours, his grip on your hip tight, and he forces out an anguished sigh.

“You’ve been drinking, sweetie,” he says, hoarse, barely restrained, almost like he’s reminding himself instead of you.

You giggle, trying to tamp down your nerves. The disappointment flaring like plasma ejections across the sun’s surface beneath your skin. “So have you.”

He huffs through his nose, lips pulling into a tired smile. “Yes. But I’m also better at holding my liquor.”

“Says who?”

His gaze consumes you. Like liquid spilled over smoldering coals. He gathers your cheek into his palm, so tender as he thumbs over your chin, your bottom lip. He watches it when he tugs down, how it snaps back into place, its texture, and you can sense the edges of his resolve eroding like a rock face worn down by the surf.

“You’re warm. You can barely keep your eyes open.” His voice drags pleasantly along with his fingers along the skirt of your jaw. “You can hardly sit upright, sweetheart. If I do this now, I won’t be able to stop.”

Quivering fingers close around his wrist. You adjust on the couch until your knees meet the side of his thigh, nuzzling your molten cheek into his palm, head reeling. “Who says you have to?” you counter, voice crackling. Pleading.

He presses your foreheads together again. Your eyes slip shut as he slides his fingers into the space between yours, guiding your hand to his mouth instead for a kiss. He’s warring with himself. Berating himself for even letting things get this far. For getting too close.

He draws back slothfully, like it stings, like he’s leaving a bit of himself with you. And maybe he is, his defenses halfway buried beneath the floor. The moment hangs between you, stretched like the fragile spindles of a spider’s web. He doesn’t want to break the spell. You don’t want him to, either.

“Not yet,” he rasps, settling against the cushions once more and drawing you back into his side. “Not like this. You’ll thank me in the morning, sweetheart.”

Somehow, you have a hard time believing that, a wobbly pout taking hold of your lips.

It annoys you to no end.

Sylus is a man who doesn’t take what he isn’t given freely. Coherently. He’s such a fucking gentleman, you want to punch him sometimes. This emotional warfare is maddening.

Still, you curl into his side, burying your face into the nook of his neck to chase that heady scent. His pulse quickens, a sharp intake of breath when your lips graze his carotid, before he rests his chin on the crown of your head. He smooths over the goosebumps flaring over your arm as the credits roll, offering a quiet apology, both for getting your hopes up and shattering them like rock candy against the concrete.

Another almost. Another could-have-been. Another bout of shitty timing.

← prev | next →

[seyboo]

sylus pascal

[seyboo]

The crow's song

When by fate or by chance alone you wake up inside a novel, your first instinct is to try to save your favorite character, Sylus Qin. Stars align again, and now you're his wife, but only on paper. Or not? Will you be able to change the plot, when it looks like even Sylus himself is against it?

✧ Chapters: 3/8

Chapter 3. Broken fate

✧ t.w. angst, non!mc reader, misunderstandings, english is not my first language, not proofread

✧ w.c. 5.7k

The room is hot. Steam has clouded the windows and warmed up the air, making hair stick to your face. Lucy adds more boiling water to the bath, but it is only hot enough to soothe your body, and not your soul.

Eyes still red from crying, you look up and think, think, think.

Sylus won't tell you about such things, but you already know. Know why it took him so long to secure one single deal with some average guild. Why he is being secretive, why he is so avoidant to answer you directly, to look you in the eye.

Because no matter were you in his life or not, it was destined to happen. You never was supposed to have him, as long as she exists. And it hurts more than it should.

Ah, you know the story. You know better than everybody how fate works, at least in this world. You've seen it and didn't like it one bit.

Because they are destined to meet, but not to exist together. It is a fact you can't change, that tried to avoid it at all costs.

You sigh and close your eyes.

Their encounter is the exact moment that starts the Sylus arc. The main character accidentally learns about an attempt to manipulate a deal to transfer the guild under the direct control of the duchy. Wary of the reasons behind the offer, she expresses her doubts to the head of the guild, and the deal is postponed indefinitely. Determined to get his way, Sylus tries to gain her trust, and eventually, a connection is established.

They turn out to be the owners of the stones that are opposite in power, but very similar in origin. Stones of the soul, Anima lapis. And as soon as they meet, the curse awakens from its centuries-long slumber.

But there is one heartbreaking reason why Sylus's part of the novel is only an ark, and not the ending.

He is not the main lead, therefore he doesn't make it to the end of the story. He takes the hit and dies so she can live.

God, you cried so bad on that part of the story. You want to cry now even more.

Hearing your quiet sobs, Lucy suddenly appears from behind the screen, almost knocking over a bucket of water.

"My Lady, is everything all right?"

"No," you cover you eyes, sobs growing louder. "No, not really."

She comes closer, still hesitant to disturb.

"Are you feeling sick? It must be because of the cold. I was so worried that you didn't take your coat, My Lady. Does your head hurt?"

"No, I'm just... tired. I think I can fall asleep right here."

"All right then. Just let me dry your hair," she begins to prepare some towels, and you allow yourself to get lost in the sounds of her steady work. Even if you still look lost, Lucy doesn't press on. Just stays by your side until you're finally covered by the blanket and then silently puts out the lights.

.

.

The duchy is always unbearably quiet at night, you noticed. Darkness approaches softly and silently, taking away everything but one feeling: loneliness.

You tried adding more pillows to the headboard, asked for extra blankets, arranged a canopy, but to no avail. The bed stayed cold and uninviting, too big to fit just you alone.

Sometimes, before falling asleep, you liked to pretend someone was there, laying just beside you on the soft mattress. Hand hugging the waist, you wondered how would it feel to sleep in a warm embrace, hearts beating in sync, completely disarmed.

Did Sylus ever feel lonely? You guessed no, not really. If he was, he would've located you a little bit closer than the floor above in the other wing of the estate. His balcony was clearly visible from yours, but he never looked up, never acknowledged you, not even with a nod. Just stared ahead at those ill-fated mountains with their unbearable guild, as if he knew exactly where his destiny was.

The canopy curtains parted slightly, and a ray of moonlight fell shyly on your wedding ring.

No, it wasn't the time to give up your hopes yet. Sylus is still here, alive and breathing, you just needed to change the approach. If you can't escape the illness, you need to find a way to cure it. Yes, that will do.

You sigh. Pull the blanket over your head even more.

It would've been nice if he was a bit closer though.

Would Sylus keep his distance if she was his wife?

The question hangs in the air like a suffocating cloud.

You don't want to know the answer.

Next morning comes with a dull headache, steady and pulcing.

Stuffy room resounds with the sound of your feet softly padding on the way to the windows. Hand reaching for the handle, you glance outside and almost gasp: fog is so thick that you can hardly make out the estate’s entrance down below.

Still sleepy, you rub your eyes. What time is it even?

Catching some movement, you pause, leaning closer. Someone is going up the steps. Some servant, maybe? But the silhouette is too dark for their uniform. The figure moves higher, revealing a piece of light fur by the collar.

Sylus? But these aren't his indoor clothes... Did he just return from somewhere again-

"Oh, My Lady, you are finally up!" Lucy waltzes in, a tray full of plates in her hands, and you flinch, pulling the curtain back abruptly.

"Oh God, Lucy!"

"Oh, sorry... I didn't mean to startle you, My Lady," she looks away, sheepish, and places the tray on a small tableby the side of your bed. "You slept longer than usual, so I was surprised to see you awake."

"What time is it?"

"It’s long past noon, My Lady. Here, I brought your breakfast... or, well your meal," she gestures towards the tray. The sight of food makes your mouth water, but you don't let yourself be distracted. Lucy was up all morning, so she must have seen something.

You turn fully to face her, a little uncertain. "Lucy, I'll ask you something, but you need to promise it will stay between us. Understand?" You don't mean to threaten her, but you can't afford slipping up.

She visibly stiffens. "Is something bothering you, My Lady?" Lucy searches your eyes, a little lost. She was always very sensitive to changes in your mood, making her worried about all (un)possible reasons in advance. You sigh.

"No, it's nothing serious," you step closer, lowering your voice. "Just.. Have you seen His Grace going anywhere at all today? I mean, outside."

Lucy pauses, visibly lost in thought. "I don't think so, but I can't be sure. I was in the west wing all morning, learning how to bake a honey pie," she eyes the plates, squinting a little. "The chief promised to teach me months ago, but he didn't have time until today... So I spent most of my time in the kitchens. Even if His Grace went out, I wouldn't know. I'm sorry, My Lady."

Silence hangs over you like an uncomfortable haze. Lucy anticipates your reaction, unmoving as if afraid to scare you away. She follows your figure as you go back to the bed, sit down and reach for a cup. "I brought you some pie, too, My Lady. The chief said I, indeed, succeeded, so I thought you might enjoy it."

"I see. Thank you, Lucy."

So, it was still possible Sylus went somewhere. You didn't want to appear paranoid, but considering his condition, there isn't thar many places he would want to visit. If he understood what is happening, he must be looking into the nature of his illness, or, well, bond, so he can get rid of it. Right? That's what he was doing in the novel, a least. What he was doing until he found out what their connection means...

You look down into your cup, gently rocking it, causing your reflection to sway. This was your favorite part of the novel, the moment when he gradually realizes his feelings in an attempt to break the bond. You almost want to laugh. How ironic is it, that the exact things you fell for in him are now turning against you?

It was never explicitly stated what the conditions of the bond were, but one thing is clear: once he falls in love with her, he will no longer think about himself. You will lose him to a selfless sacrificed and unrequited love. Hand clenching around the hem of your nightgown, you realize one thing: you need to act before he gets too far. The sooner the better. You need to find someone who knows about gemstones. A jeweler maybe? Yes, you definitely need to find one-

"Do you want me to help you with your clothes?"

You jump, looking up. Lucy is still eyeing you, now with an unreadable expression on her face.

"Yes, yes of course. I got lost in thought."

She doesn't say anything more as you get dressed and finish your breakfast, just nodding at your compliment about her pastries. Only when leaving, after bowing out, she suddenly turns to you, reaching for the handle.

"Do you want me to keep an eye on him?" Lucy looks you in the eye, completely serious.

"I will be more uttentive. Just tell what to look for."

Her sudden assertiveness takes you by surprise, and your first instinct is to reject the offer. However, after some thought, you decide to take a different approach. It certainly won't hurt to try.

"Oh, don't say it like that, Lucy. I don't want you to spy on him," you come closer to her, wanting to leave as well. "Just tell me if you see something out of the ordinary, yeah? You don't follow him around."

"I understand."

She bows politely and quickly disappears through the door. You cross the threshold, going through your next actions. Now, you need to find Sylus.

.

.

Luckily, you don't need to search for long. Calm and commanding, he's discussing something with the butler, who nods enthusiastically, gesturing slightly with his hands. You decide to wait until they're done, allowing yourself a closer look at the duke. At first glance, he looks fine, even too good: his maroon shirt contrasts beautifully with his blond hair, making him look truly regal. Just when you become frustrated that you can't see his eyes, you catch his gaze on you, already waiting. How long have you been staring?

He steps closer. "Did you have a good night sleep, Dear? I heard you didn't feel well last evening, so I asked your maid not to bother you."

Just so you can sneak out whenever you need to, you think to yourself, but all you say is, "Yes, I appreciate that."

Sylus chuckles a little, lowering his head. "You're quite accommodating today, huh? Do you want to ask me something, Dear?"

You blush a little, caught red-handed. It never failed to throw you off when he started acting like this — light flirtations did not fit his otherwise cold and distant demeanor as a husband. At such moments, it was difficult to restrain yourself, when what you desired desperately seemed so close. His attention felt intoxicating.

The more painful it was to realize that he was probably just trying to distract you from an unwanted conversation, using all hisadvances while at it. Not that he needed much to swoon you... But not today.

"I wanted to ask about the celebration, Your Grace."

"What celebration?" he appears genuinely surprised. Strange.

"Well, you birthday is coming soon, so I thought I should probably take part in preparations as well," you eye him cautiously, assessing his reaction. After your words, Sylus looks even more lost. His gaze slides over your face, as if searching for some hidden motives, a little absent and hard to read. Then, as if waking up from an old memory, he shakes his head slightly and smiles sadly.

"Where won't be a celebration." Wait, what?

"No celebration? What do you mean?"

"I don't usually celebrate my birthdays, Dear. There's simply no need."

You give him a worried look. "But- What do you mean by no need? Aren't you the head of the duchy? You're like, the main reason all of this still exists, no?"

He just chuckles. Looking away, Sylus reaches out to straighten a crease in your sleeve, lingering a little longer than necessary. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, almost shy.

"I see you've delved into my biography, haven't you, dear?" He runs his hand down your sleeve, movements slow and gentle, until he reaches your wedding ring. "Even though I'm touched by your care, where really is no need. You can look at it as a... peculiar custom," Sylus twists your ring slightly, meeting your eyes. "I'm honestly more surprised that you know my date of birth," he wispers. "How so?"

Entranced by his gaze, it takes you an incredible amount of effort to mutter, "I'm you wife, Your Grace, it's only natural that I know." Wrong. You only know because you read about it.

"When I'm looking forward for a present from you, Dear." He gives you a satisfied grin, and you suddenly sober up.

"A present? I mean- of course, but when I'll need to go to the town for that-"

But before you're able to finish, Kieran suddenly appears at the end of the corridor. He's clearly in a hurry and doesn't notice you right away from you're hidden behind Sylus's broad back.

"The letter finally arrived, Your Grace!" he visibly panting as he hastily extends his hand with the letter to Sylus, and they both flinch when your gaze falls on the envelope.

The quickly takes the letter, letting go of your hand and straightening up.

"I'm afraid I need to deal with it right now. Sorry."

"What?" But he is already nodding politely and turning to leave, stride fast and hurried. After taking a few steps, he halts a little, as if remembering simething and turns slightly towards you.

"I'll ask you to refrain from traveling to the city until the fog clears, Dear. In such a weather, no coachman can guarantee your safety. Wait a couple of days if needed."

And in in a blink of an eye- Sylus is gone, Kieran following him like a guilty puppy, leaving you behind, baffled and tongue-tied.

And what was that just now?

You stand there for a while, too stunned to speak or move, with only one thought in the back of your mind: is the letter... from her?

The road outside the window winds down the hill, causing the carriage to sway slightly from side to side. It took a couple more days for the weather to improve, which you think is too much under the given circumstances. It meant two more days spent in uncertainty, two more than you can bear.

You still don't know for sure who was the person behind the letter, but something told you that no deal, big o small, could have thrown a seasoned man like Sylus off his game. And he wouldn't have been so vehemently hiding the circumstances of another contract: Sylus may have been overly cautious with you, but he never hid his affairs. He was more indifferent to your attention than wary.

This reaction made you even more worried: your husband had never let his emotions get the better of him, so something must have really stirred his heart to make him act so recklessly. But, again, that's exactly how he behaved with everything related to the main character in the novel, never standing on the sidelines, always ready to act. Not that he had changed from meeting her, it's just that he was never obligated to behave this way with you, a side character who wasn't even mentioned in the main story, the complete opposite of her.

And even though you knew you were trying to save him, every action, every attempt to find out what was going on, felt like an intrusion into someone else's personal life, never meant for your wandering eyes to see.

Does he even want to be saved for your own personal happiness?

The carriage wheels hit a rock, causing you shift your gaze at the other passengers inside.

"Once again, why are you two here, exactly?"

Luke and Kieran visibly straighten up. "To assure your safety of course, Your Grace."

You frown. "What could possibly happen to threaten my life? I'm just visiting the town."

"And we are here exactly to guarantee that nothing happens at all," Luke tilts his head, as if studying you. "Why are you going in person anyway? You could have just sent one of us or someone from the estate."

"I need to find a present for His Grace. Do you happen to know a trusted jeweler by the way?"

At that, the twins an incredulous look.

"A present? For what?" they seem genuinely surprised. Wait, they don't know?

"For his birthday? It's in couple of days, so I need to hurry," you study them for any reaction.

"What?! You know the date??" Luke gasps, and Kieran hits his shoulder to calm him down. "Ow- But seriously how do you know that? Are you sure, Your Grace?"

"I apologize on his behalf, Your Grace," Kieran hits him again, stronger this time. "It’s just... nobody in the estate knows. We quite ... surprised."

You huff. Of course they are skeptical. But you're, in fact, sure. It was stated clearly in the novel, so your conscience is clear.

"You guys are forgetting we are literally married. Don't underestimate how much a wife truly knows." Kieran wants to intervene, but you wave him off. "It’s fine."

"It's hard to forget about your marriage when you have the same stare." Luke mutters.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"I thought so."

.

.

Soon, low white buildings with narrow windows begin to appear outside the windows, casting cold shadows on the hem of your skirt. You finally arrived.

The twins get out of the carriage first and help you down.

"Here, Your Grace. The jewelry store is right across the street," Kieran points to a two-story gray-blue building with an unusual pattern on its walls.

"Thank you, and I'll ask you to wait for me here. Hope you understand." You begin to walk away, crossing the street. It's early, so there is hardly anyone out.

"But-"

"Don't. Please wait outside, it won't take long," you quip, quickly disappearing behind the wrought-iron door.

Inside the store, it is bright and quiet. Numerous storefronts wink at you with the brilliance of dozens of precious stones, cut, natural, and inlaid in jewelry. As expected, there are almost no customers, and only one woman at the far counter breaks the silence with her slow steps.

Hearing the bell above the door chime, a short, gray-haired man looks out of the back room. He catches your eye and immediately hurries to meet you.

"I'm sorry for the wait, Miss...?" he eyes you expectantly, and you give him your first name.

"It's an honor to see you in our store," he nods in greeting. "Are here to pick up an order or, on the contrary, order something? We also have ready-made products available for you to view," he gestures to the closest storefront.

"Yes, I would like to place an order. Here," you pass him the sketch. There was plenty of time to think about the gift while the fog was still hanging around, and you decided to go with cufflinks. The design consisted of a gemstone with a thin silver border that curled like branches around its edge, a simple and elegant gift.

The man studies it carefully.

"Oh, I see, I see. A truly delicate work. Have you decided on the stone, Miss? We have everything from sunstones to sapphires to choose from," he smiles at you. Ah, and here's your chance to find out what you really came here for.

"What about Anima lapis? I heard it's quite rare," you ask, watching his reaction carefully.

The man suddenly turns pale and fumbles with the sketch, almost dropping it. He starts to back up and knocks over a necklace stand on the counter, and a couple of them fall like stars to the tiled floor.

A woman at the end of the hall turns curiously towards the source of the noise.

"Oh Miss, what are you...! How can you, sacred stones, in such a way..." he starts to mutter, embarrassed beyond words by your suggestion. Obviously, he won't provide any relevant information, so you quickly change the subject

"Oh, I'm just kidding, of course. I was actually thinking about pomegranates. Such a deep color they have, exactly what I need."

The jeweler exhales nervously and puts the sheet on the counter to pick up the fallen jewelry. "I see," he doesn't look convinced, but he reluctantly takes out his order book. "So it will be pomegranate cufflinks with silver lining. It will take about five to seven days to make; I will give you a receipt in a minute," he closes the book and reaches for a stack of papers. "Payment required in advance."

"Seven days? Is it possible to make it sooner?" That won't do! You need the cufflinks in three days, or you'll have to find another gift.

He gives you a displeased look without looking up from his writing. "We do not provide such services, Miss. You either should plan your time for such orders in advance, or choose something from the available range. We cannot postpone orders that have already been started." Ohh, looks like you pissed him off. Well, then it's time to use your trump card.

"Is there really no way?" you give him your best pleading look. "Just place it under Lady Qin. I'm paying double."

And, as if on a snap of your fingers, you watch the man turn pale again, then blush, bowing deeply. "Your Grace! I opologise, I should have known!"

You hide your smile with feigned surprise, prompting him to stand up. "Oh, no need for formalities! I'm here for personal matters," you chirp, patting his shoulder.

The jeweler turns even redder and begins to write at a newfound speed, almost dropping his pen in commotion.

In less than a minute, you're handed a ready-made receipt, its edge slightly curled by a large, fresh seal in the corner.

"Everything will be ready in two days," he finalizes. You smile, politely bowing your head.

"I'm really grateful to hear that," with this, not wanting to embarrass the poor man any more, you quickly leave the store.

.

.

The street is still quiet when you step outside. Luke and Kieran are nowhere to be seen, so you seek cover behind the wide column by the entrance to catch your breath.

Once again, everything became even more confusing. The shopkeeper clearly knew about the significance of the stones, but it was unlikely that he could tell anything new their actual qualities.

The wind picks up, bringing the sound of a distant bell, and in the midst of your thoughts, you hear someone calling your name.

In front of you stands the same woman from the store, smiling warmly from the corners of her eyes. Or rather, from one eye, as half of her face is hidden by a black lace veil, which contrasts sharply with her light locks. Despite her gray hair, the woman does not look old, but rather experienced, though a small wrinkle still lies at the corner of her lips. A large pendant stone, fox-red and dangerous, peeks out from the deep line of her décolleté. A black cape shimmers in the light as she begins to speak.

"You really made old Owen worry just now, Your Grace. Such a devout man he is, but so unenlightened in matters of the temple. Such a pity, isn't it?" the dim morning light glints warningly in her eyes as she continues, "But it's not a problem for those who are willing to share. My salon is not far away, so why don't you come by? Precious stones are my weakness, you see."

.

.

The salon of Lady Alva, as she introduced herself, was much smaller than it appeared from the outside. Thin chiffon sheets were woven together in the center of the ceiling, making it appear even lower and giving the room a cocoon-like appearance. The windows were also covered with fabric, but this time it was silk, and the patterns shimmered in the light playfully. The scent of incense intensified in the already stuffy room, pressing unpleasantly on your temples. You needed to find out everything as quickly as possible and leave.

As if sensing your impatience, the Lady Alva finally sits down at the table, slowly shuffling the tarot deck in her hands. A fortune-teller, goes through your head.

"So, it's time we start, isn't it, darling?"

"I'm not interested in a tarot reading."

She smiles knowingly. "There's a price for all knowledge. But you're lucky, and I only charge for my honest work. So we'll have to combine them," she stops her movements finally. "Now, who are we playing the cards for, hm?"

You give her a suspicious look again, studying her face. In both lifes, both past and present, you didn't like fortune-telling and usually avoided it. Maybe this time it will work out too?

"Is there any other way to... use your skills?"

"Shy, aren't you? Don't worry, your secrets a safe with me," Alva puts the cards aside. "If you insist, though, we can skip the cards at all. Just come closer and close your eyes, darling."

She extends her hands and covers all of your face gently. You expect a certain sensation when she starts murmuring quietly, but all you can feel is a light scent of a spicy perfume.

Alva suddenly falls silent and pulls her hands away abruptly. When you open your eyes, she looks lost, almost scared, so you ask her cautiously " What? Did you see something?"

She stays silent a little longer, eye erratically raking over your features, as if seeing you in a new light. The sudden movements caused the veil to shift slightly to the side, revealing a large, creeping scar strung over her cheek like a cobweb. Her right eye is blind, you notice, right as she begins to speak again, regaining her composure.

"It’s better if we return to the cards, darling. Sometimes I fail to see some things."

You want to ask more, but she is already placing the cards on the table, her actions once again sure and steady.

"You're a married woman right? How about we check on your husband?" She takes four cards from the deck and lays them in front of you, one by one, face down. "And now... let's take a look at the true order of things," Alva starts turning over the cards.

"One for sorrow," Two of swords. "Hidden information, stalemate. Looks like he can't choose the right one of two choices. But in vain," she glances at you. "Indecision will only make things worse."

"Two for joy," she smiles bitterly. Three of Swords."It calls for misunderstandings. If they are not resolved soon, it will lead to a separation or...loss. A heartbreak."

Alva waits for your reaction, and after getting none, turns two cards at once.

"Three for a girl and four for a boy," Ten of Swords and the Tower. "An illness, perhaps, with a... with the bitter end."

Well...that sure does follow the story line. But what is choosing from?

However, the outcome seems to surprise the fortune-teller, and in an attempt to improve the situation, she shuffles the deck with shaking hands. " Now, now — let's leave it at that. Just... take a look at what awaits you-"

She hastily takes out one of the cards and slams it down in front of you.

Death.

Alva takes a sharp breath, and you stand up abruptly, hastily covering the card with your hand.

"Enough! If you won't tell me about the stones, I'm leaving, Lady Alva," you reach for your purse and take out a generous handful of coins. "Here, for your services."

But she quickly pushes your hand away, looking at you almost fearfully.

"No- no Your Grace, no need for payment. I'll tell you now," she takes a deep breath, closing her eyes. "Anima Lapis is merely a legend stone, but not many people know about this either. Their history is closely linked to the story of the nameless goddess, the one after whom so many temples in the empire were built. A tragic story about love and separation, but you can easily find it in any church library without much trouble," the fortune teller glances at you once more, as if hesitant to continue. "Although... my visitors usually already know that."

"So what about the stones?" she's taking her time, and it's starting make you restless.

Alva fixes her veil pensively, then gently shakes her head. You hear a light knock when she takes off one of her many rings and places it firmly right atop the coins in your palm. It's a bleak little thing, old and tatterd with a symbol of moon and sun intervined ingraved instead of a precious stone.

"That you will have to find out by yourself," her eye glints in the beam of light that sneaks through the web of curtains as she stands up, gently but insistently escorting you to the door. "Show the ring to some priests in any temple and you'll be escorted without any questions asked."

You want to protest, but she continues. "I will only advise you to not loiter unreasonably. We are nearing the new moon now, but when the moon starts growing again, it will become more difficult to enter the temple each day passed. They sure do not like guests on the eve of the Crimson Moon. The goddess should be greeted in silence, you see."

And just like that, you end up on the street again.

You clutch the ring to your chest, still stunned and suddenly completely aware that you don't remember how did you get here. Luke and Kieran must be looking for you.

Heart beating in your ears, you duck into a narrow alleyway, but quickly rush back, hiding around the shabby corner of a building.

Your breathing quickens as you glance back to make sure you're not imagining things.

But to no avail.

It's no there is no mistaking that in the end of that small, dark alleyway, hidden from prying eyes, stand Sylus himself, in all of his unrelenting glory. But what's worse, right next to him, back facing you, stands she.

They must have written letters to each other to meet up.

With her hair blowing in the wind, she stands in front of him, stubbornly trying to pull her hand out of his tight grip.

He holds her confidently and openly, without the ever-present uncertainty in his touch that is so often evident in his interactions with you.

You turn away, unable to watch their conversation anymore. In just one action towards her, Sylus shows more determination than he has in the entire duration of your marriage. It's subtle, but it's still there.

What were you even hoping for? That he would suddenly forget about his connection to please your feelings? Try to persuade you, shady and emotionally unavaliable? He didn't even ask for this marriage.

You feel your legs giving way as you slowly slide down the cold wall.

Wait, you just need to— you just—

"Oh, Your Grace, you're here!"

"Your Grace, are you feeling alright?"

"Where have you been?"

"Are you hurt?"

Luke and Kieran appear before you in a whirlwind of questions, disheveled and out of breath. You submit without resistance as they take you by the arms and lead back to the carriage.

"We were so worried that after all this time you weren't I the store!" Luke speeds up, careful not to step on your skirts.

"Oh, Your Grace, you're so cold! His Race is going to kill us if he ever finds out we lost you!" whines Kieran, his gloved hand wrapping your scarf tighter.

When you pass the alleyway, you look back.

It's empty now.

୨⎯ ✧ ⎯୧

The salon is still dark and stuffy when a tall shadow slides across the colorful wall.

Lady Alva stops folding her cards for a moment to look to the side, and then resumes her actions with a bitter laugh.

"Such important people in my humble abode."

"I see you're still squandering your gift on useless games, Bishop Cecil."

"Oh, formal as usual, right," she shifts to face him fully and bows deeply. "Greetings, Cardinal Zane," the fortune-teller hides her smirk under the veil. "Won't you even go inside?"

The guest just frowns, straightening up. "There is no time for your antics, Cecil. What did the girl want?"

"Ah, so you didn't arrive just now. You have become so rude, Zayne. I've told you already: Cecil is left in the temple. If you want to know something, you'll need to ask Alva."

He doesn't even budge. "You should have stayed in the temple as well, you know. Maybe then you wouldn't involve just anyone in the church's affairs. You know what the consequences are for that."

"And who said she's just anyone?"

Zayne startles. "What do you mean? Is she one of ours?"

"That's the thing: she's not." Alva crosses her arms and looks away. "But I couldn't see her, Zayne. Not the past, not the future. It's like everything's behind a veil of fog... You should know what that means."

He pauses, then quickly turns to the door, reaching for the handle.

"Then I must take my leave, Cecil."

"I wouldn't rush so much, Cardinal," she meets his gaze once again, ready for the final blow. "Sure you don't want trouble with the local duke, right?"

"Is she his confidante?"

"Oh, worse. She's his wife, Zayne. You need to be careful with Lady Qin."

"So are you," he nods. Glory to the goddess."

"Glory to the goddess," Alva says with a half-smile.

The door slams shut with a heavy thud.

✧ a.n. omg it took me soo long to finally finish this 🫢 but oh wow it is long! I even consulted my friend who does tarot reading so that the scene would seem more real... hope you like it!!

I will be happy to know your thoughts in the comments 💋💋

✧ tags: @napforalifetime @allycat2090 @vellihor @sillyfreakfanparty @eurynam @certainduckanchor @vyntheria @donotspeakunlessyouarenamjoon @mcdepressed290 @hao-ming-8 @loomslis @fallenchipsworld @glassandhoney @mariahuchiha90 @moonlight-inthe-sea @dilf-destroyer-04 @theferretkids sorry if I forgot anybody :(

comments & reblogs are highly appreciated!! 💋

[seyboo]

Mydei but naked bc I don't like drawing clothes

[seyboo]

This is what I imagine talking to modern!Mydei would be like.

-

“Hey Mydei, wanna grab drinks tonight?”

“No. My wife is making dinner.”

-

“Say Mydei, how about a boys night out?”

“No. I’m taking my wife on a date.”

-

“Mydei! Wanna go watch the new film that just came out?”

“No. My wife and I are going together.”

-

“Yeah, I’ve been getting really big into this new hobby. How about you, Mydei? Anything new with you?”

“No. But, my wife likes the same thing.”

-

“Man, why do all people suck?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sure in time you’ll find the right one. I met my wife by accident five years ago.”

-

“Wow Mydei! Nice shirt, where’d you get it?”

“Thanks. My wife got it for me.”

-

“My-dei-mos~” you sing, slinking around the kitchen and to the front door, pulling your sweet husband down for a kiss. He hums in quiet delight, large hands circling around your waist, pulling you tight.

“How was work?” You ask, placing two quick pecks against both his cheeks, circling back around to his forehead.

“Boring. Thought of you all day.” He huffs, leaning down so you could kiss him easier, lips easing into a content smile.

“Aw, aren’t you sweet. Say, I saw this new bakery opened up— can we go this weekend?” You murmur, pressing a delicate kiss against his nose and chin.

“Mhm… whatever you’d like, love.” He hums, chasing after your lips, practically pouting when you pull away last minute.

“You always say that,” you sigh, wiggling in his grip as though you could somehow escape. “Don’t you ever get tired of me? Or have any say?”

“No.” He says simply, placing a firm hand behind your head, urging you to kiss him at last. “I don’t care, so long as it’s with you.”

You giggle, finally granting him his long sought solace and pressing a firm kiss against his soft lips, careful to tangle your hand through his hair, tugging at the messily tied strands till they came loose.

“I love you~” you laugh between his lips, squealing when he effortlessly scoops you off the floor.

“I love you too, my dear wife.”

[seyboo]

This is what I imagine talking to modern!Mydei would be like.

-

“Hey Mydei, wanna grab drinks tonight?”

“No. My wife is making dinner.”

-

“Say Mydei, how about a boys night out?”

“No. I’m taking my wife on a date.”

-

“Mydei! Wanna go watch the new film that just came out?”

“No. My wife and I are going together.”

-

“Yeah, I’ve been getting really big into this new hobby. How about you, Mydei? Anything new with you?”

“No. But, my wife likes the same thing.”

-

“Man, why do all people suck?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sure in time you’ll find the right one. I met my wife by accident five years ago.”

-

“Wow Mydei! Nice shirt, where’d you get it?”

“Thanks. My wife got it for me.”

-

“My-dei-mos~” you sing, slinking around the kitchen and to the front door, pulling your sweet husband down for a kiss. He hums in quiet delight, large hands circling around your waist, pulling you tight.

“How was work?” You ask, placing two quick pecks against both his cheeks, circling back around to his forehead.

“Boring. Thought of you all day.” He huffs, leaning down so you could kiss him easier, lips easing into a content smile.

“Aw, aren’t you sweet. Say, I saw this new bakery opened up— can we go this weekend?” You murmur, pressing a delicate kiss against his nose and chin.

“Mhm… whatever you’d like, love.” He hums, chasing after your lips, practically pouting when you pull away last minute.

“You always say that,” you sigh, wiggling in his grip as though you could somehow escape. “Don’t you ever get tired of me? Or have any say?”

“No.” He says simply, placing a firm hand behind your head, urging you to kiss him at last. “I don’t care, so long as it’s with you.”

You giggle, finally granting him his long sought solace and pressing a firm kiss against his soft lips, careful to tangle your hand through his hair, tugging at the messily tied strands till they came loose.

“I love you~” you laugh between his lips, squealing when he effortlessly scoops you off the floor.

“I love you too, my dear wife.”

[seyboo]

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

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

─── 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟏: ❝𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓❞ ─── 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟐: ❝𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐄❞ ─── 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟑: ���𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐊 𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐒❞ ─── 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟒: ❝𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐔𝐒𝐓❞ －𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 1: 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 ． －𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 2: 𝘣𝘦𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘪𝘭 ． －𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 3: 𝘢 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘥 ．

[seyboo]

Going trough withdrawls rn

This was the ref

[seyboo]

POV: Your First Time with Mydei

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[seyboo]

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

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

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

They find you at the altar.

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

They argue over who gets to rape you.

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

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

Just like Nikador himself.

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

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

The men laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

You spit in his face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm already in the presence of one.”

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

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

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

You glance at him, uncomprehending.

“...you mean for me to drink this?”

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

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

“And then?”

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

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

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

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

You will need to humour his whims until then.

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

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

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

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

You are crying when you wake up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Disturbed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Castrum Kremnos is a prison.

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

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

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

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

Chains just like yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All you can do is face your fate with dignity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

Your brow arches. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods. “So it isn't. Very well.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Prince Mydeimos frowns. “Why?”

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

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

“I see.”

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

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

You snort at the sheer absurdity of his answer.

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

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

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

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

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

“And why would that be?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. I find the Kremnoan palate disagreeable.”

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

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

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

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

Why aren't you hurting me?

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

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

You marvel at what a good liar he is.

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

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

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

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

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

He leaves before you can ask him what he means.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You mean, as your whore?”

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

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

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

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

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

Gone is everything that you love.

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

“—then it will still never be home.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are afraid of me,” he remarks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Invulnerable?”

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

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

A massacre that your captor led.

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

“You sound disappointed.”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Save you?

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

Or he could be dead.

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

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

There is nothing else you are allowed to hope for.

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

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

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

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

Prince Mydeimos does not miss the way you clutch it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that so strange?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You try not to look at him.

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

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

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

Your heart aches as you think of her.

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

—and now you're killing the thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His face creases. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

You see it in his eyes when he snaps.

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

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

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

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

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

It can't be grief.

“...a home,” you repeat.

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

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

Does Oronyx force him to remember, too?

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

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

He slams the door on the way out.

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

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

Prince Mydeimos, you think immediately, is he dead?

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

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

Are you eating?

Are you sick?

Your home, what was it like?

I wanted a home.

I worry for you.

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

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

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

But you don’t know what.

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

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

“I…”

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

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

“Perhaps.”

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

I worry for you.

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

His voice is quiet, too: “Perhaps.”

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

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

Were you worried that it would harm me?

“...perhaps.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It makes you want to crawl under the bed.

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

“Then?”

Why do I matter to you?

Why aren't you using me?

Why aren't you hurting me?

“I want answers.”

There are no temples dedicated to Oronyx within Castrum Kremnos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sighs. “I only mean… if the god you follow does not demand violence outright, then I would not wish to see you inflict it upon yourself needlessly.”

You look at him, flabbergasted. “You cannot expect me to believe that a Kremnoan would be so averse to a little blood.”

“It isn't the blood that's the problem.” He sounds irritated. “It’s that it's your blood.”

You stare, watching his eyes for some tell of a lie—but you can find none. “You’re being serious,” you realise.

“Yes.”

“You really don't want to see me hurt.”

“Truly.”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Not even by a single hair.”

Part of you is aggravated—this is shameless hypocrisy from a man who led an army into your city—but mostly you’re bewildered. You shake your head, turning away.

“I can't believe I ever thought you'd drink my blood,” you mutter, wresting yourself from his grip. “Your Royal Highness’ delicate sensibilities will need to tolerate this. Prophecy isn't cheap, you know.”

Prince Mydeimos finally relents; he crosses his arms as he watches your ritual. Your blade—his blade—presses into your palm, sinks into the flesh and glides along your heart line until scarlet is welling around it. You bear the pain silently; it is nothing compared to what Oronyx must feel whenever her powers are used by force.

Your blood drips onto the altar, and its cyan light flares violently. It is brighter than the golden moon, maybe even brighter than Aquila’s sun, when you begin your incantation. Titan language sounds strange, beautiful but unnerving to human ears; you are unsurprised when Prince Mydeimos shifts in the corner of your eye, uneasy as he listens to you.

O Titan of Time and Night, you say aloud, tell me what my path to freedom is, and show me the true nature of the man who has taken it away from me.

It takes a few moments for the visions to come, but they flash like lightning when they do. You are in the darkness of a decrepit shrine in Castrum Kremnos, standing next to your captor, then—

Daytime. You are somewhere beautiful, with a warm sun above your head and limpid pools everywhere, bathers laughing in the sun. There's a woman with golden hair and sea-glass eyes; she smiles at you, all-seeing even though she is blind, and then—

Nighttime. There are no moons in the sky, and the stars are faded. The city is dying, and you listen to the screams as you watch an unnatural darkness fall upon it. Something is encroaching the palace walls—a dark plague that corrupts all that it touches, a black tide that has been sweeping across the lands. You wish to stay, to lose yourself to it, but the Crown Prince grabs your hand. You can make out his words, just barely: ████ with me to ██████, he says. ███ ██ save you. And then—

Daytime. It is painfully bright where you are now, idyllic. You are watching Mydei. An amicable looking dromas has lowered its head to his palm to eat the feed in his hands. You made Mydei try this—giving the docile beast a treat. You're laughing as you watch him; he looks so startled, out of his depth for royalty. A group of children are spectating as well, giggling uncontrollably at their Crown Prince. You hear yourself: ██ ██ cute… then—

Nighttime. The golden moon is out tonight. You are tired, so tired; you have buried someone, you don’t know who. Mydeimos looks haunted. Your palm is pressed against his cheek, cradling his face in your hands. Your wrists are bare, you notice. His voice is quiet: █ ██ remember ██ ███ ███████ touched ██ ████ this… now, finally—

The end. You are bleeding out at the feet of King Mydeimos. You cannot see his face, but he is malevolent, terrible, and strife runs thick in his ichor veins. Your chest hurts even though your heart is no longer in it, and you are crying, crying, crying—I will ████ you soon, ██ ██, you weep, and now—

It is nighttime, and the torches are burning low in Castrum Kremnos. You are on the floor of a shrine, gasping, your cheeks wet with your grief. Your captor is crouched next to you, his hand on your back—touching you gently, too gently for the man who sacked your city, too gently for the king who will kill you and drink your blood. You pull away from him, terrified, and your captor backs off immediately.

“Forgive me,” he says. “You were—you collapsed, and I only wanted to check what was wrong.”

“I'm fine,” you gasp. “I'm fine. It's just—what I saw, through the Evernight Veil, it was—” Your eyes squeeze shut.

“What? What was it?”

“My future. Your future. I wanted”—you don’t know why you're telling him this, you don't know why you were standing next to him in a beautiful city with a group of joyous children, laughing as he fed a dromas—“I wanted to know if I could trust you.”

“And?”

Your captor stares intently. His eyes burn in the light of the palace torches, in the light of the blazing olive groves, in the light of the golden moon.

It is easy to lose sight of time after peering into the Evernight Veil, for the past, present, and future to blend together. Easy for you to reach out to your captor in Castrum Kremnos, easy to instead see Mydeimos grieving after a burial. He stares at you as you touch his cheek, cradling it. Something is flickering in his eyes, something so painfully human that you cannot bring yourself to ignore it. You can hear him talking to you in the future.

“You can't remember the last time someone touched you like this,” you repeat. At his startled look, you add, “That's what you're thinking, right?”

He jerks back, as if your fingers are scalding. “How did you—”

“That's what you'll say to me,” you say simply, “eventually.”

Prince Mydeimos swallows.

“Does that mean you'll come to trust me, then?”

Now you're at the foot of his throne again, bleeding dry for him—bleeding more than you ever have for your goddess or your city or your people. Your heart pulses in the hand of the Strife Titan, and you close your eyes forever.

“No.”

End Part I

notes: oh my god when I tell you all the suffering I went through trying to write this shitass chapter slfjslfksdfjalsk. between navigating the nightmare of canon lore and a trope that is absolutely out of my wheelhouse, I truly suffered for this story. and I don't think the end product was even that good. regardless, please let me know if you liked it. LOL

as an aside, I'm not sure how obvious it is to people who are reading this blind (as opposed to my followers who've been witnessing my shitposting lol), but mydei is absolutely not into the sexual slavery stuff. he sees you in those golden bdsm chains and feels so uncomfortable that he leaves the room asap. my man is taking immense psychic damage from this situation rip he just wants to make sure you're safe but his palace is forcing him into this wattpad fic situation (i am forcing him into this wattpad fic situation)

[seyboo]

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

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

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

They find you at the altar.

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

They argue over who gets to rape you.

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

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

Just like Nikador himself.

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

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

The men laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

You spit in his face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm already in the presence of one.”

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

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

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

You glance at him, uncomprehending.

“...you mean for me to drink this?”

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

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

“And then?”

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

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

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

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

You will need to humour his whims until then.

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

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

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

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

You are crying when you wake up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Disturbed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Castrum Kremnos is a prison.

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

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

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

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

Chains just like yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All you can do is face your fate with dignity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

Your brow arches. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods. “So it isn't. Very well.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Prince Mydeimos frowns. “Why?”

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

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

“I see.”

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

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

You snort at the sheer absurdity of his answer.

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

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

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

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

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

“And why would that be?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. I find the Kremnoan palate disagreeable.”

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

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

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

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

Why aren't you hurting me?

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

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

You marvel at what a good liar he is.

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

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

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

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

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

He leaves before you can ask him what he means.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You mean, as your whore?”

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

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

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

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

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

Gone is everything that you love.

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

“—then it will still never be home.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are afraid of me,” he remarks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Invulnerable?”

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

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

A massacre that your captor led.

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

“You sound disappointed.”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Save you?

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

Or he could be dead.

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

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

There is nothing else you are allowed to hope for.

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

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

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

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

Prince Mydeimos does not miss the way you clutch it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that so strange?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You try not to look at him.

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

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

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

Your heart aches as you think of her.

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

—and now you're killing the thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His face creases. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

You see it in his eyes when he snaps.

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

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

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

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

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

It can't be grief.

“...a home,” you repeat.

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

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

Does Oronyx force him to remember, too?

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

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

He slams the door on the way out.

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

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

Prince Mydeimos, you think immediately, is he dead?

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

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

Are you eating?

Are you sick?

Your home, what was it like?

I wanted a home.

I worry for you.

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

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

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

But you don’t know what.

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

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

“I…”

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

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

“Perhaps.”

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

I worry for you.

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

His voice is quiet, too: “Perhaps.”

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

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

Were you worried that it would harm me?

“...perhaps.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It makes you want to crawl under the bed.

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

“Then?”

Why do I matter to you?

Why aren't you using me?

Why aren't you hurting me?

“I want answers.”

There are no temples dedicated to Oronyx within Castrum Kremnos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sighs. “I only mean… if the god you follow does not demand violence outright, then I would not wish to see you inflict it upon yourself needlessly.”

You look at him, flabbergasted. “You cannot expect me to believe that a Kremnoan would be so averse to a little blood.”

“It isn't the blood that's the problem.” He sounds irritated. “It’s that it's your blood.”

You stare, watching his eyes for some tell of a lie—but you can find none. “You’re being serious,” you realise.

“Yes.”

“You really don't want to see me hurt.”

“Truly.”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Not even by a single hair.”

Part of you is aggravated—this is shameless hypocrisy from a man who led an army into your city—but mostly you’re bewildered. You shake your head, turning away.

“I can't believe I ever thought you'd drink my blood,” you mutter, wresting yourself from his grip. “Your Royal Highness’ delicate sensibilities will need to tolerate this. Prophecy isn't cheap, you know.”

Prince Mydeimos finally relents; he crosses his arms as he watches your ritual. Your blade—his blade—presses into your palm, sinks into the flesh and glides along your heart line until scarlet is welling around it. You bear the pain silently; it is nothing compared to what Oronyx must feel whenever her powers are used by force.

Your blood drips onto the altar, and its cyan light flares violently. It is brighter than the golden moon, maybe even brighter than Aquila’s sun, when you begin your incantation. Titan language sounds strange, beautiful but unnerving to human ears; you are unsurprised when Prince Mydeimos shifts in the corner of your eye, uneasy as he listens to you.

O Titan of Time and Night, you say aloud, tell me what my path to freedom is, and show me the true nature of the man who has taken it away from me.

It takes a few moments for the visions to come, but they flash like lightning when they do. You are in the darkness of a decrepit shrine in Castrum Kremnos, standing next to your captor, then—

Daytime. You are somewhere beautiful, with a warm sun above your head and limpid pools everywhere, bathers laughing in the sun. There's a woman with golden hair and sea-glass eyes; she smiles at you, all-seeing even though she is blind, and then—

Nighttime. There are no moons in the sky, and the stars are faded. The city is dying, and you listen to the screams as you watch an unnatural darkness fall upon it. Something is encroaching the palace walls—a dark plague that corrupts all that it touches, a black tide that has been sweeping across the lands. You wish to stay, to lose yourself to it, but the Crown Prince grabs your hand. You can make out his words, just barely: ████ with me to ██████, he says. ███ ██ save you. And then—

Daytime. It is painfully bright where you are now, idyllic. You are watching Mydei. An amicable looking dromas has lowered its head to his palm to eat the feed in his hands. You made Mydei try this—giving the docile beast a treat. You're laughing as you watch him; he looks so startled, out of his depth for royalty. A group of children are spectating as well, giggling uncontrollably at their Crown Prince. You hear yourself: ██ ██ cute… then—

Nighttime. The golden moon is out tonight. You are tired, so tired; you have buried someone, you don’t know who. Mydeimos looks haunted. Your palm is pressed against his cheek, cradling his face in your hands. Your wrists are bare, you notice. His voice is quiet: █ ██ remember ██ ███ ███████ touched ██ ████ this… now, finally—

The end. You are bleeding out at the feet of King Mydeimos. You cannot see his face, but he is malevolent, terrible, and strife runs thick in his ichor veins. Your chest hurts even though your heart is no longer in it, and you are crying, crying, crying—I will ████ you soon, ██ ██, you weep, and now—

It is nighttime, and the torches are burning low in Castrum Kremnos. You are on the floor of a shrine, gasping, your cheeks wet with your grief. Your captor is crouched next to you, his hand on your back—touching you gently, too gently for the man who sacked your city, too gently for the king who will kill you and drink your blood. You pull away from him, terrified, and your captor backs off immediately.

“Forgive me,” he says. “You were—you collapsed, and I only wanted to check what was wrong.”

“I'm fine,” you gasp. “I'm fine. It's just—what I saw, through the Evernight Veil, it was—” Your eyes squeeze shut.

“What? What was it?”

“My future. Your future. I wanted”—you don’t know why you're telling him this, you don't know why you were standing next to him in a beautiful city with a group of joyous children, laughing as he fed a dromas—“I wanted to know if I could trust you.”

“And?”

Your captor stares intently. His eyes burn in the light of the palace torches, in the light of the blazing olive groves, in the light of the golden moon.

It is easy to lose sight of time after peering into the Evernight Veil, for the past, present, and future to blend together. Easy for you to reach out to your captor in Castrum Kremnos, easy to instead see Mydeimos grieving after a burial. He stares at you as you touch his cheek, cradling it. Something is flickering in his eyes, something so painfully human that you cannot bring yourself to ignore it. You can hear him talking to you in the future.

“You can't remember the last time someone touched you like this,” you repeat. At his startled look, you add, “That's what you're thinking, right?”

He jerks back, as if your fingers are scalding. “How did you—”

“That's what you'll say to me,” you say simply, “eventually.”

Prince Mydeimos swallows.

“Does that mean you'll come to trust me, then?”

Now you're at the foot of his throne again, bleeding dry for him—bleeding more than you ever have for your goddess or your city or your people. Your heart pulses in the hand of the Strife Titan, and you close your eyes forever.

“No.”

End Part I

notes: oh my god when I tell you all the suffering I went through trying to write this shitass chapter slfjslfksdfjalsk. between navigating the nightmare of canon lore and a trope that is absolutely out of my wheelhouse, I truly suffered for this story. and I don't think the end product was even that good. regardless, please let me know if you liked it. LOL

as an aside, I'm not sure how obvious it is to people who are reading this blind (as opposed to my followers who've been witnessing my shitposting lol), but mydei is absolutely not into the sexual slavery stuff. he sees you in those golden bdsm chains and feels so uncomfortable that he leaves the room asap. my man is taking immense psychic damage from this situation rip he just wants to make sure you're safe but his palace is forcing him into this wattpad fic situation (i am forcing him into this wattpad fic situation)

[seyboo]

Actor AU Diluc has done irreversible damage on me

[seyboo]

Tied Souls

Pairing: Sylus x NonMC!Reader, Xavier x MC

Summary; You didn't think being a dragon would ever be a problem. And yet, with your childhood friend Sylus and yourself as the last hunted dragons, you wondered how you would be able to live.

Words: a. 4.300

Author's nonsense; I’m wondering, where you kissed better when you were sick? I hope you will enjoy this chapter, I do not know why I’m so attached to this story but I was so excited to write those scene today. Please, let’s enjoy the… feast!

<- Chapter II

You were perched on a tree, staring toward the city lights that were so far away from your home.

Philos.

You turned your head away, looking down toward the child that was trying to climb the tree, not caring that he was blind. He was panting , lifting his head toward the sound of your tail against the branches he could use to climb.

Little Mephisto…

You smiled, amused as you watched your… little human child trying to reach you. Since You and Sylus rescued the boy, a few months had passed by.

He had a smart mouth, always moaning when you wanted to sing something with your music box. The poor boy would shriek while blocking his ears, begging for you to stop.

Of course, as soon as you turned toward him, he would bore a mocking smile before running away, knowing you would chase after him to entertain him. You felt pride bloom in your chest when you realized that Mephisto wasn’t stumbling anymore against your treasures on the floor. The boy was used to being with you and Sylus, and he knew where every single piece of gold was.

Mephisto was getting used to being carried around when you and your dragon decided to move away for a while from your den. The first time you changed into your dragon form, he shouted in fear when he touched you, expecting your human form.

Sylus was also enjoying teasing the human. He would order Mephisto to go into a human village and come back with something useful.The boy would obey and would usually come back with food; and that’s how he discovered that nor you or Sylus ate food.

”What do you eat then?”

”Souls.”

You remembered Sylus had laughed as Mephisto dropped the food he had, his face turning pale a bit. You had chuckled before patting his head, reassuring him that you wouldn’t eat him. His soul wasn’t something you wished to eat.

Back to the present, you smiled when Mephisto finally managed to sit next to you, holding onto the branches before turning his face toward you with a big smile. You patted his back while observing his red eyes, incapable of seeing things anymore. He had told you it was intruders that had come into his house and murdered his parents that turned him blind…

But you could feel he wasn’t telling the whole story.

The little boy gave you some fruits he had in his pockets. Even if you couldn’t taste anything, you made a habit of eating what he was giving you. Even if, from your point of view, it was meaningless, it always seemed to bring a smile on the child’s face.

“So, how does a soul taste ?” Mephisto asked while chewing on his blueberry. You bite the fruit, looking toward the city lights once more.

” It’s an experience…I don’t think you could understand.” You mocked the boy fondly. How could he understand the taste of a soul… It was just like you, you don’t think you would ever understand the taste of food…

”Like you will never understand the notion of love?”

You snapped your head toward him, and you growled, without any real anger, when you saw his teasing smile. Sometimes, Mephisto could be as infuriating as Sylus…

You flicked his forehead, minding your claws, and smirked when he cried out.

”What! You said dragons can’t feel love.”

”I don’t know… That’s what Sylus told me.” You turned your head away, your tail hanging loose in the air, behind you. You always wondered how Sylus knew about this and not you. Your parents never said that to you… and yet, in the few memories you had, you remember your parents being… caring for each other..?

You frowned as your brain started to think about it.

You didn’t know what love was. You didn’t know how it felt like… You have read a lot of human books, always focusing on the ‘love’ part.

Being caring to each other, protecting each other, wishing to stay with your partner…

You were doing all of that with Sylus.

But you weren’t human. Maybe dragons do love, but in different ways? While a human would press their lips against their loved one, a dragon would.. bite..? How many times did Sylus chomped on your cheeks so you could turn your eyes on him…

How many times did you bit his finger when he was stroking your cheek because he looked so…

”I think of going into another village today.”

You turned your attention back to Mephisto, who was kicking his legs in the air. You tilted your head, your eyes glinting with suspicion.

” Why? Where?”

The boy laughed at your questions, his body dangerously tilting backward. Your tail was already ready to catch him if he were to fall, but he didn’t. He turned his face toward you with a happy smile.

”You’re really worried about me? I’m just going to the ruins of an old village, it is said it’s a place of desolation. No need to worry, I’m not scared.” He said before shouting in fear, holding onto you as the tree’s branch shook violently.

You turned your head toward Sylus, who landed on the tree, making sure the branches were shaking strongly as the boy clung to you, unsure of what was going on.

“Well, Mephisto, I thought you weren’t scared?” Sylus mocked, amused by the boy’s behavior. Mephisto shouted nonsense at the dragon, pointing toward his direction while keeping a strong grip on you.

After a few minutes, you both watched Mephisto climb down the tree. He turned toward you and waved before running off. You clumsily waved back at you, hearing Sylus laughed at you.

”He can’t see you, you know?”

You stuck your tongue to him, your tail slapping his back while he chuckled at you. When you couldn’t see Mephisto anymore, you turned your body toward Sylus with a serious face. He raised an eyebrow with a smirk, waiting for you to speak your mind.

”Sylus. Why can't dragons love?”

Sylus sighed before adjusting himself on the branch, his back leaning against the tree trunk. He looked toward the sky with a frown that made you smile. He almost looked like he was pouting, which made him … cute…

Cute..?

”Dragons… want to kill their loved ones. It’s about violence, about—“

Sylus stopped talking when he felt your lips on his cheek. His eyes widened when he felt your little fangs munching on his cheek. You were between his legs ,on all four, one hand on his chest, and the other was on his shoulder.

You were purring as you kept giving him gentle bites before letting his cheek go. He turned his eyes toward you, his mouth opened, but no words were coming out of it.

You chuckled, nuzzling against him.

” Was it violent..?” You asked him in a whisper that made him shiver. You looked up at him, staring at him, wanting his answers.

Sylus always told you he was a weapon. He was dangerous, a fighter, a killer. Even when you were training, you could feel he was holding himself back while you were jumping on him with all your strength.

But for you, even if he was a weapon, a fighter, and a killer, he was your protector, your most beloved person in the whole world. When he would cup your face with his hands dirty from someone else’s person’s blood, you would purr.

Focusing your attention back on Sylus, you went on his other cheek and bit on it, purring loudly against him. You felt his hands on your back, caressing your skin. You turned your face toward him, asking once again.

” Was it violent?”

” No.”

”Then your turn, show me what ‘violent’ is.”

Sylus chuckled at your demand before looking away for a second. Your eyes followed his face as he turned back toward you. His hand came closer to your neck, using the golden necklace he gave you as a leash as he tugged you close to his face.

”You want me to be violent?”

”Well, you say dragon’s love is violent. Then show me. How do you love?”

Sylus’s eyes shined as he stared at you. You let him do it, not understanding why he needed to watch your inner desire. You rolled your eyes at him, a soft smile on your lips before you felt his hand on your cheek.

You closed your eyes, sighing in bliss as you felt his skin against yours. You could feel his hesitation. It seemed like he didn’t trust himself while touching you.

Sylus’s hand creeped around your waist before pressing you against his body. You felt his tail intertwining with your own, squeezing it until you let a little gasp. You opened your eyes, falling into his ruby gaze.

His hand slid from your cheek toward your neck, to your collarbones and your shoulders. You blushed, the touching seemed… too intimate… and yet you craved it. His gaze was observing carefully. Each part of you, his hand, was caressing; his eyes were staring at it.

”How do I love…? I do not know, but what I’m sure is… I want to touch you… I want you in my arms, I want to bite you… softly and strongly…” He whispered, his hand brushing against your breast before touching your waist and belly. “Sometimes, I imagine that you were killed alongside your parents… and I can’t breathe.”

Your eyes widened with concern at his confession. You leaned toward him until your forehead bumped into his, making his eyes look up at you. He licked his lips, trying to find the will to share more of his thoughts.

”If you were to disappear… I don’t know what I would do with myself. That’s why…”

You grazed his lips, making him shudder. His claws dug into your skin in a comfortable way, making you wish he would stop trying to control himself. His breath was mixing with yours, both of your eyes locking into each other.

Your hands were on his shoulder, trying to have some kind of material anchor on this storm of feeling that was swirling inside you. You closed your eyes as you saw him approach your face.

“ I can’t love you.”

You felt him kiss the corner of your lips, making you turn your head toward his mouth. You tried to catch his lips with yours while he kept kissing your face, torturing you with the feeling of his lips on your skin but never on where you needed it the most.

”I must not love you.”

He whispered as he kissed your neck, his hand holding your hair up so he could nip at your skin, marking it with marks that were making you lightheaded. You felt feverish. Your whole body was burning with a need to…

To what?

“I must not crave you.”

You moaned as his teeth dug into your neck, making you arch instinctively against him. Your hand tugged his hair as he kept you against him, between his legs, caging you with his limbs.

“ I must not… I must not…” He almost begged to himself, trying not to lose himself in you.

” Sylus..” You breathed as his face dipped toward your cleverage. You moaned louder this time as he bit near your breast, your eyes getting teary with need. “ Sy—“

”Don’t… Don’t say my name like this…” He growled, facing you once more. You whined, staring at his eyes, which seemed so primal, feral, and wild… And yet, you didn't feel any fear. You just wanted more…

You approached your lips toward him, feeling elated where you saw him approaching too. You couldn’t wait, you needed to—

You both snapped toward the loud sound you heard. Sylus immediately put you behind him as his eyes scanned the area. You did the same thing and grabbed his shoulder when you saw smoke coming out of the old village, the one your father had destroyed the first time you went there as a kid.

“Sylus, Mephisto went there!” You urged him before jumping from the tree and transforming into your dragon form. You flew toward the smoke, hoping your little human was okay.

In less than two minutes, you landed on the ground, roaring at any threat. You snarled as a Wanderer was standing in front of you, moving like he was just a puppet whose limbs weren't completely his own.

Sylus dove toward it, crushing it into the ground. You looked around, freezing when you saw Mephisto’s unconscious body on the ground, not too far. You changed into your human form and ran toward him, making sure he was alive.

He had some cuts but nothing life threatening. You turned your face toward Sylus, who had already taken down the Wanderer. He then walked toward the two of you, lowering a wing so you could climb on him.

Once you were sitting on his back, you hugged Mephisto as he flew away from there. But as you looked at the ruins, you had to do a double check as you were sure you saw someone with a white uniform.

But as soon as you thought you saw it, it disappeared.

Once inside your den, you laid Mephisto on his bed, making sure his injuries didn’t get worse during the flight. You almost collapsed in relief when he opened his eyes, wincing in pain.

”It’s okay, it’s just us.”

Mephisto relaxed as soon as he heard your voice. You were still feeling hot, sweating from all those last emotions, but seeing the little boy’s face gave you some relief.

Unfortunately, the relief was brief.

Mephisto was sick for almost five days. He was burning, a strong fever you didn't know how to heal. You and Sylus never got sick. You didn't know how humans healed themselves.

You were cuddling the little human who he was shivering, his teeth chattering as he clung on you and the covers. You looked up at Sylus, concern written all over your face. Your dragon stared at the human before leaving the den with a powerful jump.

You stroke Mephisto’s sweaty forehead. What were you supposed to do..?

“ Mephisto, look at me. You’re going to be okay… What do you need?” You whispered against his soaked hair. The boy opened his eyes, delirious from the fever, he didn't recognize you.

”Mom… ? Kiss it better…” He voiced softly. Your eyes fell on him, watching as his eyes closed once more.

A kiss could heal?

You kissed his forehead gently. You kept your lips against his skin until his body relaxed completely. You tilted your head, staring at the sleeping boy.

Did it work?

You snapped your head toward the den’s entrance. You stood up and stared as Sylus came in, holding a human by the throat. You frowned before the poor man was pushed inside the den by your dragon.

”He is a doctor.”

Your eyes widened before looking at the man who seemed horrified to be near two dragons. Your tail wagged in frustration, but what other choice did you have? You crouched in front of the man, your eyes shining with promise of threats if the man didn’t do his job.

”If the boy dies… You’ll be able to apologize to him in the afterlife.”

The man nodded furiously before walking toward Mephisto. He had needles and other tools you couldn’t understand. As you started to growled when you saw him looking at Mephisto’s eyes, he turned toward you, shaking.

”I’m sorry but… W-would you mind leaving me alone with the patient?”

You almost snarled, your body feeling so hot you felt like you needed to take it on someone. And if that so-called doctor thought you would let Mephisto alone with him, he was very wrong.

But Sylus held your wrist with his hand, staring at the doctor.

”Don’t worry. If he fails and runs away, I’ll just go for his family. Right, doctor?”

The doctor nodded. You could almost feel his soul shaking with fear, but before you could say anything, Sylus tugged you out of the den, flying to your usual spot.

As you both landed, you couldn’t stop moving. you were feeling so hot, you felt reckless… You were sweating so much. Did you catch Mephisto’s illness?

”Calm down.”

You growled at Sylus, daring him to say another word. He seemed shocked, but soon an amused smile appeared on his lips. He walked toward you, staring at your tail that was moving behind you in an agitated way.

”Are you angry? Want to work out a bit?”

You didn’t even wait before rushing toward him, your fist hitting him in the jaw. He stumbled back with a proud smile before coming for you.

You were using your legs, your fist, fangs… You couldn’t even feel his hits on you as your whole body was burning. You felt like it was harder and harder to breathe. Your vision was starting to get dizzy…

You fell on the floor, your back hitting the ground as you whined. Sylus immediately went to your side before freezing. You shook your head from side to side, trying to clear the fog from your mind.

”Sy-Sylus..”

You couldn’t see, but Sylus was staring at you like you were his prey. His parents had explained how a dragon could change depending on their age. He was older than you, not being more experienced, but he had more knowledge than you on certain subjects. After all, he knew a dragon would kill his most beloved.

But right now, he knew what was happening to you.

You were having your first heat.

He swallowed loudly, his body frozen. He needed to bring you somewhere safe. He needed to get away from you. He needed to make sure nobody would try to come to you.

Yet, his body stayed where he was.

He watched as your back arched, your claws digging in the mud under you, panting hardly as you asked for him again and again and again and again…

He shook his head, tearing his eyes from your body.

” S-sylus… It hurts…”

He closed his eyes, his body leaning toward you until his forehead touched your belly. Your body relaxed a bit as you felt him against you. He whispered against your skin, his claws digging in the ground, trying to keep himself sane.

Dragons couldn’t taste, and yet how he wished he could eat you up…

” Where… Where does it hurt… Tell me, I’m here…” he breathed hardly. He needed to protect you. He was your only ally… He couldn’t let himself be swayed by your sweet whimpers… If there were another dragon, maybe you wouldn’t call for him.

”Here… It hurts here…”

Sylus opened his eyes and looked as you moved your hand against your lower belly. He nodded slightly. What could help you ? What could he do? He wasn’t even sure he would be able to tear himself off you.

” What do you want me to do?”

”Kiss it better…”

Sylus growled darkly, his claws tearing into the ground under you. He shook his head, trying so desperately to hang on to his sanity. Were you doing this on purpose? Were you torturing him on purpose?

”You.. You aren’t thinking clearly… If another dragon was here…You..” He bit his lips, not being able to voice his thoughts out. He didn’t want to think about another dragon seeing you in this state? He didn’t want to imagine you choosing someone else than him.

”I would choose you…Always..” You cried out as another sharp pain echoed in your belly. You couldn’t see Sylus’s face as he kept his forehead against your belly. Was he disgusted by you? Was your current state pathetic for him?

You always carry yourself with pride and power, but right now, imagining that Sylus looked at you with pity or disgust made you whimper. You could feel fat hot tears dripping from your eyes.

”You… You don’t have to stay… I’ll be okay alone…”

You almost moaned when Sylus kissed your belly, his growl resonated inside your guts. You felt his fangs graze your skin as he whispered a question.

”Do you want me to…kiss the pain away?”

You gasped when he caught his gaze. You closed your eyes, nodding shyly. You didn’t truly understand what was happening to your body, but you trusted Sylus to make it all better.

”Don’t hesitate to hit me if I hurt you.” He said before kissing your belly in multiple places. Your body arched, your delirious mind wishing for something else. You opened your eyes to see Sylus laying flat on the ground between your legs, giving kisses and bites on your stomach.

Your hands trembled as they reached for his horns. He looked up at you as you pushed him slowly lower and lower…

Sylus’s eyes widened, letting you place him where you needed him. He was growling, his fangs bared as he tried to control himself. His claws dug into your thighs, trying not to dive between your legs to lap at the scent that was coming from you.

” K-Kiss it better…” you begged, your chest heaving with want and need. “ Sylus… Please…”

He closed his eyes, trying to keep his eyes from rolling back in his skull. You would indeed be the one to kill. He was sure of that. He wasn’t even sure he would be able to function with his tongue on you.

He leaned toward your clothes, ripping it without meaning to.

Fuck, he was losing his sanity.

He looked at his hands shaking as he gripped your thighs once more. He could control himself. He knew he could, he would, he…

You gasped as you felt his tongue against your soaked slit. Your eyes rolled back as your legs caged his head between his thighs. You tightened your grip on his horns as he growled louder as he tasted you for the first time.

Dragon couldn’t taste anything, yet Sylus felt like he was blessed to feel your taste on his tongue.He didn’t truly know how to bring you pleasure, yet his body moved by itself, controlled by instincts. You were putting a spell on him with your cries, your tastes, your body…

How would he be able to live without you?

You kept calling for his name as he thrust his tongue inside you. You arched your back as you felt his tail wrapped itself around your waist, bringing you closer to his starving mouth.

Your body was shaking from the pleasure you were feeling. How could you feel so good? How come you didn’t know such pleasure existed? You could hear Sylus growled as his mouth never left your most intimate part.

Your hips started to rock against his mouth, making Sylus purred, encouraging you to keep using him for your pleasure. You blindly reached for his hand that was on your thighs and squeezed it hard. All those feelings were scary…but then, you felt Sylus grabbed your hand and squeezed back.

You closed your eyes with a happy smile before moaning again. No matter what, no matter how deep Sylus was lost to his instincts, he would always be aware when you needed reassuring.

You felt something coming from inside your lower belly. You tried to push Sylus away, not completely sure what was going on. You felt like you were going to pee, and there was no way you would live the embarrassment.

But to your surprise, Sylus nipped at your fingers, his lips and chin soaked with your juices that he tried to capture with his tongue.

”Don’t… Please…Don’t take this away from me…” He breathed, his pupils dilated as he stared at you with desperation before diving back between your legs.

You didn’t know you could make such a scream as you came on his face. Your whole body tensed, your body arched as Sylus kept his grip on you, like a prey he didn’t want to escape.

Your back fell against the ground once more, your ears ringing so loudly you couldn’t hear what Sylus was saying. You panted as your dragon crawled on you, making sure you were okay.

You gave him a blissful smile that made him shake his head with a fond smile. You would have been embarrassed to death if you cared enough when you saw his soaked chin and lips. You would have been mortified if you were not still buzzing from the aftershock of your orgsam when you saw him wipe his chin with his hand before sucking it clean.

Sylus stared at you, stroking your cheek as you closed your eyes. He could feel his cock straining against his trousers but it didn’t matter. You were sated, you were happy and you were asking for his arms around you.

You were purring loudly, which made Sylus chuckled as he purred in a deeper voice. You felt so happy and sated that you nuzzled against him, like a thank you.

You didn’t feel like you were a walking flame anymore , you felt… better… Even if your instincts were telling you there was more that could be done, you were happy enough with what happened.

Sylus stroked you back, watching your tail wagging behind you with an amused smile. You could be so cute… Who would have guessed such a terrible dragon like yourself could turn into such an adorable kitten in those moments…

As you both laid there, his strong arms wrapped your body, and you both had one thought.

I’m scared to realize I love you.

Tag List: @nommingonfood @lunia-likes-pomegranet @lemonmoonmochi @just--crys @leftpoetrymoon @pillarofsnow @animegamerfox @erendipi @nm4565natty @vigtore @kclremin @thehenchsket

[seyboo]

I almost forgot about this one LMAO😂

Good Night Ojosama ~HSR EDITION

Someone has to, okay.

Original video:

[seyboo]

Sylus: My girl and I don't argue. She shoot me in the chest with my own gun and I walk it off like a man.