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teyvat-inks · 3 days ago

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AEONS THIS IS SO BEAUTIFUL

"Thy kingdom come, thy will be done to me, betrayer Throw your stones and stab me with your hateful stares Curtain call, the final act, so say your prayers So long to you beloved traitor."

「 ✦ LOWER ONE'S EYES ✦ 」

┆ ┆ ┆જ ✾ After you lost your mother to the witch hunts as a child, you've spent the better years of your life living with a family friend and making sure that the Council of Elders won't figure out you're one as well. Unfortunately, things take a turn for the worse when a new witch hunter who is said to have an accurate killing streak arrives in the city, and his eyes are set on you.

masterlist | <- part 2 | you are here

Word count: 21630 Reading time: 1h 48m Featuring: reader, phainon, aglaea, lygus Other characters: caenis, anaxa, cyrene, cipher (mentioned), tribios (mentioned), hyacine Tags: all tags are applicable to the fic as a whole and not just the part posted, major character death, written before 3.5, alternate universe, potential ooc, slowburn (im serious phainon doesn't appear until maybe 5k words in), gn reader, no use of y/n or [name], witch hunts, not time period accurate, bittersweet ending, implied grooming, gets suggestive at some point but no nsfw content, aglaea as reader's adoptive mother, implied aglanaxa if you squint, reader has trust issues and still refuses to trust phainon 30k words in, phainon is refered to as flame reaver at the start and khaslana near the end, slight edits made, no beta please kill me already Notes: If this is your first time interacting with me or my works, please read my rules beforehand. hi hello yes jumpscare. i know i said i was going to publish each part within three days, but then i remembered that im going to be so busy for the next upcoming week for college. so i figured i might as well post this now before i forget. small notes, this part gets suggestive but like i said, no explicit content applies. also, i'm sorry if this feels rushed compared to the first two parts. this was completely different from the original draft, and even then i rushed this one because i just wanted the fic to be done, and i also added some things last minute so they might probably not feel connected. but after this, lower one's eyes would be complete, and i'll add a masterlist that contains all three parts. thank you all for reading, and i hope you'll enjoy this last part.

VII. Secrets Shared With You

"Some stories say that names are the most powerful thing in the world," Cyrene once told Khaslana when they were children. She was sitting on her swing, kicking her feet and making it move, while he sat on the wooden planks with his feet submerged underwater. "They say that, if even a non-witch asks you to give your name to them, never do that. Because you're literally giving them ownership of you as a person."

He had leaned back on his hands and tilted his head to the side when he first heard it. "How's a non-witch supposed to have ownership of me as a person if I give them my name? They don't have magic, so I don't know how they can control me."

"That's because names have their own magic. One that everyone, regardless if they're a witch or not, has. That's how powerful names are. Even the Evernight was said to go by March in one of her lifetimes because her name was so powerful it would hurt her. Now, pick a card!"

"Come on, you know what card I'm going to get again. It's the same card every time." His hands hovered between the middle one and the right-most one, before getting the second one from the left instead. And of course… "See? It's the same one again. I'm starting to think these cards of yours are cursed."

Cyrene giggled as she jumped out of her swing and sat next to him. "It's a great card, you know. It means you're destined for great things."

It was another beautiful sunny day that day. Perhaps it was because of Oronyx's protection, but time worked differently in Aedes Elysiae. The sun would take longer to set, and the view most of the time was usually a sunset that matched the orange and yellow hues of the village, making it look like it was in a permanent state of dusk. His favorite spot always had the best viewing of the setting sun, plus the ocean. It was like he had his own little world, where it was either just him or Snowy.

And yet, not even that spot survived when the Black Tide arrived and destroyed everything. Every house was on fire, and the sound of its crackles mixed with the blood roaring in his ears. Someone was screaming, and he couldn't tell if it was the Black Tide creature he just killed in front of him or if it was himself.

He couldn't find anyone. Smoke covered his vision that his eyes were starting to water, and he dropped his sword somewhere. When he found Cyrene, she was in her usual spot, her oracle cards all but burnt except for the Deliverer card she clutched in her hands.

"C- Cyrene… Cyrene, wake up…" With the way his eyes were burning, he swore tears were falling down his cheeks. But with how hot everything was, his tears evaporated before they could even fall from his chin.

Cyrene was cold, but he swore she could still feel her heart beating. Maybe if he managed to drag her out and find help from… from somewhere. If he dragged her to a safe place, then the two of them would be able to make it out. It didn't matter that his arms were heavy from the amount of times he swung his sword. Even if his bones would shatter, he would drag every survivor he found if it meant keeping them safe. Or just alive.

"How very, very interesting."

His eyes widened as someone approached them. A tall man with unusually pale, almost marble white, skin, with white robes that had purple and gold embellishments, and a black blindfold that covered his eyes. He hadn't seen this man before, and he memorized every single face in Aedes Elysiae. A traveler, perhaps? But why would a traveler come to their small village?

"I had thought that I was too late when I first arrived, but then I saw you fight against the Black Tide creatures," he said. Despite the blindfold, it felt like the man could see him clearly. "You were very brave. Not everyone has the courage to use their sword like you did."

Was it truly bravery when he decided to swing his blade against everyone he knew? His mother, his father, the two children that followed him and Cyrene like ducklings, his neighbors, his teachers—was he really brave for deciding to kill them instead of trying to see if there was a way he could have saved them? If anything, he felt like a monster for taking the easy route and not thinking.

"But," the man continued, and his tone made Khaslana hold Cyrene tighter. "I believe that your situation is far from done. That girl in your arms… she is a witch, yes?"

He gulped. He heard from other witches that places outside of Aedes Elysiae didn't take witches kindly. It was why a lot of them came here to seek asylum. Their village was small, but they were willing to accept anyone who needed protection.

"She- she's my friend," Khaslana replied.

"She and the other witches that have lived here are the reason why the Black Tide has purged your home. You allowed magic to roam free, let it grow and corrupt, until it destroyed you all. That is what magic does. It grows quietly until it destroys. However…"

The man raised a hand, and it was then that Khaslana realized he was holding the sword he lost earlier. His eyes widened, and he almost scooted back. "Wh- what- what do you want me to do?"

"If you let her live, then magic will continue to flow until it will corrupt everything. You know what you need to do. Kill her, and you will be saving Amphoreus from further destruction."

He always refused to remember what happened afterwards. But even if his mind blocked the exact action, the consequences still seared itself into his brain. He could still remember his throat burning at the sight of red staining his palms and tunic, the smell of burnt pork that made him throw up and refuse to eat that meat ever again, and how confused he was when the Deliverer card somehow found its way to his palms.

When all was done, the man placed a hand on his shoulder and pulled him closer. "You did well. It is not an easy task, but it is a needed one. Will you give me your name, child?"

"Kha…"

He literally bit his tongue down, wincing at the force of his own teeth. At that moment, Cyrene's words rang in his head. The man didn't feel like a witch. He was peculiar, sure, but he didn't give off the same energy that Cyrene or the other witches in the village had. The hint of magic on him was faint, almost non-existent. Perhaps something that rubbed on him rather than something that came from him himself.

But still… Even non-witches can control you if you give them the power of your name.

"Phainon. My name… is Phainon." He didn't know where the name come from, but it was the first one that left his lips.

"Phainon. An excellent name for an excellent warrior. You may call me Lycurgus. Or Lygus if you wish." The man turned around and placed his hands behind him. "Come. Let us leave this place. I will lead you to the greatness you're destined for."

On that day, Khaslana died alongside everyone in Aedes Elysiae. And from the remaining ashes, Phainon crawled out with nothing but ashes coating his body, with the Deliverer card clutched in his palms as the only evidence that there was a boy before him.

He learned a lot of things about Lygus over the years. He was a member of the Council of Elders in the Eternal Holy City of Okhema, and the position he held was high. He wasn't a witch hunter. At least, not the type that would investigate people and see if they were witches himself. He left Okhema at least two or three months ago and traveled to Aedes Elysiae when he heard that the people there kept witches hidden from the rest of the world and hoped to show people the truth before it was too late. At least, that was what he said.

"What we witch hunters do is for the greater good. Those who doubt us might have good intentions at heart, but they do not understand that they are harming themselves in the long run. Good intentions are not enough to change the world. However, pay them no mind. They are simply unaware of the truth, but they will understand us in the end."

That was what Lygus told him the day he decided to become a witch hunter as well. Witches were an insult to the gods, whose magic was just corrupting everything beautiful one by one. His hometown, the beautiful Warbling Shores of Styxia, the Bloodbathed Battlefront of Castrum Kremnos—it didn't matter. Magic gave birth to a monster that was the Black Tide, devouring everything without satiating its voracious nature.

Even though he already followed this path, he still had his doubts about witches intentionally causing the Black Tide to destroy everything. After all, Cyrene and his teacher were witches, and they were the nicest people he ever knew. How could someone as sweet and gentle as them bring forth the type of destruction that he wouldn't wish upon his worst enemy?

"Witches will use whatever they can to deceive you," Lygus told him when he asked about it before. "No matter how innocent you remember your childhood, you must remember that these memories have no appropriate context. You don't know what their true thoughts were."

He refused to accept that fact at first. After all, who would want to believe that the most important people in their lives were deceiving them?

But as he continued his training as a witch hunter, the more that the thought just… naturally came to him. Cyrene must have lied somehow. And perhaps, even beyond the grave, the curse she planted on him still held him in a vice-like grip. Because no matter what he did, he could never find himself to throw away the Deliverer card. He always swore to himself he would do it once the Month of Gate would finally arrive. Oracle cards were a tool of witchcraft, so he should severe his ties to it. But he never did.

As the years passed, his instincts and sensitivity to magic became stronger and stronger. It came to a point where, once he felt the presence of magic from someone, he would be able to tell if that magic was from something else or from themselves. And like a sixth sense, he would always be able to know where it came from. He would be able to find the evidence in their home, or connect it to where the magic came from in the first place. He wasn't a witch; gods know how many times he asked Cyrene to teach him magic only for him to end up being a normal person. And yet, his instincts were never wrong.

"It is a gift from the gods," Lygus said when he asked about it as well. "When the gods give you a gift, you ought to use it properly. It means you're truly meant for greatness. You're following the right path. Don't look back now."

But was it really a gift? Was it really a blessing to see people die in the most painful way possible? Was it really a favor from the gods that he would wake up screaming from another nightmare? The nightmares this time weren't even because he had another dream of Cyrene taking the place of the other witches he led to their deaths this time. Sometimes, he would dream about the witch he burned last night, or their family asking him why he took them away, or even his own parents scorning at him for being a killer.

And every night, he would wake up alone, with only the Deliverer card as his comfort. He never stayed in one place long enough to make new acquaintances, and during the rare times that Lygus would visit, they didn't share the same roof. So the only thing he would do when he woke up was hold the Deliverer card and glare at it.

"This is your fault somehow," he would regularly tell it. "Why… why can't you just leave me alone? Why did you leave me alone… I don't want to be alone…."

He didn't know when everything happened. When killing witches became as natural as breathing, when he no longer hesitated to drag people out of their homes and sending them to their pyre, when he stopped sleeping with the Deliverer card next to him and always hid it at the bottom of his bags or drawers. While he did hear people curse his name, there were also those who praised him, calling him a hero. The nightmares stopped, as well as any of his dreams. He would just close his eyes, then wake up.

People had given him a new name at some point. Flame Reaver, the whispers would say. A witch hunter who had an accurate nose for witches and would help people evacuate to safety once the Black Tide could no longer be stopped. He quietly accepted the name and answered to it if someone referred to him as such. Even if he no longer believed in what Cyrene told him, he saw no use in telling people his real name. After all, Khaslana no longer existed.

He was a hero. People called him a hero. Even Lygus said that the Council of Elders in the Holy City saw him as a hero.

So why did he feel so unfulfilled? Was this what it really meant to be a hero?

His life had been monotonous for the past years now. So when Lygus relocated him from Janusopolis to Okhema, he simply nodded and accepted the task. It was a place that had a very strong resistance against the Black Tide that people saw no reason to worry about it here. But when he first stepped into its streets, the first thing he felt was the telltale sign that there was magic everywhere. No matter where he placed his hand or where he looked, there was magic that surrounded Okhema. But no matter where he looked, he could never find the source. Was it because it was faint, or was it because it was in such abundant places that it might as well not be there?

"How do you find Okhema so far?" Lygus asked him during the night he settled in.

"It's different, I suppose," he replied. "It's a lot bigger than I thought. Doesn't the seamstress Aglaea live here? Maybe I'll ask her to fix some of my old clothes.

"She does." Lygus nodded. "While you are here for your duties, I hope you'll be able to find our Holy City a comfortable place to live in. Kephale's hand has been protecting us from harm for years now. However…"

"However?"

"Do be careful with the little florist in the city. You will hear people say that they're Aglaea's child, but do not listen to those words. Aglaea merely took an orphan in. Her child is not her own, but a witch's."

"And? Not every child of a witch ends up being one as well." Gods know the amount of children he turned into orphans just because their parents were corrupted with magic. "It's unfair to punish the child for their parents' sins."

"Ah, but this one is. Their birth mother, unfortunately, provided valid arguments during her trial, so we didn't execute them when they were younger. However, they've been alive for far too long and might bring corruption to the city. Unfortunately, they're under Aglaea's protection. We cannot throw baseless accusations right now, or else she'll withdraw her support from the Council."

Lygus didn't say it, but the implications of his words was clear. Find damning evidence that Aglaea's adoptive child is a witch, and have them executed. He still stood by what he said earlier, but the proof will speak for itself. So, he nodded. "I understand."

"Do not let a witch's spawn deceive you, Phainon. You know you're better than this. You're destined for greatness. Do not walk the path of folly and throw it all away."

He had no idea where he could start investigating Aglaea or her adoptive child, but he figured he might as well do his job while thinking about a strategy. He had snuffed out four witches before he stumbled into a professor named Anaxa. A teacher, yes, but people always spoke of him as a blasphemer and said he practiced alchemy in front of his students at broad daylight. He didn't know why the man was still alive, but he still brought Anaxa to his execution.

And that night… he would never forget what happened that night. How could he? It was the night he met you. The night when things started to slowly, but surely, change.

When he found out you were Aglaea's child, he thought it was only a matter of time until he found evidence of your witchcraft. The scent of magic on you was faint that others may not be able to sense it, but it was strong enough for him to know that it was there and it was from you. He would linger in front of the tailor shop, hoping to catch you off guard, but it seemed like you always decided to stay inside longer and hide away from him. He noticed your stars when you thought he wasn't looking, how you would lower your hood or jump at the slightest movements he made. If the magic he sensed from you wasn't enough, your suspicious behavior just added another layer of evidence.

But then, that day came. He had sensed that something was off at the outskirts of Okhema and found evidence of a Black Tide creation lingering in the forests. He thought it was from you. After all, it was near your shop. But before a gryphon could attack him, you stepped in and pushed him out of the way. Fatigue was written all over your face that day. You passed out, even. But you still stepped in, even at the risk of your life and energy.

He told himself first that it was a trap. A way for you to lower his guard and lure him in, until you would corrupt him, too. He told himself to keep his guard up. That you were bewitching him. But the more time he spent with you, the more he realized that he had forgotten how to breathe for so long. He smiled again, he laughed again, he joked around again. Something he thought he no longer had the right to do so after all the blood that stained his hands. He no longer believed himself to be human, not after living in the darkness for so long. But you? You drove away the clouds and provided him a moonlight to see the path he should be taking.

He knew you would never trust him. Not after everything. So when he told you about his past on the mountain for the first time during the Month of Strife, he wasn't surprised that you didn't tell the truth yet. He couldn't blame you. How could he? You were just protecting yourself.

He didn't realize that the both of you fell asleep on the mountain. When he woke up, the skies were already turning into a lighter shade of blue, and dawn was about to rise. After muttering some curses under his breath, he carried you in his arms and returned to Okhema, making sure to stay in the alleyways so that nobody would see you both. It didn't take long for him to reach Aglaea's shop, but he would be a fool if he thought he could just walk in the front door without alerting her. So, with you on his shoulders, he climbed up the rooftops and went inside the window on the second floor.

As soon as he stepped inside, he immediately stopped and furrowed his brows. He had been in Aglaea's shop before, but never inside her home. Whenever he was there, the magic he felt was similar to the one he felt all around Okhema, so he just assumed it was that. The presence of magic was so strong that it was everywhere. But now that he was inside her home… every hair on his spine and arms stood straighter than a line.

The magic was strong here. And it was only getting stronger by the—

He just blinked, and golden threads appeared everywhere in his vision, surrounding every inch of the walls and floors. When he looked down, you were gone from his arms, and instead golden threads bound his wrists together. Another string of threads held his neck, forcing him to look up and see Lady Aglaea, pointing a large golden needle at his chest.

His eyes widened, and he held his breath. "L- Lady Aglaea? What are you doing here?"

"You have audacity to ask that in my own home." The chills he felt earlier grew colder. He had heard stories and rumors about her anger before, but he never thought he would be at the receiving end.

He couldn't look around. Not with the threads keeping him in place. No matter how hard he tried to squirm, the only thing he could move was his eyes. Even if he managed to move somehow, the threads only tightened around him. It made his eyes widen. "The magic I felt when I first came to Okhema… that was from you, wasn't it? You're a witch, too?"

"There's no point in lying about that now. Unfortunately, that also means I can't let you step outside of my home alive. My child has been through enough hell already, some of them are no thanks to you. I can't let you leave."

"W- Wait! I'm not here to cause harm, I- I just came here to bring them back to their room! I'm telling the truth, I swear. The- the both of us fell asleep somewhere outside and I came here to bring them back. I- I didn't hurt them, I promise!"

She raised a brow, but didn't step away. If anything, she placed the tip of her needle on his chest. "Forgive me for not believing you. We've spent our entire lives hiding from you lot, so I can't take any of your words at face value. But I'll give you your chance, so here's what we're going to do instead. I'll ask you a few questions. If you're telling the truth, the strings around you will remain still. If you lie, they will shake. Once I find you reliable enough, I will let you go. But if you lie to me even a single time, I will not hesitate to pierce this needle in your chest and find a way to make your death appear as an accident and not the work of a witch. Do you understand?"

He couldn't nod, so he only replied, "Y- Yes. Yes, I understand. I- I'll answer truthfully."

"Good."

She asked him basic questions. Where are you really from? How long have you been a witch hunter? Was Lygus the one who trained you personally? Were you the one who sent Anaxagoras to his death? And he answered them as accurately as he could. I'm from Aedes Elysiae. I can't remember the exact years, but I've been an official witch hunter for maybe ten or eleven years now. Yes and no; he left me alone a lot but he did train me as much as well. Yes, I was the one who sent Professor Anaxa to the pyre, and I know no apology will be able to redeem me, but I still want you to know that I am regretful of my actions.

He held his breath every time he answered one. When none of the threads vibrated, they loosened around him instead, and he would let out a sigh of relief. One by one, the threads around him disappeared, and even the ones he saw all around her house faded away.

Whenever she asked about you, his mind would stutter for a moment, and he would pause for much longer times just so he could answer the truth.

"Did you know that my child was a witch from the beginning?" she asked.

He nodded. "Yes, I did. And I did intend to have her executed until they saved me from a gryphon in the forest."

"Did you know about their mother?"

"I did. They told me about it earlier, but I was aware from the beginning as well."

"Have you told anyone about your suspicions and progress?"

"Only Lygus, as he was the one who assigned me this mission in the first place. But right now, as far as he's concerned, I'm slowing down because I told him that I feel like I could be wrong."

"You didn't… touch them inappropriately when you were together earlier, did you?"

That one made his face warm, and he swore he was incredibly red right now. "N- No, of course not! I- I'm not that kind of person, I promise!"

Eventually, the only one left was threads binding his wrists together. He lost count of the amount of times he sighed, but he did so yet again. There was one question left—or perhaps, one series of questions left—and this one scared him even more than the others.

By now, Lady Aglaea had lowered her needle, though she still held it as a precaution. "Now, last one. Is Phainon your real name?"

His eyes widened, and he froze. For the first time in perhaps years, Cyrene's warning returned to his mind. Never give your real name to anyone, witch or not. Over the years, he no longer believed in that warning of hers. But now, the woman in front of him was a witch. If someone without magic could own him if he gave them his name, what more could a powerful witch?

So, he shook his head. "No, it's not."

The thread on his wrists didn't shake. Lady Aglaea placed her free hand on her waist. "Will you give me your real name?"

"I'm sorry, but I can't."

"And why not?"

"I had a friend that always warned me to never give my real name to anyone, or else they'll have complete ownership over me. That's why I've never told anyone my real name. Not even Lygus."

"Are you aware that that belief is something that's passed down from witch to witch?"

"Yes, I am. That friend of mine was a witch."

"You were friends with a witch as a child?"

"I was, and Lygus asked me to kill her before he took me in. And… and I did."

Lady Aglaea was quiet, blue and green eyes scanning him from head to toe. But after a long while, her giant needle disappeared in a flash of gold, and the threads around his wrists loosened before fading into the same sparks. When he sighed this time, he fell to his knees, with one hand pressed on the floor while the other on his knee.

"Th- thank you," he whispered. "And… I apologize for trespassing. I just didn't want anyone to see us because I know people would accuse them of bewitching me somehow."

"Understandable." Her tone was still snappy, but it wasn't as harsh as before. "You may leave now. I'll cast a small spell on the threads so that no one will turn their head in your direction and notice you. You have five minutes before it wears off."

"W- Wait, before you kick me out!" He stood up, holding on to a pillar when he nearly slipped. "Where did you take them? And- and if I can, will you let me see them before I leave? Please?"

He flinched at her harsh stare, though he couldn't fault her for that. He still remembered being able to tell how paranoid you were of him. No doubt you told her about your fears and concerns, so she was most likely still wary about him. He was just glad that she didn't resolve to kill him before.

"Five minutes," she said as she crossed her arms. "I'll show you to their room. And when you're done, you have five more minutes before the spell on my thread wears off. Be quick."

He bowed and muttered his thanks as he followed her. When Lady Aglaea opened the door to your room, he made sure to be quiet as he approached you. You were fast asleep, chest slowly rising and falling as soft snores left your lips. It was adorable, really. He couldn't help himself but cover you with your blanket and tuck you to sleep. His fingers brushed against your cheek one last time before he stepped back.

"L- Lady Aglaea," he said once he was out of your room. "I know I have no right to ask a favor from you. After all, I've killed your people before, and my reputation isn't really the best, but… I was hoping. Will you at least let them know that they can trust me?"

She crossed her arms and shook her head. "I can't promise that. I don't know you as much as they do. Even if you answered all of my questions truthfully, that doesn't mean that we shouldn't be less wary around you."

"I see." His hands clenched into fists as he looked down. "Do you think… do you think I have a shot at redemption? Or have I gone too far now?"

"I believe that everyone can grow to become a better person. However, redemption is not forgiveness. You can be an entirely new person all you want, but that will not change your past." She placed a hand on his shoulder. "If you want to truly change, then never forget what you've done. Never forget the lives you took and the people you've hurt. They will always haunt you, no matter where you go. But just because you can never wash the blood off your hands doesn't mean you can never change. If anything, feeling shame and refusing to acknowledge what you did means that you aren't improving yourself. Accept what happened, understand that not all will welcome you into their open arms, and grow from there."

"I understand. Thank you, Lady Aglaea."

After he left, he always thought about her words every night. It kept him awake, and he would find himself sitting in front of the hearth, holding the Deliverer card, as he thought of what to do next. And after you gave him those flowers at the River of Souls, he made a decision.

Once Spirit Day would arrive, he would tell you his real name. He would drag Khaslana out of the ashes he was buried in and let him walk again.

After he accompanied you to Aglaea's house again, Khaslana sat in front of his hearth, staring at the Deliverer card again. You had weaved a new cloak for him from scratch. You didn't have to do that. He would have appreciated it if it was something Lady Aglaea already made regardless. But you went the extra mile to do this for him. He didn't just want to wear it as a cloak. He wanted to use it as a blanket. To clutch it as he slept. It was so fragrant, too. It smelled so floral, just like you.

It was a stark contrast to his old and tattered cloak on his lap. It smelled of ashes and smoke, and the ends were torn apart from the number of times it caught on to something while he was giving chase. He had pricked his fingers on the needle several times just to sew the patches and close the holes. Next to your delicate handiwork, his old cloak looked like rags.

"You were right, Cyrene," he whispered. "Giving someone your real name really does make the other person grant ownership over you."

Because Khaslana knew that, from this forth on, he was completely and utterly yours.

Without any hesitation, he tossed the old cloak into the flames.

Over the next few days, Khaslana made sure to be careful whenever he saw you again. During the morning and when everyone was awake, he would act as normal. Ask you to join him for lunch, share a meal, then walk you back to Lady Aglaea's house. He found the courage to enter the tailor shop again, so he would come by and ask for some of his clothes to be mended. Lady Aglaea would shoot him a stare, to which he would hold his breath in fear of facing her giant needle again. When the season was starting to get warmer and you were returning to your cottage, he helped you clear out the snow and fix your garden.

Sometimes, he would join you for dinner in and leave. Sometimes, he would join you in bed and keep you warm as you both slept. And in rare instances, he would find himself tangled in your body, and the two of you would wake up in the middle of the night with your hair disheveled. He made sure to be careful with marking you. If Lady Aglaea's judgemental stare wouldn't be the cause of his worries and fears, then no doubt it would be the rumors in the streets if anyone saw you both with conveniently placed bruises.

Neither of you fell asleep this time. Instead, you lied down in front of him, brushing away his hair that clung on to his sweaty forehead, while your other hand traced the tattoo on his neck.

"When did you get it?" you asked, voice somewhat hoarse.

"Sometime after I left Aedes Elysiae. My mother always used to call me her 'bright dawnlight'. So, I got the tattoo as a way to remember the nickname she used to give me. Lygus wasn't too fond of the idea, but he let me get it at least."

When you leaned forward to kiss the lines on his neck, a shiver ran down his spine. "Was there anything you did that he was proud of that doesn't involve witch hunting?"

"I… can't really remember. There's a lot of things I can't remember. Lady Aglaea told me to never forget what I did in the past if I truly want to prove that I've changed. But… so much of the same thing happened that I can't even remember everything. And I feel terrible, because I know there are people out there who'll never forget my face."

"Khaslana…"

"I still don't feel like I'm a good person. It shouldn't have taken you for me to realize that what I was doing was wrong." He grabbed your hand and pressed a soft kiss to your palm, then your fingers, then your knuckles. "But… thank you, at least. For being by my side, too."

When you scooted closer, he placed his hand on your back, pulling you even more. "If it's any help, you do look like you're changing into a better person. And understanding that not everyone will forgive you is a sign of improving to be a better person."

He chuckled and grabbed you by the waist, placing you on top of him. "You sound like Lady Aglaea."

A small laugh left your lips, and you leaned down to kiss his own. Khaslana returned your kiss, one hand on the back of your head while the other held you in place. When your hands moved to wrap around his arms, he did the same, pulling you even closer if that was possible.

If someone told him a year ago that he would be having nightly trysts with a witch, he was sure his mind would have literally exploded on the spot. Even now, he still couldn't believe it. And yet, here he was.

As the Month of Gate was slowly ending, the weather was growing warmer. Despite that, you still stayed with Lady Aglaea even though your cottage was in a state where you could live in it again. Sneaking back from your cottage to her hose was a little difficult, especially with witch hunters patrolling the streets. But the reasons you told him was… concerning.

"I'm sure you've felt the difference of magic inside and outside of it," you said.

"Is Lady Aglaea the cause of that?"

You nodded. "More specifically, her threads. She has them all around Okhema, and it protects everyone from the Black Tide. Since it's everywhere, it might be a little difficult to pinpoint where the source is coming from. That's why no one's found her out yet. But…" You scooted closer and wrapped an arm around him. "She's been doing that for almost twenty years now, and her protection is getting weaker and weaker. I'm supposed to take her place one of these days, but I don't know if I'll be able to do it. Her magic is still active even if she's asleep. Do you have any idea how powerful I have to be to do that?"

Khaslana pressed a kiss on your forehead, then your nose. "I'm sure you'll be able to do it. I haven't seen your magic in full capacity yet, but I can tell that you're powerful."

"I just wish that, instead of having to protect everyone in secret, witches can just go out and cleanse the Black Tide like how we're supposed to do so."

His heart clenched at that. "Maybe someday, you'll see a life where witches have nothing to fear anymore."

"I wish." You sighed. "I should head back before it gets late. I don't want it to get too dark."

It was almost sunset when the two of you finished getting dressed. Quite unfortunate that you weren't able to cook him dinner tonight, as he always enjoyed the stew yo made. As usual, he would walk with you in the alleyways, just to make sure that you wouldn't bump into a witch hunter or a passerby. And if you did, he would be there to say that he was watching you under the Council's orders.

Fortunately, nobody ever did. He was able to escort you back without any issues. He couldn't remember if he ever walked with a skip in his step before. But for the first time, he found himself walking back to his house with a small smile and humming a small tune.

He opened the door to his hose and took off his cloak—

"Welcome home, Phainon."

Khaslana jumped up and turned around. Lygus was sitting at the table, drinking from his bottle of ambrosia.

"L- Lygus." His brows furrowed down as he stood taller. "I- I didn't know you were coming."

"I've been coming a lot quite frequently. And whenever I'm here… you're always not home."

He clenched his hands into fists. "I apologize. I was doing investigations."

"At the outskirts of Okhema where the florist's cottage is?"

He nodded. Lying to him was almost second nature now. "I was suspicious if the corruption and sudden surge of the Black Tide's activity is connected to them, so I've been investigating the area near their home. It's what you told me to do, isn't it?"

"And did you find anything?"

If he asked that question months ago, Khaslana would have said yes. In fact, he wouldn't have even strung you along. He would have told you to come with him to the temple, tell the Council about his findings, and have you executed by night. This conversation would have never happened, because it would never even reach this point.

But instead, he shook his head. "No. I think I've been wrong this entire time. I don't think the florist is a witch. They're just a regular person whose mother happened to be one. That's… that's an unfortunate regular thing."

He looked down, hoping that Lygus couldn't hear how his heart was pounding in his chest. He had lied to him before. Hell, Lygus didn't even know his real name. But he never thought the day would come where he would protect a witch.

It was hard to tell if he was convinced or not. After all, he always wore that blindfold that covered half of his face. Khaslana never knew why, but he never bothered to ask. He just assumed he always put it on so nobody could tell what his actual thoughts were. Because clearly, he wasn't wearing it because he was blind.

"I see. Very well, then." He stood up and sighed. "I trust your word. It seems like our eyes were on the wrong person, then."

Good. "Thank you. We shouldn't accuse anyone of witchcraft just because someone in their family was involved in it. I'm sure the treatment they experienced over the years was unjust and undeserved."

"It is. After all, I did say that our eyes were on the wrong person. If they're not the witch, then that means Aglaea is."

Khaslana's eyes widened, and it felt as if someone poured cold water all over him. Still, he furrowed his brows. At least if he looked mad, it would be a reasonable anger. "Lady Aglaea? You mean the Council's wealthiest benefactors? Where is this accusation coming from?"

"You've mentioned before that the florist has a strong trace of magic on them, did you not?"

"I did. And I'm most likely wrong. The magic surrounding Okhema is thick that it might have just clung to them stronger because their mother was a witch. This doesn't explain why Lady Aglaea's one."

"The magic around them still has to come from somewhere. And the witch hunters I've stationed to investigate her house have confirmed that there's a strong presence of magic there."

He gritted his teeth. That was a lie. During the entire time he stayed outside of Aglaea's house to watch over you, the magic he felt was just like the magic in all of Okhema. It took him entering the house itself to realize that the magic was extremely strong. And even then, Lady Aglaea was able to stop him immediately. If someone really did go inside Aglaea's house to investigate, she would have found a way to get rid of them sooner or later. Even in the event that it didn't happen, you would have told him about it. But it was never a conversation you two had.

But telling Lygus that meant exposing both you and her. Calling him out on his lie meant that he knew the truth. So instead, he crossed his arms. "I don't understand. Why would a witch provide money to the temple and the Council if they're against the gods?"

"To avoid suspicion." Lygus didn't even look at him as he said that. "It is that exact thought process why she hasn't been caught yet. But the act of a witch giving their money to the Council is insulting to the gods. It is bribery. It is as if she thinks we're greedy enough to accept her hush money and turn a blind eye. And I'm afraid it's been working her entire life."

He needed to calm down. If he panicked, then he would put both you and Lady Aglaea in an even bigger risk. He needed to convince Lygus that he was wrong. "You better be sure of this evidence. Lady Aglaea is important to everyone in Okhema. So to falsely accuse her of witchcraft with no basis… it's a blasphemous act itself. I'll investigate this claim of yours, and if I don't find any proof—"

"That won't be necessary. As I've said before, I've had witch hunters investigate her and her home, and we have evidence. You need not worry about doing any more work. You deserve to rest after spending half a year chasing after the wrong lead."

Oh. So that was it, wasn't it? That condescending tone, the fact that he lied about having hunters investigate Aglaea, the mere fact that he accepted his claims easily… he understood what this meant. Lygus didn't have evidence against Lady Aglaea, this was punishment against him. He must have realized why he actually went out and disappeared during the night. And when he wasn't satisfied with the results of the "investigation"….

The thought of Lady Aglaea dying made his heartbeat pick up. She was the reason why he knew what path to take in redeeming himself. She was the reason why Okhema was still safe from the Black Tide. She was the reason why you were still alive. Oh gods… you. How would you even react if you found out about this? Lady Aglaea raised you when the Council killed your mother. He didn't want to imagine what would happen if you realized they were about to take your second one.

"Enough dilly dally," Lygus said, snapping him out of his thoughts. He picked up his cloak from the chair and put it on. "Let's go."

"Go?" He blinked. "Go where?"

"I told Caenis that we arrest Aglaea as soon as we can. The earlier we get rid of a witch, the better. Every second that she's alive is a second that the Black Tide catches up to us. Or, do you want a repeat of Aedes Elysiae?"

Bastard. "You don't know what you're doing."

"And you do? Come now, Phainon. If you want the little florist safe, you follow me."

Damn him, damn him, damn him! He didn't know what to do. If he ran to Lady Aglaea's house first, then no doubt Lygus would hurt you as well. But if he followed, then you would lose Lady Aglaea. He needed a plan, but what could he even do? How could he even make sure that the both of you were safe without alerting anyone in the Council?

"Phainon." Lygus' voice was sharper this time. The same tone he used whenever Khaslana disobeyed his orders or did anything he didn't like. Even though he was already twenty-six, that tone always made him flinch.

He sucked in a sharp breath. He couldn't think of a plan that didn't involve anyone getting hurt. None of you could escape Okhema and run away. Not unless you wanted the Black Tide to devour everyone here. And if Lygus would hurt you, Khaslana would never forgive himself. And if both of you and Lady Aglaea died, then Okhema would go down as well.

The only thing he could do was look down and sigh. "Yes, Lygus. I'm coming."

He needed a plan. But right now, he couldn't come up with anything. He just hoped he would be able to save you both in time.

VIII. Look Me Right In The Eyes

In your years of learning magic, Aglaea and Professor Anaxa taught you a lot of spells. You could never remember when learned how to do when, especially since some spells were so basic that you were sure you learned about them in an earlier time. But the one that you always remembered learning about was the spell that protected Okhema from the Black Tide. You remembered the night she showed you her golden threads for the first time and told you why the barrier was necessary. And the day after that, Professor Anaxa expressed his own thoughts about the spell. You still remembered what he said that day.

"If you ask me, I'd rather you not worry about protecting Okhema by yourself and would prefer to see a life where everyone can cleanse the Black Tide instead. But unfortunately, such a future is still out of reach. Let's just hope this placeholder task will last us long enough."

It was a shame that he never got to see that life he dreamed of. But hopefully, you and Aglaea would. Hopefully, you would see the day where neither of you had to fear using your magic any more, and that you would be able to appropriately fight against the Black Tide instead of fearing your deaths and worrying that nobody would be able to protect everyone from its danger.

For the entirety of the Month of Gate, you had been practicing the spell with Aglaea. She had told you that you would be replacing her within a year or two, but practicing the spell wouldn't hurt. And if she helped you hone your skills now, the transition would be smoother instead of you suddenly having to put up a powerful and difficult spell.

You remembered her telling you that the appearance of the protection would vary from witch to witch. While hers took on golden threads that nobody could see, your constant practice showed that yours took the form of plants flowers. It didn't matter if they weren't supposed to bloom this early, too. The corners of your room now had bushes and shrubs of different flowers.

"You've been improving with your control over it lately," Aglaea said as she plucked a bunch of violets and yarrow from the corner of your room. "Perhaps if you take over my duties during a Month of Cultivation, then we won't have to worry about people wondering why flowers are blooming out of season. They might just assume that it's the God of the Earth's blessing."

"It's a little exhausting, though," you said as you sat on the bed with a sigh. "I'm already drained having to do this for my room. I can't imagine having to take over for Okhema."

She chuckled as she sat down next to you. "I remember having the same thoughts when I was younger. My teacher's patron month was the Month of Gate, and she had to renew it every new year. Because of that, there were no signs of the Black Tide anywhere, as if she had banished them. I forced myself to learn the ways of Janus, but in the end, Mnestia was the one who spoke to me. It was frightening to find out that the Black Tide started appearing as soon as I took over. I also worried that I wouldn't be powerful enough."

"It's hard to imagine you like that." You grabbed the flowers from her hands and pressed your palms against them. The stems slowly connected with each other, turning into a flower crown. "You always make magic look so easy."

She lowered her height a little, allowing you to place the flower crown on top of her head. The violets were a stark contrast to her blonde hair and white and gold dress, but the yarrow's earthy colors suited her perfectly.

"I'm sure your successor will think of you the same way." She pressed a kiss to your forehead. "And I'm sure that you'll also have this conversation. And so on, and so on. But I have more faith that you'll be able to live in a world where you'll no longer need an apprentice, and you and other witches will be able to cleanse the Black Tide instead."

A sigh left your lips, and you rested your head on her shoulder. "Hopefully."

Before any of you could say another word, there was a knock on the door. You sat up, confused. Visitor? At this late hour? Could you have forgotten something and Khaslana came here to return it? Or perhaps it was a client that was pretending to be unsatisfied with something and was deciding to rip the Lady Aglaea off.

Aglaea's brows furrowed down as she stood up. "Stay behind me."

"Of- of course. Do you feel something off? Is everything alright?"

"No, I don't think it is."

There was knocking again. You followed Aglaea down the stairs and went into the shop. Whoever was on the other side knocked again, this time stronger than before. It was angrier, almost as if they were planning to break your door if Aglaea didn't open it any time soon.

You paused in your tracks, eyes wide. This felt… familiar. For a brief moment, you weren't in Aglaea's shop. You were ten years old, sitting at your cottage's dining area. For a moment, Aglaea wasn't Aglaea, but your mother reaching for the door to open it.

But when she opened the door, Caenis was still Caenis. She still stepped inside the shop, just like how she stepped inside of your home. And she raised her finger, the same way she did, and pointed at Aglaea, muttering the same words she told your mother twelve years ago.

"Witch, you are under arrest for suspicions of witchcraft. You can either come with us in peace and unharmed, or we'll use force to take you with us. Either way, you can't escape."

Not again. Not again, not again, not again.

Don't speak. Keep your mouth quiet and do not speak. Aglaea had prepared you for this day. Professor Anaxa had prepared you for this day. Your mother had prepared you for this day. Every witch you knew prepared you for this day. You knew what to do. Just act surprised like everyone else, and then late fate decide if the newly accused would live or die.

But this was the same scenario. The only difference was that it wasn't in your cottage. Instead, it was Aglaea's house, right in front of her shop. There was a part of you that still wanted to clamp your mouth shut. To literally bite your tongue until it bled. If someone was accused of witchcraft, the most important part was to keep yourself safe.

If you died, Aglaea would have to carry the burden of protecting Okhema all by herself again. If both of you died, then the Black Tide would destroy everyone. At least if Aglaea died, you would be here to continue your job.

You didn't know why, but you took one step. And another, and another, and another. You were sure you would have ran to Aglaea if it weren't for the fact that you felt something grab your feet and keep you in place. When you looked down, there was a faint shimmer of gold. Aglaea was keeping you down.

You lifted your head and gasped. "Please, don't. Caenis, Caenis, don't—"

"So, the witch's spawn is here, too." Caenis scoffed. "Unfortunately, I'm not here for you. So you either stay in place, or I'll have no choice but to bring you as well."

"Caenis," Aglaea hissed. "I'm not a fool. I know why you and your… entourage are here."

"If you're not a fool, then you should also know what to do next."

She crossed her arms and sighed. "I do. I'll comply with the Council in peace."

"Aglaea!" You called out, but you still couldn't move. In fact, the more you did, the tighter the threads became. "Aglaea, please, don't! Don't do this!"

Tears were starting to form in your eyes, and you could feel them running down your cheeks. By the time the threads in your ankles finally let you go, they were already out of the shop. It didn't matter if it was still cold or if there was a crowd that had gathered outside. You didn't go back to grab a cloak. Instead, you bolted outside, trying to catch up to the Council. Your lungs burned, heart ached, head spun, but you had to catch up.

Not again… not again.

Just as you were about to take another step, someone tackled you to the ground, but they held you before your face could hit the dirt. You tried to squirm, but they grabbed you by the wrists and kept your hands on your back.

"Let me go! Let me—"

"Don't move." Khaslana's voice. You couldn't see him properly, but you could feel him move closer to your ear as he whispered, "Please… don't move. If you go against the Council, they'll hurt you, too. Just- just stay here. I'll take you back inside and keep you safe."

But even he wasn't enough to keep you still. Even if it was him pinning you down, you squirmed in his grasp. It was still the Month of Gate, it was still cold, but you were somehow sweating as you fought back. "Let me go! Do you know who they're taking?! Caenis! Caenis, p- please, don't take her! Caenis!"

Caenis paused for a moment, but she turned around and walked towards you. Her slow steps felt like they were mocking your heart for beating so fast. Twelve years had passed, but the same scenario played again. Her brows furrowed down and lips curled into a scowl. You had seen that expression before—she shot you the same disdainful glare when you were ten. You could still remember how she was the first person you grabbed and begged would listen to you.

And just like before, the same words left your lips.

"P- Please… Please don't do this." Your voice cracked as you tried to shake Khaslana away from you. "Aglaea is an innocent woman. She's- she's not what you think she is!"

"Innocent?" A scoff left Caenis' lips, and she crossed her arms. "Do you take me for a fool? The fact that she took in a witch's child already makes her compliant. Now, she's bewitched our own people and bribed them with money to stay silent. People's greed is the only reason why nobody ever reported her."

That was a lie and you both knew that. Nobody was aware of the fact that Aglaea was a witch. She only used her magic inside the comfort of her own home, where nobody would be able to detect it, and the barrier around Okhema was so powerful it was overwhelming. Nobody would be able to pinpoint it was from her. The only reason you could come up with as to why they were arresting her was because of spite against you for still being alive.

"What proof do you even have?!" you yelled, and Khaslana had to pull you back. "Aside from Professor Anaxa, who announced to the world that he was a witch—and you didn't kill him immediately, by the way—what proof do you have for other people you burned at the stake?! Do you have any idea how many innocent people you all have killed? How do you sleep at night knowing that you've torn apart families, d- destroyed lives, and for what?! You don't even know what the Black Tide is and that—"

A sharp sting of pain rushed through your cheeks. When you opened your eyes, Caenis was in front of you, hand raised in the air and palm red. Her fingers immediately curled into a tight fist as she gritted her teeth. "You… you audacious brat. You should be grateful that you're still alive after twelve years when we should have killed you alongside your mother. Flame Reaver, take them away!"

Before Khaslana could move or say a word, a flash of white and gold appeared behind Caenis. Aglaea grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around. Just as Caenis was about to speak, Aglaea raised her hand and slapped Caenis with the back of it.

You rarely saw Aglaea angry. Whenever she was, it was always directed at people who would harm you. The children who would throw you fruits at the market while making up nursery rhymes to bully you, or a witch hunter that would leer at you during an execution. Every single time, she would just glare back at them, and they would either be quiet or mutter curses before leaving.

Right now, you didn't know if you could describe her as angry. Aglaea's brows were furrowed down, eyes almost glowing from anger. Her hand was still raised, while you could tell that the other one clutching Caenis' arm was tightening. Even when she groaned in pain, Aglaea never let go.

"I agreed to come with you in peace, did I not?" Aglaea hissed, and you could almost see the gold threads appearing in her fingers. "I came with you without any arguments, and your witch hunter already held my child down. However, if you lay another finger on my child, I will refuse to comply peacefully and make sure that this will be as difficult as possible for you. But if you leave them and Phainon alone, then I'll continue to comply quietly."

Not again… "Aglaea, y- you don't have to do this. You're innocent, you know that!"

She was giving you that look again. The same look she gave you when you first agreed to live with her, when she found you crying in the middle of the night because of a nightmare, or whenever she would hold you close and kiss your forehead as if you were her actual child. Her brows slightly raised, and her lips curled into a soft smile. For a brief moment, the image of Aglaea burning to death with that smile flashed in your mind, but you immediately squashed it down before it could fully play.

"Everything will be fine, my darling. Procedures are… procedures, no matter how unpleasant they may be. Phainon, please keep them safe in the meantime. I trust that you will." Her soft expression dissolved as soon as she mirrored Caenis' glare. "I think I made myself clear then, Caenis? Or must I repeat my words slowly this time so they'll have time to reach your head?"

"I heard you the first time," Caenis snapped back as she rubbed her reddening cheek. "Someone cuff this woman before she hurts someone else again."

As a witch hunter approached Aglaea, you tried squirming again. Unfortunately, Khaslana only dragged you away as he helped you stand up. Even when you slapped his shoulders or kicked his legs, he just tightened his grip on you. "Please, just- just follow me. They'll drag you with them if you try anything."

"At least- at least let me talk to her one last time." Even though he refused to let you go, you couldn't be mad at him. This was for your own safety, and anyone would have done the same. "Aglaea—at least- at least let me talk to her! Aglaea! Aglaea!"

You wanted to look away. You didn't want to watch as a witch hunter harshly bound her wrists together and dragged her alongside them. You just wanted to close your eyes and breathe. That way, when you opened them, you would realize that this was all a bad dream. It didn't matter if your heart was in thirty-three million pieces from how painful that dream was. You would rather it be shattered than watch a witch hunter block Aglaea from your sight.

After a while of squirming, you had finally pushed Khaslana away from you, but you didn't even manage to take two steps before falling to your knees. You couldn't see the witch hunter that blocked Aglaea anymore. They had blended with the crowd of people that exited their homes and wondered what was going on. Their whispers reached your ears, but you couldn't hear what they were saying. Not when your own heart pounding so loudly it filled your ears.

You fell to your hands as your sobs grew louder. Why? Why did they have to take her? Why did this have to happen again? Why were the gods so cruel to you and your people? What did you ever do to deserve this?

When you felt something warm on your shoulders, you looked up. Khaslana placed his cloak over your shoulders and knelt next to you. "Let's get you inside," he whispered. "It's cold. Let's at least get you warmed up."

If you had the energy, you would have pushed him away and ran after them again. Let Caenis slap you as many times as she wanted—you weren't about to let the Council of Elders take another mother from you. But any energy you saved from your practice earlier was already gone. Instead, you accepted Khaslana's hand. He pulled the hood up and kept your head down, taking you away from the prying eyes of the crowd.

Once you were back inside, he grabbed some flatbread and olive oil dip and sat with you in front of the fire. If he was talking to you, you couldn't hear his words. Instead, you just stared at the hearth. The flames felt like they were mocking you, reminding you of what happened to your mother twelve years ago and what was about to happen to Aglaea now.

Despite sitting in front of the fireplace, despite Khaslana putting a blanket over your shoulders, and despite the freshly heated flatbread in your hands… Aglaea's beautiful house was dull and cold.

"I'm- I'm sorry," Khaslana whispered, and you could hear the slight crack in his voice. "I'm so- I'm so sorry. They don't have evidence against her. This- this is just Lygus' way of punishing me. He figured out that I've been seeing you, and… I'm so sorry. My recklessness got you both hurt."

"She knew." The words left your lips before you could even properly think them through. "Aglaea knew that this was how she was going to die someday. In fact, all of us knew that this was how we were going to die. Professor Anaxa, my mother… even me."

But you still didn't think it would happen so soon. You thought you would have been ready for the day they would take Aglaea from you. You had hoped you would be older when that day came, that you would already have a successor you were training to take your place. You thought you had more time. You thought you would be ready.

Why did they have to take everyone you loved away from you?

After a while of silence, Khaslana held your hand and squeezed it. "Is there… is there any way I can help you? I can try and convince the Council to spare her. Lygus doesn't have evidence, so I'll use that to prove her innocence."

"Please."

It was an unrealistic wish, something even ten-year-old you knew was impossible the moment they took your mother away from you. The only reason why you were spared was because you didn't have the misfortune of being plucked from the streets and dragged to the Marmoreal Temple.

And the reason why that never happened was because Aglaea protected you. Aglaea saved you from living in the streets and being accused. Aglaea did everything she could do and more for you. You knew no amount of prayers could make Mnestia themself come out and spare the witch that had been nothing but loyal to them for years. but surely you could, right? The least you could do was save her the same way she saved you.

"Okay." He nodded. "I'll go there right now. I'll do everything to convince them. I won't let hem hurt her. Will you be fine without me here?"

"I will. I'll feel much better knowing that you're there for her." You wrapped your arms around him and pulled him in for a hug. "Thank you, Khaslana."

"Of course." He returned the hug before parting. "I know it's… difficult right now, but try to get some rest, at least. I'm sure Lady Aglaea wouldn't want you to stay up all night worrying about her."

He was right, it was difficult. As soon as he left, you paced all around the house. Your fingers were itching to do something, anything. You wanted to claw your skin out, wanted to rip something to shreds, wanted to let your magic run wild just so you could find a way to release the restlessness inside of you. In the end, the only thing you could do was retreat to your room and kneel by your windowsill seat, folding your hands together in a prayer.

It didn't matter which god was listening right now—you didn't care if Zagreus would reply by making you wake up and realize this was nothing but a bad dream and you had a heart attack for nothing. You didn't care if it was Nikador, who would respond to your prayer by having the Council have an internal argument and giving Aglaea time to escape. You didn't care if Thanatos would kill everyone in the Marmoreal Temple or your gentle god, Georios, would shatter the earth and break the prison they kept Aglaea in. You would even accept whatever trials Talanton would subject you to if it meant balancing the scales of Aglaea's freedom.

You didn't care which god would listen. You just prayed a god would listen. Prayed that a god, any god, would finally take pity on you and your people who were being killed just because of what they were born as. That for once, they would turn an eye to the suffering you were all experiencing.

You must have fallen asleep, as when you woke up, the moon was long gone and the sun was rising in the sky. But it didn't feel like you slept. If anything, you must have spent the entire night crying in your sleep. For a brief moment, you had hope that it was all a nightmare. Perhaps Zagreus answered your prayers and woke you up from your bad dream. But it didn't take a second for you to understand that it was all reality. You couldn't feel the threads of her magic that surrounded her house.

You were hungry, but you didn't have the energy to cook. And stepping outside of the house meant hearing everyone gossip about last night. You already knew what they were going to say. Lady Aglaea's a witch? What does that mean for the clothes she made for us? Should I burn them all to save me, then? What about her child? That child must be a witch, too, if both of their mothers are witches. Why is the Council not arresting the florist yet, then?

Just thinking about it made your head ache and stomach growl even louder. But you didn't move. You just sat on your floor, staring at the walls and waiting for time to tick by.

How was Aglaea doing right now? Did she manage to sleep properly last night? Did Khaslana not leave her side? Did she manage to eat? You pinched the air to grab her golden threads. They were still a bright gold, but it did little to make you sigh in relief. If the worst were to happen… were you really ready to take her place?

When you closed your eyes, you were somewhere else. You weren't in your room, worrying about Aglaea's safety. Instead, you were a child again, first learning about the spell that protected Okhema from the Black Tide. You were asking both Aglaea and Professor Anaxa on their thoughts about the spell, and they were telling you about their hopes.

"Who knows? Perhaps in the future, you'll be able to change Okhema and gather enough powerful witches to finally clean the Black Tide."

"If you ask me, I'd rather you not worry about protecting Okhema by yourself and would prefer to see a life where everyone can cleanse the Black Tide instead."

Even back then, you had doubts you would reach that life. But now, it didn't just feel so out of reach, it felt impossible.

It must have been high noon when you heard someone knock downstairs. You slowly stood up, your head spinning as you checked your window to see who it was. At the sight of an unfamiliar person, however, you scoffed and scowled. Was that person from the Council? Were they here for you, too? No matter. If this witch hunter came to harm you, you would have no choice but to harm them. And worst case scenario…

You shook your head. No, you needed to stop thinking like this. Just because you were angry didn't mean you had to resort to drastic measures. You weren't like the Council who killed people just because you didn't like them.

Still, being cautious never hurt. You went down the stairs, ready to use your magic to protect yourself if needed. When you opened the door, the witch hunter in front of you lifted her head to meet your gaze. She looked young, perhaps around your age or a little older. Her soft blue eyes met your gaze, and she placed her hand on her chest as she smiled.

Wait… this wasn't a witch hunter. You'd seen her around before, and if you recalled she was also one of Professor's Anaxa's students. You two didn't interact as much, but you knew she worked as an apothecary in the Council.

"You are… Hyacinthia, yes?" you asked.

"You may call me Hyacine," she said, voice soft and sweet. "I apologize if this feels too sudden, but I promise I'm not here to hurt you. Actually, Lord Phainon asked me to check on you and send a message as well. He's busy watching over Lady Aglaea right now, so he can't come to you personally."

Your relief was small. You were still suspicious of anyone that worked for the Council, even if Khaslana himself trusted them. But at the same time, the thought of him protecting Aglaea did ease your shoulders a little. You didn't mind that he wasn't here right now. At least he was with her.

"You… you said Khas—Phainon sent a message as well. What did he say?"

"Lord Phainon asked me to escort you to the Marmoreal Temple so you'll have the chance to talk to Lady Aglaea." She placed a hand on her chest. "He also told me that you most likely don't trust me right now, and even I don't blame you for being suspicious. Have you… ever told anyone the fortune you received in your lucky cookie during spirit day?"

"No, just him and Aglaea."

"That's good to hear. Lord Phainon told me to repeat to you what your fortune was, so you'll know that he was truly the one that sent me. And I believe he said, 'The warmth you've always known will grow cold, but you will not see the fire die out.' That's correct, isn't it?"

You nodded, this time allowing yourself to sigh. While you didn't know if you could fully trust Hyacine, the fact that Khaslana was the one who sent her was enough. "Will you… give me some time to prepare myself, at least? I'm really nervous right now, and I'm not sure if anyone in the temple would appreciate it if they saw me."

"Of course! I'll be here outside once you're ready."

With one final nod, you entered the house again. You couldn't go there looking haggard and dreadful. If anyone from the Council saw you, especially Caenis, then you were certain they would feel satisfied with what you looked like. And not to mention that Aglaea would be worried sick at the sight of you. She was already rotting in the dungeons, the least you could do was show her that you were stronger than this. In the event that you had to take her place as Okhema's sole protector, you would be able to handle yourself, and she wouldn't worry if you were strong enough to do it.

After washing yourself, you put on your favorite outfit that Aglaea made for you. The one where she would readjust the measurements so you could always wear it, and use her magic when adjustments were no longer possible. Maybe if you wore this, you would have the same confidence she always had whenever she faced the Council. And if you were going to part again, you would still feel her presence, as if she was holding you at this very moment.

Deep breaths… Once you were finished dressing up, you locked the door to the house and followed Hyacine to the Marmoreal Temple. As expected, it was dreadful. People were staring at the both of you, but you could tell most eyes were on you. Most of them were whispering to each other, sharing gossip that you already knew the contents of. Most doubted that Aglaea was a witch, and that you somehow managed to pin the blame on her. Others laughed, a little too loudly, almost like it was on purpose.

"If it provides any comfort," Hyacine whispered, making you turn to face her. "I understand what you're going through right now, more than you think. My great, great grandmother was also a witch, and my family's still facing scrutiny despite the years that have passed."

It was strange… but it did comfort you a little. You knew that there were lots of people out there who had lost their family members to the witch hunts who then turned to the Council to find work. But despite choosing the "correct path" that the Council always preached for everyone to follow, they still scorned those they deemed beneath them.

"I'm sorry to hear that," you whispered back. "Nothing's enough for them, is it?"

"Unfortunately." The smile on her face faded slightly, but it returned as she looked at you again. "Please know that, whether you or Lady Aglaea are witches, you still have my full support, and I will keep my lips sealed. Nobody deserves to die, especially not because of who they were born as."

Somehow, you managed to smile back. "Thank you, Hyacine. I'm glad to know that not everyone shares the same thought as the Council."

It was unfortunate that the people who didn't share the same sentiments as the both of you were a majority of the Council. But at the very least, the thought of knowing you weren't alone was enough to ease your restless heart.

Once you reached the Marmoreal Temple, you gulped. It was tempting to keep your head low, to hide yourself from everyone else, but you knew that it would make more people look at you. So instead, you watched as Hyacine talked to the guards and other witch hunters and convinced them to let you in. When one of them raised a brow at you, you clenched your hands into fists and remained standing tall. You only released the breath that you had been holding once the two of you were in the dungeons, away from the eyes of the people.

Despite the fact that it was the middle of the day, the dungeons were dark. The torches were few and far between, and the scent almost made you throw up. It didn't just reek, it smelled faintly of death. No doubt the people that didn't get executed just slowly died here, and no one thought of giving their rotting corpses a proper burial. Instead, they all died and decomposed all alone in the darkness.

After a while of walking, Khaslana's familiar figure finally appeared in your view. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed and eyes staring right ahead. The torchlight allowed you to see the dark circles under his eyes and his messy white hair. Whenever his eyes would close, he would immediately open them and stand tall again, before shaking his head.

Hyacine stopped, making you stop as well. "Lord Phainon. We're here."

Khaslana's head snapped up once again. When his eyes met yours, they widened, which only made his fatigue more obvious. There was a bruise on his cheek. One that you swore wasn't there last night. He cleared his throat and nodded. "Thank you, Hyacine. I- I owe you one after this. Will you give us some space, please?"

"Of course." With one last smile, Hyacine nodded and left.

As soon as she was gone, you wrapped your arms around Khaslana, burying your face in his chest as you gripped his shirt. "Th- Thank you. Thank you for protecting her."

"Of course. I'll open her cell and continue to keep guard. You can go inside and meet her."

Once you parted from Khaslana, you took a deep breath and faced Aglaea's cell…. and you swore your heart was going to shatter. Aglaea, the most beautiful in all of Okhema, the one who taught you how to dress yourself and making you feel beautiful as well, the one who adorned herself with her finest fabrics and the most intricate accessories, sat in a dingy cell with the only light being from the torches. Fortunately, it didn't look like they had whipped her back. You would break even more if they hurt her that far.

"A- Aglaea!"

She perked up and turned around. You couldn't stop the gasp from leaving your lips as you run to her and knelt down. You didn't want to imagine how she got the bruise and scar near her lips. But at the same time, you wanted to find out who did this to her. To curse them down and hurt them the same way they hurt you. But despite the anger burning in your heart, you could only choke out a sob as your thumb brushed against the wounds.

"My darling," she whispered, voice hoarse and dry. "You're here… Thank you for bringing her in."

"Of course." Khaslana nodded as he inserted the key inside the lock. "Take all the time that you need. If anyone tries to bother you both, I'll deal with them. Don't worry about me."

The cell door creaked open, and you immediately stood up to run inside. Before you could open your arms, Aglaea already pulled you in for a hug, pressing a kiss on your forehead and cheek before letting you rest your chin on her shoulders. You kissed her shoulder as well, and you tightened the hug even more.

"You're okay," you whispered. "I'm- I'm glad to know you're mostly okay. They- they didn't hurt you too much, did they? Have you eaten? Did- did you drink water? Do you need anything?"

"Shh… I'm alright, my darling. Khaslana protected me from harm and provided me with food and water." When she parted the hug from you, she wiped your tears with her thumb and let her hand rest on your cheek. "Let's sit down for a while, alright? You need to catch your breaths."

You couldn't help but feel embarrassed as you both sat down. She was the one who was all alone in a cell, she was the one who had her execution to worry about, and yet you were the one crying. How were you supposed to protect Okhema if you were no different from a child?

It was times like this that you wished you devoted yourself to Oronyx and not Georios. If you did, you would be able to freeze time right now. You would have every second in the world to tell her everything, to tell her what you had wanted to say ever since she took you in. All of your regrets, the secrets you kept from her, your future plans you had to surprise her. You still wanted her to see the future she and every witch dreamed of. A life where witches could use magic freely without fear of death.

But time was the most cruel god of them all. It was constantly moving, never letting anyone wait or catch up to it.

"Child," she whispered after a while. "I'm sorry, but… the Council has decided. They'll be executing me tonight."

Your eyes widened. If you weren't sitting down, you were sure you would have fallen to your knees and hyperventilated. Your vision was becoming even blurrier now, and no amount of wiping your eyes was able to stop the tears from falling. You kept wiping them, anyway. You didn't want to lose her from your sights. If this was the last time you would see her—you shook your head. No, no. You wouldn't even finish that thought.

Instead, you shook your head. "That's- that's not true. That can't be true. They have no evidence that you're a witch. What's- what's their basis? Who decided this?! I'm going to—"

"I confessed."

For the second time, you froze. If you weren't in the temple dungeons right now, you would have laughed. It was such an absurd thought. "Why- why would you confess? No, you're lying. They- they must have lied to you. They must have manipulated you somehow to say you're a witch. We- we can still save this. I can- I can still save you!"

Why were you the one crying? You weren't the one who was about to die right now. You weren't the one who was going to slowly burn to death. You were still alive, and you would continue to live. So why were you the one gripping Aglaea's arm as if it would change your fate?

"Please…" Even when you whispered, your voice still cracked. "Please let me save you."

And as always, Aglaea never got mad at you. You were never the subject of her wrath. Instead, she looked at you with a smile. Even with the bruise on her face, she was still so soft and gentle.

"I'm sorry. I had to tell them I was the witch. It was either me or you. And you remember what I said, do you not?"

Unfortunately, you did. "That if things take for the worse… then know you'll do whatever I can to protect me and take my place instead."

"And you need to live. You're still young, you have so much of the world to see and experience. I'm growing older and weaker now. It would not be a lost on the world if I'm gone."

"But- but it would be a lost to me… I would lose you…"

You couldn't even be angry. While a part of you wanted to lash out at her decisions, you couldn't find it in your heart to do so. Not after the patience she showed you for half of your life. While you hated it, you understood what she meant. Your death would be an even bigger cruelty and selfishness on your part. It would be easier and better if she was the one who died. No matter how much you hated it.

"I wish we could run away right now," you managed to say after your sobs subsided. "I don't care how unrealistic it is. I just… I want us to live without worrying about anyone dying early."

"Oh, my darling… you have so many wishes that I wish you would be able to realize. I'm so sorry you live in a world like this. You deserved so much better."

You allowed the selfish part of yourself to hug her tighter, even if you knew it would hurt her a little. You didn't want to let her go. Not now, not ever. What if the next time you opened your eyes, she would be gone from your arms? What if you would never be able to hold her again? "I don't want to lose you to them. Not- not you, too…"

A sigh left from her lips. When the two of you parted from the hug, she placed her hand on your cheek, wiping away more of your tears. Despite the fact that she never stopped working as the city's seamstress, despite the fact that even in her sleep, her magic was active, her hands were always soft. You remembered the first time she held your face like this as a child. You remembered asking her how she always managed to keep her hands so soft while yours were always dirty after playing with the dirt. And she would laugh before teaching you the proper way to care for your skin.

You couldn't imagine living a day where she was no longer with you.

"Child," Aglaea whispered, making you look up. How she was able to look so calm and collected right now amazed you. "I need you to listen to me. I know you feel as if you aren't ready to take my place. But the scales aren't turning to our favor, and I highly doubt that their final verdict will change. In the event that it will not… please. You know what you must do."

You sucked in a sharp breath and sniffled. "You- you told me that we would never be ready when this day comes and I'll just grow to adapt to it… but I'm still scared that I'll never get used to it."

"I know. I know. But know that, even if I'll be gone from this world, know that I've never left your side. I'm always here for you, as is Anaxagoras and your parents. We will always watch and guide you. You're never alone, so do not let them feel as if it is just you against the world. Do you understand?"

You didn't want to say yes. Saying yes meant accepting the fact that they would take another person away from you, accepting the fact that you would let the Council's cruelty win again. You didn't know why you had to understand the Council's rule rather than being able to live a life of peace.

She must have sensed your hesitation, as she held your hands together. Before you could ask, golden threads of her magic appeared in her hands, circling both of your wrists before manifesting into something else. The threads wrapped around each other, weaving a circle, until the flower crown you made for her last night appeared in both of your hands.

"Here," she whispered as she placed it on top of your head. It didn't just feel heavy, it also hurt. If anything, it didn't feel like it was made of flowers. Rather, it felt more like thorns were piercing itself through your skull. Even though you knew it was just your imagination, it still surprised you that you didn't see blood on your fingers when you wiped your forehead.

"If you ever feel alone and need my help," she continued, "just hold on to that, and I will answer the call."

Behind you, Khaslana knocked on the cell door. "I'm sorry, but… but Caenis is coming."

Caenis? Already? It was too soon! And the fact that she was here… did that mean…

"Go, my darling." She grabbed you by the wrists as the both of you stood up. "Don't let them see you fall. If you feel like you'll break at the execution, then do not watch. Do not let them know that they affect you."

Before you left, you wrapped her in one last hug. How you wished this hug could last longer. How you wished that your final hug wouldn't just be quick. But alas, you had to immediately part. "Thank you for being there for me for half of my life. I know I wouldn't be where I am or who I am without you. I wish I could have shown my gratitude better."

"You need not worry about that. If there was anything I regretted in my life, it's that you never got the chance to meet Cifera and found a friend. I never regretted taking you in, and I will go through this again if it meant keeping you safe." She turned to Khaslana and nodded. "Please, watch over them. Take care of each other, both of you."

He nodded. "I will. I didn't get the chance to know you better, but… thank you for everything, Lady Aglaea."

"Yes. Thank you for everything, Aglaea," you whispered. "I love you."

Aglaea placed one final kiss on your forehead. "I love you, too."

When you finally let go of her hands, it felt like something inside you broke. Like a piece of rope, finally snapping after being pulled on for so long. Only this time, you didn't feel light. You felt empty. Hollow. If it weren't for Khaslana placing his hand on your back, you were sure you would have fallen.

But once Caenis fully stood in front of you, you schooled your expression to stay firm and reserved. Aglaea was right—you shouldn't let them know how much it affected you. So instead, you took a deep breath and clenched your hands into fists as she walked past you. And when she didn't say a word, you willed everything you had to take a step forward.

"Flame Reaver," you heard her say behind you. "I have orders from Lygus. After the witch's execution, you're to be relocated again, and you're going to leave as soon as possible. Your next mission is important."

You paused in your tracks, eyes widening. So… they were going to take him away, too. Without Aglaea's protection, the city was going to treat you like a pest. You doubted you would get customers and clients in your flower shop again, and no merchant or vendor was going to sell you anything. And without Khaslana, no one would be able to accompany you in your solitude. You would truly be alone with a thankless job.

It would be so much easier to let the Black Tide take over the city right now. Retribution for all of the cruelty they showed you your entire life. But you weren't like them. You weren't going to kill an entire city just because you wanted the Council toppled.

So instead, you left the Marmoreal Temple and walked back to your cottage, making sure that your head remained high. You weren't going to let them see your weakness.

The only sound that rang through your cottage was the sound of the door banging. There wasn't the sound of someone working outside, clearing the snow and helping you rearrange the garden. There wasn't the sound of food cooking on the pan, accompanied by the scent of herbs and spices. And while you could hear the ghost of Khaslana's and your voices in your bedroom upstairs, you knew that it was nothing but your memories replaying in your mind.

They took your mother. They took Professor Anaxa. And now, they were taking away Aglaea and Khaslana. And you couldn't even say goodbye to either of them.

You didn't have any tears left to shed. You just felt… tired. Empty. You didn't even know if you had the energy left to cast the spell tonight. But you still had to.

For the rest of the day, you didn't leave your cottage. Instead, you stayed inside, practicing the spell again and again and again and again and again and again. You allowed your eyes to close for five seconds to see if you could keep the barrier around your kitchen while not actively casting it. When you felt the spell falter for even a second, you immediately stopped and not force yourself to release unnecessary amount of magic. You ripped out the flowers growing from your floor and kicked a chair whenever it failed. Your throat was burning from the amount of screaming you did. Your knuckles were bleeding as you kept punching the wall, hoping that it would break and then getting mad again when nothing budged.

You hated this. You hated them. All of them. The Council, your mother, Lygus, Professor Anaxa, Caenis, Khaslana, Aglaea… your hatred was irrational, and you couldn't even think of a reason to hate half of them. But right now, hate was the only thing filling you.

When the sun was starting to set, you knew what was going to happen. Everyone would be gathered in Kephale Plaza, listen to whatever it was Lygus was going to preach again, and then they would kill Aglaea. And as soon as she would exhale her last breath, you had to make sure that your barrier was already up and protecting Okhema from the potential surge of the Black Tide.

You weren't ready, but you didn't have a choice. You took a deep breath and stepped outside, repeating the spell again. It was one thing practicing it in your kitchen or bedroom, but performing the real thing for an entire city was more exhausting. You folded your hands together, muttering the spell under your breath and letting your magic flow. When you opened your eyes, lilacs and primroses were growing from the ground, stretching to the edge where Aglaea's threads usually stopped.

Another deep breath. You could do this. You repeated your actions, letting more and more of your magic flow out every now and then. A part of you regretted exerting yourself earlier, because now you had such little energy to keep everything else up. But you knew you had to keep pushing forward. If you already felt tired after hours of doing this, then you wouldn't be able to keep this barrier up for twenty years or more.

You could do this. You knelt down and pressed two fingers on the earth, feeling how far you needed to continue pushing. You could do this. Dammit, Okhema was a lot bigger than you thought. You were barely reaching the center of the city like this. How did Aglaea manage to keep this up for years? You could do this. Grass started to grow from the path beneath you, and they were starting to rise higher and higher as you continued to recite the spell. You could…

Aglaea's face flashed in your mind. Her smile, her voice, her touch… "See you tomorrow, my darling."

Your eyes shot open, and a cold chill traveled down your spine as a tear rolled down your cheek. And when you pinched the air… Nothing appeared between your fingers.

Aglaea was gone.

You shook your head. You didn't have time to mourn. Not now. Your breath could shake all it wanted, but you could feel the presence of something corrupted approaching nearby. You continued chanting the spell, even if it felt like the ground beneath you was starting to give in. When you stood up, you had to kick the vines that were crawling up your legs. Doing this in the corner of Okhema was going to be difficult, especially since you doubted you would be able to reach the other end like this.

"Get down!"

You didn't need to turn around to know that it was Khaslana, and you didn't need to look ahead to know that a Black Tide creation had entered Okhema. You ducked out of the way, watching just in time as Khaslana ran next to you, slashing a Black Tide monster in one strike. Just as another one was about to approach, you pressed your palms on the earth, making vines shoot up and wrap around the monsters, letting him kill that one as well.

He brushed his hair away from his face and turned to you with a stretched arm. "Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine." Your chest eased a little once his familiar warmth touched your palms. "Did the Black Tide appear anywhere else yet?"

"Not that I'm aware of yet. I sensed magic coming from this direction, so I ran as soon as I could. How are you holding up?"

"Terrible!" You groaned and banged your fist on your temple before kicking the air. "Doing this all the way over here is too difficult. I have to do it in Kephale Plaza or else I'll miss huge parts of Okhema."

"Kephale Plaza? But if anyone sees you performing magic…"

Then Aglaea's protection would be for nothing. "I- I have to at least try. Maybe if I can go back to the tailor shop, I can at least do better there."

He removed his cloak and draped it over you, covering your head with the hood. "Then let me guide you, at least. Let's go."

With a nod, you two picked up your pace as you walked through the familiar alleyways of Okhema. Anytime you saw a witch hunter, you would take a different turn, even if it meant taking a longer path. When you swore you were trapped, you casted a spell on the wall and made vines appear, letting you both climb up the rooftops instead.

The sight of the flames made your stomach twist. For a brief moment, the smell of burning pork and burnt hair reached your nose, and you almost stopped to throw up. But before Khaslana could realize you were faltering, you continued to run alongside him. You were closer to Kephale Plaza now, and closer to Aglaea's house. You could perform the spell there.

Unfortunately, you had to stop again. The familiar cold chill from earlier returned, and the air around you became more difficult to breathe in. Next to you, Khaslana did the same.

"Corrupted magic? But we're in the middle of the city!"

Your hands clenched into tight fists. "This energy… this is Aglaea's magic. It's the residues of her magic. That's why it's able to reach Okhema immediately. It- it's everywhere!"

Dammit, you didn't factor in this possibility. You were running out of time.

"You have to protect the city from any possible corruption that'll rise up. Aglaea's a powerful witch, so no doubt the corrupted residue will be equally strong."

"Will you be alright without me?"

"I have to be."

Someone in the city screamed. The two of you shared one last nod before Khaslana jumped down from the rooftops, while you continued running ahead. Your heart was pounding in your chest, sweat was trickling down your forehead, and your entire body was tingling from the corrupted energy everywhere. But once the familiar sight of Aglaea's tailor shop reached you, you finally jumped down from the rooftop and continued running down the streets.

The closer you were to Kephale Plaza, the stronger the corruption was becoming as well. You didn't even want to imagine what the plaza itself looked like if you were already having difficulties breathing as you continued walking. But when you reached the front door, you twisted it open and—

A scream tore through your lips as someone—something—dragged you down. Before it could hurt you more, you kicked away and stomped your foot on the ground, making vines crawl up and hold it in place. Just as you summoned a thin sword in your hands, you caught a quick glimpse of Caenis' screaming face contorting into the cores of the Black Tide monsters.

For a moment, you faltered, before striking forward, killing her in two strikes. Even if you loathed her, you believed that death was a better fate for anyone rather than being corrupted into a monster forever.

You fell to your knees and gasped. On a normal scenario, summoning your weapon wouldn't have taken so much energy. But after everything that happened yesterday, after all the crying and tears and anger and sobbing and magic and every single goddamn thing… even standing up right now felt so difficult.

You can still make it… You stood up, limping as you walked to the front door. You can still perform the spell and protect Okhema. The door was locked. Did you lock it before you left? Maybe you could bash the door open and…

For a second time, you fell to your knees. You were tired. You were drained. The corrupted magic here was so strong you didn't know if you could overpower it.

You just wanted to close your eyes and wake up to Aglaea's voice, telling you you were having a nightmare. You would go down the stairs, eat breakfast with her, your parents, and Cifera, and then leave the house to go to Professor Anaxa's lessons. You would bump into Khaslana on the way, and the two of you would laugh before he would drop you off and leave.

But when you opened your eyes, the only thing that greeted you was the flower crown Aglaea gave you earlier in the dungeons. You had completely forgotten about it. In fact, you were surprised it was still on your head. You thought that it would have fallen off with how many times you broke down in your house.

She told you earlier that, if you ever felt alone, you should just hold on to this and… what did she say again? You couldn't remember. You were just too tired…

"I wished you were still here with me," you whispered, as if the flower crown itself was her. "I- I can't do this without you, Aglaea… Why did you leave me…"

A single tear fell down your eye… and you felt someone wipe it away.

For a moment, you thought your wish for this to be a nightmare was about to become a reality. But that wasn't what you saw. Okhema was still in front of you, and you could see hints of the Black Tide's corruption peeking through. But kneeling in front of you was Aglaea herself, one hand on your cheek and another on your hands. Her body glowed in gold, as if she was an apparition, and you didn't feel any warmth coming from her, but you still knew that this was her.

"I'm sorry for leaving you with this burden ever since you were a child," she whispered, her voice coming out as an echo. "You had to carry all of this alone with minimal support, and what I did wasn't enough."

You shook your head and sniffled. "D- Don't say that. What you did was more than enough. I'm just- I'm just not ready. I think I failed you."

"You didn't fail me, darling. You're everything I wish I could have been and more." Her other hand held both of yours now. "Would you like me to help you one last time?"

"Please… I- I can't do this without you. At least- at least guide me, one last time."

"Very well, then."

And just like how you always practiced, you closed your eyes and muttered the spell. In front of you, her ghostly voice repeated the same thing. As always, Aglaea eased the weight from your shoulders. Now that she was holding your hand and kneeling in front of you, your chest felt lighter. The energy you swore disappeared slowly returned, and you felt like you could cast a hundred spells right now and defeat every monster running amok the city. But most of all, when you placed your palms on the ground, you could feel your magic running through the entire city as patches of grass appeared beneath your legs.

"In the name of Mnestia," you whispered, "bless your most devoted follower who can weave the dirtiest hay into the finest linen. By Thanatos, open your arms and provide another innocent soul the warmth of eternal rest. By Talanton, let the scale of justice tip those to have known nothing but inequity in their life."

You opened your eyes. Aglaea's form was slowly fading, flickering like a candlelight being blown away by the wind. You placed a hand on her cheek and pulled her into one last hug, as tight as this one could be. It didn't matter if you couldn't feel the warmth you had known your entire life, it didn't matter that this was just an apparition and not her actual body. This was the last time you would be able to hold her, and you would do it as tight as you could.

"And in the name of Kephale… may you finally have your eternal freedom, Aglaea. Thank you for everything."

The flower crown in front of you glowed, and her familiar bright golden threads shot up. It wasn't much, especially compared to the threads that used to be around Okhema in the past, but it was enough help that you needed. You allowed your magic to flow, as much as you could, and feel it pulsating around the city.

And when the lilacs and daisies grew in front of Aglaea's house, she, too, disappeared, leaving nothing but a spark of gold as a sign that she was here in the first place.

You remained rooted in your spot as you looked around. There were patches of grass and flowers everywhere, each growing from a crack on the street or the corner of people's houses. Any Black Tide monster that was still around when you casted the spell were all slowly collapsing and falling to their knees, turning into red cubes before completely fading away. And most of all, the corruption that you felt earlier was gone.

You took a deep breath, and an even longer sigh followed afterwards as you slumped your back against the door and closed your eyes. If you weren't on your knees yet, then no doubt you would have collapsed by now.

It felt like you were about to sleep. But just as your mind was starting to drift away, the sound of a sword clashing against another sword reached your ears. When you opened your eyes, you immediately arched your neck to make sure that neither Lygus' nor Khaslana's blades would touch your skin. You held your breath, left hand stretched next to you in case you needed to summon your own sword.

Though Lygus' eyes were covered by a blindfold, you could tell that they were locked on you. His arm and blade shook as Khaslana's own sword pushed him back. "You insolent child. What do you think you're doing?"

"Making sure you won't kill an innocent person ever again," he hissed. "They just saved the entire city. The least you could do is be grateful about it."

"They are a witch." He spat the word out as if it was a curse. "Did you not see what they did? Everyone's safety is at a witch's hands. Do you truly believe that they wouldn't use it against us?"

"Maybe there wouldn't be a Black Tide in the first place if we didn't kill witches in the first place."

"May I remind you that corrupted magic is the main cause of the Black Tide in the first place. We are simply doing what we can to clean the world once again."

"Maybe the answer to that isn't to kill people! How dare you preach about purity while your hands are stained with the blood of the innocent?! Have some shame!" He sliced his sword in an arc, making Lygus let go of his own weapon and step back.

Before he could strike again, you gathered every energy you had left to stand up and hold Khaslana's arm, pulling him away from Lygus. "D- Don't kill him; it's what they'd want. They'll say I bewitched you to kill the man who raised you then kill us both."

"At least your little witch friend is smarter than you are." Lygus placed his hands behind him and raised his head. "Alright then, let's say that the witch hunts do stop. Let's say that the Council has declared that no witch from here on out will be executed anymore. Do you really think they won't want revenge against you? The Flame Reaver? The man who has killed so many witches in his lifetime? Do you truly think they won't want you dead, or at the very least, to suffer as painfully as possible? And if they somehow spare you, don't you think your coworkers would ask for the same? How far can, I was merely following orders truly save you all from people's anger?"

You clenched your hands into fists, resisting the urge to punch him in the face and maybe poke his eyes hiding behind his blindfold. "You talk too much."

"And you still haven't given me an answer."

"That's because I don't know how to answer it. I know that there are witch hunters out there who genuinely believed their entire life they were doing the right thing, those who don't care and just want to see people suffering, and those who would hide behind pathetic excuses just to save their skin. But whatever punishment they'll be receiving, I won't let the Council of Elders issue more deaths under their names."

"And if people feel to take matters into their own hands?"

"Then let them. I'd rather someone be arrested for murder than let those in your position decide who should die."

Lygus scoffed. Before he could grab his sword and strike again, Khaslana dashed ahead and grabbed him by the hem of his shirt, slamming him into a wall of a nearby house. Lygus coughed, and his body fell still. For a brief moment, you feared the worst. But when you saw that he was still breathing, you sighed in relief.

"You must be really tired," Khaslana whispered as he reached you again. "Let's get you to bed for now. I'll help you with whatever's going to happen tomorrow. For now, everyone needs to rest."

"Right." You nodded.

As he placed his hand on your back, you casted one last look at Lygus' sleeping form before entering Aglaea's house. You were dreading tomorrow, but at least you knew you weren't alone. That was comforting enough.

Like yesterday, Khaslana sat you in front of the hearth and wrapped a blanket around your form. This time, however, you didn't touch the bread he placed on the table. Instead, you just stared at the fire again. Just like last night, it didn't matter that the fire was crackling in the hearth. Without Aglaea's footsteps echoing in the room, without the feel of her threads letting you know you were safe, without her voice humming something as she worked on a new outfit to wear… even if you were set on fire right now, everything would still be cold.

"How are you feeling?" Khaslana asked.

You didn't turn to him. Instead, you slumped your back on the couch and stared at the ceiling. "I… I don't know. I know that she's gone now, but… but it's not clicking in me that I'll never see her again. Something's still telling me that I'll see her again tomorrow."

When he placed his hand on top of yours, you immediately moved your hand away. "Sorry. It's just that… I don't think I want to…"

"It's okay." He removed his hand from yours. "I understand."

You took another deep breath as you wrapped the blanket tighter around yourself. You knew it was useless, but you still pinched the air, hoping to find even a shred of her golden threads that survived. And even when you knew you wouldn't find any, your heart still ached the same way you realized that you were just a victim of a prank.

Aglaea was gone. Aglaea was gone. Aglaea was gone. You would never see her again. You would never…

You didn't realize you were crying until you felt your eyes sting. At first, you muffled them with your sniffles. But as the tears continued to pour, you finally let your sobs leave your lips as you covered your eyes. You finally reached to Khaslana and buried your face in his chest, but it did little to muffle your sobs. Even when he wrapped his arms around you, you only found yourself crying louder.

"It's okay," he whispered as his hands caressed the back of your head. "Just let it out and cry."

You held him tighter, fingers gripping the back of his coat. "I never even got the chance to tell her that I always wanted to call her 'Mom'… I never even got to ask her if she'll be fine if I call her that… There were still so many things I wanted to tell her and- and I never got to say them!"

"I'm sure she already knows."

"It doesn't matter if she does, I- I still wanted to tell her everything myself… and now, they took her just like how they"—your eyes immediately widened—"they- they're going to relocate you somewhere else, aren't they? Khaslana—"

"Joke's on Lygus, I won't let him. And once I quit, he won't be able to do anything about it." If it was even possible, he held you closer. His grip on you was somehow tighter than how you held him, and he buried his face at the crook of your neck. "I won't let them hurt you, or anyone else. I'll stick with you, no matter what."

You licked your lips and gulped. "Even- even if they kill you for it?"

"Don't worry. After today, I won't let the Council kill another person. Not me, not you, not any other witch here. I'll help you deal with any problem they'll give you."

He didn't let go, and neither did you. Instead, you sighed and buried your face in his chest. It was still cold in Aglaea's house, but with him by your side, it was more bearable. You wouldn't call it warmer. Not yet, at least. But he made the cold more bearable.

Tomorrow wasn't just going to be hectic, it was going to be hell. In fact, you wouldn't be surprised if someone would start knocking on the door right now and demand answers from you. But at least your chest felt lighter knowing that you weren't alone. At least you could breathe easy knowing that, while things would be difficult, you had someone by your side.

IX. I'll Always Be In Your Heart, I'll Never Part From Your Side

The Month of Cultivation was the month where your magic would grow the strongest. Not only was it the month of your patron god, Georios, it was also the spring cultivation season. You remembered the time when you first dedicated yourself to Georios, Aglaea would regularly take you to your cottage and help you with the proper prayers and rituals needed to resonate with the month. You remembered being always disappointed that you could never make the flowers fully bloom, as it would certainly make people suspicious of your cottage was already flowery at the beginning of the month, then feeling even worse when you had to cut down flowers that were out of season.

But right now, you couldn't stop the smile on your face as you pressed your hand on the ground, making flowers grow and fully bloom at Aglaea's statue in Kephale Plaza. Vines grew around the statue's legs, alongside numerous gold and white flowers that always matched Aglaea's colors. You could imagine her weaving these flowers into any of her outfits, making her even more radiant than she already was.

"She looks pretty."

When you turned around, a girl walked behind you, staring at Aglaea's statue. You gave her a smile as you turned back. "She is, isn't she? I don't think anyone can be as pretty as her."

"Is she Mnestia?"

"No, just a very amazing and caring human."

You picked up a few flowers from the ground and pressed them together, letting the stems grow and tangle to a flower crown. With a small hop, you leapt into the air, placing the flower crown on the statue's head.

You still missed her every single day. There were still days when you wondered why she wasn't in the house, only to remember that she was gone now. But while the statue wasn't the real deal, it still gave you a bit of comfort. It was as if she was still here, watching the city like she always did.

And just like how she used to do it to you, you pressed a kiss on the statue's forehead before landing back down.

The girl blinked as she tilted her head. "Are you a witch?"

"I am." You nodded. "Do I scare you?"

"My mama says I should be, but I'm not scared of you." She placed her hands in front of her as her eyes sparkled. "Can you teach me magic? I wanna learn magic, too! I wanna make flower crowns for Mama as well!"

Before you could say your response, the girl's mother called her name and immediately ran to her side. For a brief moment, your eyes locked. Even when you offered her a smile, she still scanned you from head to toe before dragging her child away, making a sigh leave your lips.

It didn't matter that witches were no longer being executed. It didn't matter that Lygus had been kicked out of his positioned and was now hiding in Okhema. Everyone would still look at you and your people as if you were cursed. They wouldn't appreciate the fact that your magic was keeping them all safe, and you had. to keep it active even while you were sleeping.

Aglaea was right. It was a thankless job.

But on the bright side, you knew you wouldn't have to continue this as long as she did. Now that witches were no longer being killed left and right, more of them were now able to practice and hone their magic. One of these days, there would be enough of you that would be powerful enough to cleanse the Black Tide. And perhaps when that day would come, the prejudice you would all face would finally be no more.

"There you are."

The sound of Khaslana's voice made you turn around. His eyes were on yours for a moment before turning to the statue as well. "Chartonus and his men did such an amazing job building this. They captured her beauty perfectly."

You reached your hand out to him and locked your fingers with his. "He did. I'm thinking of putting a spell on it so that it'll never get dirty and would always look as beautiful as her."

You flicked your gaze downwards, reading the words on the plaque again. You had memorized it by now, but reading it again always soothed your heart, even a little bit.

Lady Aglaea, the Goldweaver. Thank you for your hard work all these while.

You wished people could have told her that when she was still alive. She lived her entire life working a thankless job. The least she could have experienced was hearing people express their gratitude for keeping Okhema stable for years all by herself.

"Did you manage to find a portrait of her teacher?" Khaslana asked after a while.

"Unfortunately, no." You shook your head. "If there was any portraits of Lady Tribios or her predecessors, they're all gone now. Aglaea's was the only one I managed to find."

"That's a shame. They deserved to be remembered for protecting Okhema, too."

You nodded. "Speaking of which. I finally got a list of people that the Council had executed. Do you want to to accompany me to Chartonus again? I'm still worried if the wall he's planning to make would be big enough to fit all of them. There's a lot of names here. Or maybe a big wall isn't the ideal solution?"

"I wouldn't be too worried about it if I were you. No wall is too big for something like this. Let's go; I'll treat you to lunch afterwards if you'd like."

With one final glance at Aglaea's statue, you squeezed his hand and walked to the Marmoreal Market. Even with the time that passed, there were still people that looked at you as if you were a stain on the earth. You offered a smile to those who looked at your direction, and only few returned it. At least you could comfort yourself into thinking that at least some of those that smiled at you were non-witches as well.

At times like this, you found yourself hesitating on holding Khaslana's hand. You didn't want people looking down on him the same way they looked down on you, didn't want him to be ostracized the same way that you were. But every time your fingers would slip past his, he would just hold your hand again, squeezing it as his fingers locked with yours. He wouldn't pull you closer, but he wouldn't let you go either. He only did once you two reached Chartonus' smith shop.

You grabbed the scroll from your bag and passed it to the blacksmith in front of you, and you immediately gulped. "It's- it's a lot of names. At least three or four generations' worth of names I'm… worried that a memorial wall with all these names might be a bit too big."

Chartonus hummed before placing the scroll on a shelf nearby. "Worry about the wall, you need not. Build one as large as I can, I will, to commemorate those lost to the cruelty of the Council for so many years. Deserved to be remembered, they do."

"Do you have an estimation of how big it would be?"

"Estimation, I do not have yet. But numerous walls, it would be. Need not worry, as I said, as this wall must be built."

"Told you," Khaslana said next to you with a smile. "Thank you for helping us with this, Chartonus."

You nodded. You could still remember how difficult it was to find a craftsman that would even talk to you, let alone build a wall to commemorate everyone lost to the witch hunts. In the end, you had to ask a blacksmith for help. While you weren't sure at first if this job was suited for a blacksmith, Chartonus still agreed to help you anyway. And you couldn't have asked for a better job.

Once that was done, you and Khaslana had a quick lunch in the Marmoreal Diner. Fortunately, the owner here never pushed you out. He still served you your meals, like he always did, and smiled when the two of you left.

After lunch, you made one last quick trip to Professor Anaxa's house, still fortunately untouched despite the months that had passed. His Dromas collection remained in his room, still waiting for the day their owner would return to admire them. You had been trying to see if there was a spell that could send these directly to the Nether Realm, but so far you hadn't found any yet. Perhaps you could check the notes in his study and see if he found one during his ramblings.

You returned to Aglaea's house as well. Her shop had long closed down. Instead, it was more of a memorial. The mannequins that held her clothes were no longer for sale, but rather on display to remember how elegant and beautiful her craftsmanship was. You had planted small flowers by her front door, letting them grow into bushes so it would stay there for a long time. Just like with Professor Anaxa, you and Khaslana cleaned the place up, removing any dust and cobwebs that managed to gather.

Her loom remained al by itself in her weaving room, untouched with an unfinished project. You couldn't tell what she was planning to make, only that it was white with a shimmery surface. When you were done cleaning up, you kept her weaving room locked with vines serving as an extra layer of security. You wouldn't let anyone destroy her any further.

And of course, when everything was done for the day, Khaslana would take you to that spot in the mountain again. Now that it was spring, the grass was a bright and healthy shade of green, with flowers of all colors blooming from the ground. Even the spot you two would usually lie down on had flowers on the surface, making a softer place to lie down on.

"I'm beat," he said with a sigh and a chuckle.

You returned his laugh, rolling over to face him. "Me, too. We did a lot of walking and cleaning today. I wish we could just rest for tomorrow."

Unfortunately, rest was nowhere near for the both of you. Tomorrow, you would have to face the Council of Elders. There were still those who sided with Lygus and contributed to the witch hunts sitting in their seats. No doubt they would do whatever they could to return to a time where witches were being killed.

"I'm… I'm really scared," you muttered. "I don't want to jinx it, but… but what if we lose?"

Khaslana rolled over to face you as well, hand caressing your cheek. "I'm also scared of losing. But I'm sure there'll be more people backing us up than those who wouldn't. Do you want to practice what to say tomorrow?"

You shook your head. "Maybe in the cottage later. I'm really tired right now, and I think I just want to rest first."

He chuckled and pressed a kiss on your cheek, nose, then a quick one to your lips. "Alright. Let's enjoy whatever rest we can, then."

You took a deep breath, then sighed as you closed your arms. The weather wasn't too hot. If anything, it was warm with the occasional chilly spring breeze. It brought you back to the old times, when you would wake up to your mother calling you and say that your father was home again, or falling asleep on Aglaea's lap while she and Professor Anaxa discussed what your next lessons were going to be.

You would forever miss those moments. You wanted to call them better days. All of you were scared and worried that you might lose any one of you any second now, but you still wanted to think that you were all happier during those time, even if it was in secret. But you knew your family would rather you be happy without needing to hide anything. And with Khaslana by your side, you knew your happiness wouldn't need to be a secret anymore.

Taglist: @dear-mydeimos @rukiatheloml @maivqs @keigoloveminty @teyvat-inks @nshasy @byeohzu @maxiine @leviniar @paleocarcharias @sloppygoblin420 @arluene7688 @1horsewithnoname @kayla-drawz @zlahn @nineworks @hipsdofangirl @liiilylooolyy @argentits @3lectraheart @yetchann @asoundofdrop @ourserendipity @spacechipairstrip @lurulu-ru @speedycoffeedelight @roseapov @lilychan176 @aethenawhosp @ourserendipity

#phainon x reader #hsr x reader #hsr #phainon x you #hsr phainon x reader #honkai star rail x reader #library.sia #starrail.section #phainon.archive #sia.txt #please dont d1e ur so sexy haha

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teyvat-inks · 3 days ago

Text

"Thy kingdom come, thy will be done to me, betrayer Throw your stones and stab me with your hateful stares Curtain call, the final act, so say your prayers So long to you beloved traitor."

「 ✦ LOWER ONE'S EYES ✦ 」

masterlist | <- part 1 | you are here | part 3 ->

Word count: 28900 Reading time: 2h 24m Featuring: reader, phainon, aglaea, lygus Other characters: caenis, anaxa, cyrene, cipher (mentioned), tribios (mentioned), hyacine Tags: all tags are applicable to the fic as a whole and not just the part posted, major character death, written before 3.5, alternate universe, potential ooc, slowburn (im serious phainon doesn't appear until maybe 5k words in), gn reader, no use of y/n or [name], witch hunts, not time period accurate, bittersweet ending, implied grooming, gets suggestive at some point but no nsfw content, aglaea as reader's adoptive mother, implied aglanaxa if you squint, reader has trust issues and still refuses to trust phainon 30k words in, phainon is refered to as flame reaver at the start and khaslana near the end, slight edits made, no beta please kill me already Notes: If this is your first time interacting with me or my works, please read my rules beforehand. hihi guess what's here! thank you all so much for reading the first part to this insanity! i'm glad to know that you all enjoyed it. i completely forgot to mention it in part 1, but please let me know if you want to be tagged once part 3 is out! before we start, i just want to say that reader talks about flower symbolism at some point. while i did use a source, i could still be wrong with the symbolisms and how i wrote it. if you're interested, the source i used is floriography: the myths, magic, and language of flowers. i'm 99% sure every flower i've added since part 1 is intentional. that's all, and i hope you guys enjoy :D

IV. Save Me From The Hate I Hide Within

For the Month of Weaving, you had no reason to keep the shop open. Most of your flowers had already wilted during this season, anyway, and you only casted a basic and faint spell that wouldn't completely kill them once winter arrived. You could put one where they would survive just until the first day of winter, that would be unwise and unsafe. Besides, you could always revive them once the first day of spring came. Which meant that, for the entirety of this month, you would be helping Aglaea in her shop.

The ritual always started during midnight, when the first hour of the new day would tick. Some witch hunters were still awake and patrolling the streets of Okhema, so the two of you had to be careful and quiet in her own study. You heard from both your mother and teachers that, back then, when witches didn't have to worry about getting caught, they would all gather outside when their moons would arrive. They would all bask under the moonlight, perform the needed ritual, and celebrated an entire month of their magic growing stronger.

Now, you all had to stay indoors. The windows had to be open so the light of the moon could enter your home, so you had to pray to every god in Amphoreus that you wouldn't get caught.

"It's funny, isn't it?" Aglaea said as she opened her window. Fortunately, it opened to the back of her house rather than the streets of Okhema. It would be more difficult to get caught here. "The Council of Elders always warned people that witches were blasphemous and an insult to the gods and brought corruption wherever they went. And yet, not only do we protect them from corruption, we worship the same gods as they do."

A chuckle left your lips, but there was no humor behind them. Instead, you remained seated on one of her plush couches, fiddling with the vase of violets next to you. "They think they think they know everything."

"They do. But they're nothing more than prisoners chained in a cave, thinking that the shadows dancing on their wall is what the world is like. They fail to see that the light leading to their exit has always been close to their grasp, but they're too afraid that the truth doesn't match their perceptions."

Aglaea raised her hands, making her golden threads appear. When she pulled them down, every thread around her grew brighter before immediately fading away. You always knew just how many threads she kept around Okhema just to keep everyone safe. But every time you watched her perform her ritual, you always found yourself baffled. There were hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of threads that all connected back to her. She was the only person strong enough that could hold all of Okhema together for almost twenty years.

And you were supposed to be next.

"My protection is getting weaker and weaker with each passing year," she whispered as she grabbed the last visible thread in the air, before it also disappeared. "Fortunately, I can replenish my energy for this month and keep the barrier around for another year or two. But I want you to be prepared for any day to take my place."

"I don't even know if I can ever replace you," you replied. "I can't imagine having to constantly use magic even while I'm asleep just to protect everyone while at the risk of getting executed if I'm caught."

She cupped your cheek and lifted your head, making you meet her gaze. "I know it's daunting," she said as she pressed a soft kiss on your forehead. "And I know that it's a heavy weight on your shoulders. Even I wasn't ready when I had to replace my teacher."

"Does it get easy?"

"No. Unfortunately, it doesn't. And this burden only gets passed down from witch to witch. But I know the day will come where witches no longer need to protect people in secret and will be able to cleanse the Black Tide instead. I just hope you'll be able to live that lifetime."

You wanted to believe in her hope as well, but it was difficult. All your life, the only thing you knew was that you should remain in hiding. Imagining a world where you no longer need to fear death every second seemed so out of your reach.

The first week of the Month of Weaving ticked by so fast. Thanks to Aglaea's enhanced magic, alongside her extremely long queue, you were so busy that you didn't even notice the time passing. During the day, you helped her in the shop. Taking measurements, running errands, checking the stock, running to your flower shop in case you had stocked flowers she needed—and if you didn't, craft those flowers by yourself with the materials she provided.

At least by night, the both of you could breathe easily. She would just snap her fingers and her magic would do all of the work. The looms would spin on their own, scissors floating in the air as they cut threads and fabrics by themselves, and needles sewing numerous pieces together at the same time.

It was a shame that she couldn't use her magic to her full potential to make her clothes. If she used too much, then witch hunters might be able to detect it and realize the truth. Aglaea's outfits were already amazing when she was holding back. How much more if she was able to let loose?

By the second week, you had to run to a merchant and pick up the supplies she purchased some time ago. And of course, you were greeted by the crates of raw linen and wool. She always insisted on weaving her fabrics from scratch, so she always bought raw materials. Sometimes, you wondered if they were really necessary. But then again, this was Aglaea. You'd rather not question her methods that had been working ever since she started her tailor shop.

Maybe you could get a Dromas to help you carry everything? No, Dromases were too slow. You needed to go back as soon as possible. Maybe you could make two trips instead. But if you did that, with the amount of time you went back and forth, you might as well have taken the Dromas after all.

With a defeated sigh, you picked up one of the crates of wool. It wasn't that heavy. Maybe two trips were possible.

"Need help?"

It had been a while since the two of you talked to each other, but you weren't surprised about bumping into Flame Reaver this time. You turned around and—

You almost dropped the crate, but you fortunately held onto it again before it could crush your toes. You didn't recognize him at first. Especially not without his witch hunter attire. For the first time, he was wearing the white coat Aglaea made for him. And with that on him, it was like you were looking at someone else. Like you lived a life where this man wasn't the cause of your sleepless nights for almost two months straight.

"Flam—Phainon. Good morning," you greeted. "What brings you here?"

"I just finished a job. Thought of grabbing a snack at the Marmoreal Temple when I saw you." He turned to the crate in your hands, then to the others next to you. "That's a lot of boxes to carry for one person. Do you want me to help you?"

The main reason why Aglaea finished all of his clothes quickly—by hand, too—was to make sure he stayed away from the shop during the Month of Weaving. But here he was, offering to help you so he could go to the very place he was supposed to stay away from. Was this another trap? Another way for him to investigate you both?

Don't panic. You could hear Aglaea saying that. Don't let him know you're nervous. Besides, if outing Aglaea as a witch was as simple as going to her shop, then she would have been executed a long time ago. Making him stay away from the shop was just a precaution, but that didn't mean she wasn't prepared in case something like this were to happen.

"I'd appreciate that," you replied. "Thank you."

"Here, let me carry that for you."

You almost flinched when his warm hands brushed against yours, but you immediately stood tall before he could notice you were nervous again. It didn't help that there was a brief flicker in his eyes. It didn't look like that same expression you saw that night. This one was different. You wanted to say it was confusion, but he left your side to pick up the other crates before you could determine what it actually was.

"I heard Lady Aglaea's extra busy during this time of the month," he said as you picked up your own boxes to carry.

You shrugged and continued walking. "People believe she's more in her element during the Month of Weaving. She's a very dedicated follower of Mnestia, so people think they would bless her more to create better clothes during this season. But if you ask me, her clothes are always as beautiful as her."

"I see." He was quiet for a while, and you would have rather he stayed silent. Unfortunately, he decided to continue the conversation. "I didn't really get why people would queue for months, or maybe even years, in advance just for a fancy set of clothes. But after she made this for me, I finally understood. She's an excellent seamstress. I can already tell you're wearing her work. It makes you look more radiant."

"Call me biased, but I don't think there's anyone in Okhema, or even Amphoreus, compares to her work."

A small smile formed in your face as you recalled the first time you received an outfit from her. You loved it so much you would always ask her to adjust the measurements so you could continue wearing it. Even when the day came that adjustments were no longer possible, she just used her magic just so it could still fit. You still wore it occasionally, and it was comfortable as the day you got it.

"I'm fortunate enough to own an entire closet of her work in my closet. But it's also so difficult to decide what I want to wear when everything's just so perfect."

"Can't say I relate." A faint chuckle left him. "Aside from my uniforms, I've organized and paired my outfits with how she gave them. It's easier that way, and I don't have to worry about what to wear."

"Deciding what to wear is half of the fun in dressing up."

"Tell that the next time you see me wearing a yellow shirt and purple pants."

Your brows furrowed down. "That doesn't sound that bad of a combination. Maybe it can depend on how bright the colors were, but yellow and purple can work in some instances. I think I'm more impressed that you own something purple."

The corners of his lips twitched a little. "Even with red and green accessories to match?"

You're carrying two crates of wool right now. You're carrying two crates of wool right now and it will crush your toes if you drop them. But even as you repeated that in your head, it didn't stop the laugh from leaving your lips. Even as you tried to stifle it, it only grew louder. "Please don't tell me you actually wore that."

"Then I suppose this is the part where I stay quiet."

"Dear gods… don't you ever let Lady Aglaea know that about you. Not only will you not hear the end of it, but she'll actually make you study color theory just so you'll know how to dress up."

Once you reached Aglaea's shop, you told him to place the crates a bit away from the door. While it was unlikely that he would be able to sense the magic inside of the shop when Aglaea only used it in her house, it was still better to be safe than sorry. Besides, you were here now. You would be able to carry this back inside without issues.

"Thanks for helping me again. I guess this means we're even now."

"Even?" He raised a brow and laughed. "I don't think carrying crates of materials is equal to you saving my life from a Black Tide creature. I'm still in your debt."He looked like he was about to turn around and leave. But just as he did, he turned to face you again. "By the way… the flowers you gave me. What were they called again? Chrysos… Chrysosthermos? Chrysosheirsum?"

Flowers? Ah, that was right. He bought flowers from you at least two months ago. "You mean the chrysanthemums?"

"Yes, those. That name sure is a mouthful," he said with a small laugh. "But anyway. They're growing beautifully in my window. Most of the plants near my house have started wilting away due to the colder season, but they're still alive and striving. It's amazing."

"Chrysanthemums shine the best during fall. They're one of the few flowers that can withstand the season, and some even survive the first week of winter." You shrugged. "Perhaps you were lucky that day. You got low maintenance flowers that will still be blooming even if most plants are dying or are dead."

Phainon laughed again. Now that you weren't in a situation where you were worried he would suddenly expose you to the public, you finally noticed how he laughed. Soft, gentle. His current attire helped, too. Like this, he looked like a normal person. Perhaps you might have passed him by in the street and wouldn't even spare him a second glance. Like this, it was difficult to believe that not only was he the best witch hunter the Council had trained, but he was also the same man who nearly caught you that night.

"I guess I was," he said. "See you around, then."

"Yeah. Goodbye."

You didn't think it was possible to have a normal conversation with him, but you just did. It was just a single interaction out of the—how many had it been, three? Four? Maybe five if you were forgetting something? It was just one interaction out of those times. But for once, you didn't have to worry if he was planning something behind those blue eyes of his. You didn't just talk, too. You laughed. For the first time since your father died, you were able to genuinely laugh with someone who wasn't a witch.

"That just goes to show how amazing you really are," you said to Aglaea after you told her about the encounter. "They completely change a person's demeanor."

She seemed to find your words amusing, as she just chuckled before tossing the fleece in the cold water. "While I appreciate the praise, crediting a person's attitude just because of their attire is a bit unfair, is it not? Perhaps he truly just wanted to be helpful."

"As helpful as a witch hunter can be." A sigh left your lips. "I don't even know why he went to help me. I don't want to be paranoid again—"

"Then don't finish that sentence. Paranoia isn't going to help you. Think of it this way—even if he was using that as a way to get information from you, you didn't give him anything."

"That's true, but that's not the only reason why it feels off that he helped me. Most people would just look at me rather than associating themselves with a witch's child." Your brows furrowed down as a thought entered your head. "Do you think he doesn't know about Mother?"

"What makes you say that?"

"Not even other witch hunters would want to be caught doing something nice to me. So, even if he doesn't think I'm a witch, I don't think he would have done a small favor if he knew about my history." You shrugged again as you put the last fleece in the water. "I doubt he doesn't. Everyone in Okhema knows. And hey, at least I got to laugh with someone for the first time. It was nice while it lasted."

"Yes, I do agree that it's nice to hear nicer stories from you."

It's nice to hear nicer stories from you. Did that mean she was starting to lessen her worries about you? If that was the case, then it was good. You were always careful with what you said around her, but your constant rants and worries must have stressed her out as well. If you were having difficulties just because of one man, then how much more did her own anxiety eat her?

You thought about how she looked like that day again. Hair messy and tangled, dark circles under her eyes… If you were able to see her like that, then how was she like when you couldn't see it?

You were still on guard whenever you saw Flame Reaver, but you tried to at least act more normal around him. If he didn't see you, then you wouldn't change your plans just to avoid him. But if he did, and he himself approached you, then you would entertain whatever he had to say. It could be a simple "hi", or "how are you doing?". You would smile and have a small talk until you would part.

It also just solidified your theory even more. Perhaps he really didn't know about your mother. Sometimes, you could see the way the merchants would raise their eyebrows whenever he greeted you with that big smile of his, but none would say a word. You couldn't tell if he noticed them and just didn't ask, or if he was unaware of it all.

You had to admit… it did feel nice that someone was treating you like a person. No scorns, no snide remarks, no backhanded comments. You noticed that the dark circles under his eyes were starting to fade, and it almost made you forget that this was the same man you were worried about. You could almost believe that he really just thought that the two of you started off on the wrong foot.

But sometimes, during the night, you would stare at your ceiling before sleeping. Just how did he see you? A witch that he was investigating? Or the florist he wrongfully accused and was trying to make up for the fact?

You envied the people who didn't have to worry about the people they were befriending. None of them would spend countless hours in the late night thinking if the person who was being nice to them didn't want them dead. They knew that, no matter who they accepted into their life, they didn't have worries like yours.

Perhaps that was why you accepted his offer to dine with you whenever he asked for it. Even if this was a trap, even if he was planning to kill you one of these days, you wanted to continue feeling like a normal person. In fact, aside from Aglaea, nobody had ever invited you to eat out before. You always sat alone or brought your food with you back home. This was the first time you ate with someone new. He took you to a booth near the window, and he was talking as if nothing was wrong.

Sometimes, he would talk about his hometown. "Aedes Elysiae specialized in growing wheat," he told you once. "In fact, my favorite place there is a wheat field. Whenever I don't want to be bothered, I'd just go to my favorite spot and stare at the sky. But Snowy always finds me."

You raised a brow. "Snowy?"

"Oh, that was my childhood dog. He was a fluffy white puppy. He's always got a smile on his face. Like this!" And he tilted his head as he grinned, followed by a soft giggle.

At that moment, you weren't sure if Snowy was a real dog or if Phainon was talking about himself. Because he certainly looked like a puppy himself.

You tried looking up Aedes Elysiae before, even asking Aglaea about it. It must be a very obscure village, because you couldn't find a single information about it in any of the books or scrolls you owned. Not even the maps showed it. You didn't doubt it existed, especially with how much he talked about it. Perhaps he was using it as an alias for his real home?

Whenever he asked you about yourself, you would always freeze up. You didn't want to talk about your childhood, especially if he didn't know your mother was a witch. But what was there to tell him? You didn't have any friends growing up because children your age were wary about you? That you lost your father to the Black Tide, and have him make a comment about how witches would pay for it?

The first time he asked you that, you sat for a while to try and come up with anything before ending up with, "Flowers have been a special interest of mine ever since I was a kid. I taught myself how to grow them"—a lie, as your mother taught you everything you knew about flowers—"and even learned that some of them have special meanings."

"Really?" he asked, almost like a curious puppy. "Then, can you tell me what chrysosheirsamon flowers mean?"

"You mean the chrysanthemums you bought from me a while back?"

"That's what I said."

You resisted a chuckle, even if it was difficult. "Well, like I told you before. Chrysanthemums thrive the best during fall, which is a season when every other flower dies. Because of that, people began to see it as a symbol for resilience. Every other flower in the garden will wilt and die, but chrysanthemums will still still be able to stand tall and beautiful, even if it's alone. At least, that's what the book I read said about it."

"I see."

But after that day, you started to get ready for any other potential questions he might ask you. A question about your childhood pet? No, you never had one. You were too scared of taking care of one and then getting heartbroken once they died. Asked if you left Okhema before? No, you were comfortable here and you had no plans of leaving. Fortunately, he never asked about your family or why you lived in a cottage at the far edges of Okhema if you lived with the Lady Aglaea. Your multiple nights of writing down your backstory would go to waste, but you'd rather that than try to get everything in your story straight.

"You… you always order the same thing whenever we eat here," you told him one time when your food arrived. Is grilled fish your favorite food?"

His eyes and smile softened. "It is. It's not like the fish back in my hometown, but it still reminds me of it. There's this sea with a beautiful view, especially during sunsets. Sometimes, I would go there for a swim and catch fish for me and my family. My dad taught me that."

You thought nothing of it at first. But when you took a bite out of your chicken, your brows furrowed down. "You don't mean that you go for a swim in the sea and then catch fish with your bare hands, do you?"

"Hey, if it works, it works. And besides, it builds skill."

And as always, he would reply with a smile and a soft giggle. The type of smile that would make you forget he was a witch hunter. Especially since you sometimes found yourself laughing alongside him. You couldn't even laugh with your fellow witches, especially since you didn't know them fully. But him? It was so easy to feel comfortable around him.

You couldn't tell when you stopped noticing his witch hunter uniform. You couldn't remember when you started calling him Phainon instead of Flame Reaver. You only realized that you stopped noticing it when you saw Phainon walking down the street one day, talking to another witch hunter. You stiffened at the sight of his companion, only for you to look at him and realize he was wearing the same thing.

At the end of the day, he still wants you and your people dead. You kept repeating that to yourself whenever you felt too comfortable around him. You were going to enjoy being treated like a normal person for now. Because it surely wasn't going to last long.

Lately, you had been sleeping in your old room in Aglaea's house. With how much work she was going to do, you found it best to be there in the morning when she needed you. You would have to wake up earlier than her so you could prepare breakfast or make a quick trip to the market if you ran out of a few things. Like right now, where you had to buy breakfast in the diner instead and a new bag of coffee beans because you ran out of coffee.

When you returned to Aglaea's house, Phainon was passing by. It wasn't unusual to see him around here early in the morning, even if you were still suspicious of him. He was most likely assigned to patrol the streets at night. You had no intentions of starting a conversation. Despite that, he still saw you. He lifted his head to your direction and waved.

"Morning," he said. His voice was hoarse, and the dark circles that were slowly fading from his face were back under his eyes.

"Morning. You look like you hadn't gotten any sleep."

He sighed and scratched the back of his neck. "Technically, I had five hours of sleep before I had to go back to work." He paused and moved closer to you. "I've been… investigating the borders of Okhema lately. I can't tell you the full details, but there's been a rise of Black Tide creatures lurking at the edges of the city."

That made sense. They must have sensed that Aglaea's threads were starting to grow weaker. Fortunately, she was able to replenish her energy and refresh the spell before any more of them would be able to break inside.

"Speaking as someone who's lived here their entire life," you said, "I wouldn't be too worried about that if I were you. Okhema's never had to worry about the Black Tide, and I don't think we would ever have to worry about it at all." Until the inevitable day that you would replace Aglaea and think about keeping the barrier up even while you were asleep, but let's not talk about that right now.

"It's an interesting thing if you ask me," he said. "There's a lot of cities and villages that have fallen to the Black Tide. It's impressive how Okhema's still holding up to the point where it can accept refugees."

"I guess you're right." You held back a smirk and the retorts that you thought of. Yeah, how interesting that something was holding corrupted magic back. Surely, magic couldn't be the cause? Witches wanted the Black Tide to corrupt people, after all. Why would a witch protect Okhema?

"That just gives me more reason to want to investigate it. If the Black Tide reaches Okhema, so many people would lose their lives. I guess that means I should go back to work."

"Hey, wait," you said before he could leave. "Do you want my coffee?"

"Me?" He pointed a finger at himself. "It's fine. I think you need it more than I do. Especially with the amount of work you and Lady Aglaea are going to be doing."

"It's fine, I can make my own. Besides, you look like you might pass out soon. You don't want that to happen while you're in the forest, do you?"

The corners of his lips curled up. "Depends, will you be there to catch me like how I caught you?"

You rolled your eyes. "Never mind, forget I said anything. Collapse for all I care."

"Hey, come on, I was joking!" And like the numerous times you've spent with him, the two of you shared a laugh. His gaze softened as he took one of the coffee from your hands. "This'll definitely help, thank you. You have a good day, alright?"

"You, too."

You went back to Aglaea's house and set the dining table. Just in time, as she had just woken up as well. While she sat down to start eating, you made your own coffee first before joining her. Just as you were about to take a spoonful of your yogurt with honey and nuts, you noticed her staring at you from the corner of your eye. Sure enough, when you faced her, her arms were on the table as she held her hands together, and her head was tilted to the side.

"Is… is something wrong?" you asked.

"Nothing. It's just that… you've been spending more time with that witch hunter boy lately." A faint laugh left her. "You truly take things to an extreme, don't you? When I said to not be paranoid around him, I didn't think it would mean that he would start becoming a regular part of your life."

A scoff left your lips. "You make it sound like I've met someone life changing. I'm just being polite."

"Of course, of course. Still, it's nice to know that you have a friend you feel comfortable with."

You almost choked on that. "Friend? Now you're being ridiculous and too generous. We're simply two acquaintances who eat together and nothing more. Besides, he's a witch hunter. He's the last person I would want to consider my friend."

She sighed, but the smile on her face didn't fade. "I will be the first person to tell you that it is worrying you're spending a lot of time with a witch hunter, but I don't think I can recall a time when you're this close to anyone that isn't a teacher."

You placed your bowl of yogurt down, and your grip on the spoon tightened. How could you even begin to explain what you were feeling right now? Sure, Aglaea was a witch like you, but no one ever looked her way and spat on her feet because she could be cursed. If anything, she was one of, if not the, most revered people in the city. Maybe even more than the Council. Everyone always sung her praises about her beauty and elegance.

"It's… complicated," you said. "But I guess that means I should be on guard again. I really don't want to fall off into the other extreme end this time."

"It's good to be wary without being paranoid. However, don't let me stop you from befriending him. Especially since I notice that your eyes light up whenever you two have conversations outside of my shop."

If Aglaea told you that a year ago, you were certain you would have collapsed on the spot. Even right now, your cheeks felt warm at the thought of Aglaea noticing a physical difference after your conversations with Phainon. However, you pushed all of it down. Your thoughts were a mess right now, and thinking about it more would make it messier. There was one part that was happy he was treating you like an equal. Another part was clashing against that thought and knew he still saw you as lesser. A small voice in your head believed that Phainon didn't know about your mother and that his actions were all innocent, while a voice louder than that one was screaming that this was all a trap and he knew what you were.

Before you could continue spiraling into a headache, Aglaea was already done with her breakfast and clapped her hands. "Enough idle chatter for now. Winter is coming soon, and the weather is only going to get colder from here on out. We still have a few scarves and robes we need to finish making. Once we're done, deliver them as usual. Alright?"

You finished your own breakfast and nodded. "Alright."

Aglaea sure is amazing. You could repeat that thought every single day and it you would never get sick of it. Her queue was already full for the rest of the month, maybe even for the rest of the year, but she still found some time to make warm clothes for the people that needed it. She was willing to set her customers aside for those who were suffering.

It was almost sundown when the two of you finished, though you didn't mind having to do it during the later hours. It was colder at night, which meant people who didn't have warmer clothes already needed it more. Which then meant they would be staying in one place to keep themselves warm.

This included the children running in the streets that "stole" your coin purse—they didn't know that you would intentionally hang it in a place that was easy to snatch—the refugees from other cities that still resided near the Marmoreal Temple, and those that, like you, lived at the edge of Okhema that they rarely entered the main city. It took a while to go around, and by the time you were almost done, it was almost late into the night.

Fortunately, you had one house left to visit. Another house at the far corner of Okhema. And fittingly, another witch lived there. You weren't close with him, but you had seen him a few times in the city before. And this wouldn't be your first time going to his home so you could provide him with something, whether it was food or clothes.

As soon as you reached his gate, you immediately stopped in your tracks. The corruption in the area… It felt strong. Stronger than the last time you encountered it. But that was impossible, Aglaea's threads were still here. A quick pinch of the air proved that. You couldn't even chalk this up to paranoia. The presence was strong, and it was nearby.

Your eyes widened as your heart started beating faster, and you ran to his front door. "Damionis? It's Lady Aglaea's kid. Can I come in?" you asked as you knocked.

Just as your knuckles made contact with the wood, a cold chill traveled down your spine, and every hair in your arms stood taller than a line. It was ajar. It was ajar. It was ajar.

It didn't ease the anxiety in your chest. If anything, it only made it worse. Was he okay? Was he inside his home? Aglaea's protection still covered his house, so that meant he should still be fine, right? Maybe the corruption was outside of the barrier and not inside. After all, how could the Black Tide enter while Aglaea was still doing her hardest to keep it up and strong?

You should run. You needed to run. His door was open, and the Black Tide's presence was so strong that even those not sensitive to magic might be able to feel it. If this was a case where Aglaea's barrier was becoming weaker to the point where, even if it was still around the Black Tide might be able to penetrate it, then that meant you would have to take her place soon. You needed to run.

You gripped the basket tighter as you stepped back. "I- I'm so sorry. I'm sorry."

"Sorry…"

Your eyes widened. Damionis' voice. A sigh left your lips, and slight relief filled your veins. He was inside his house. Maybe you could still help him out.

"Damionis? You in there? I'm coming in!"

"Coming in…"

The door opened. You reached for your basket, ready to give him the warm clothes Aglaea had made. But as the door opened and Damionis stepped outside, he stumbled down, falling to his knees. And when he pushed himself up, that was when you finally saw them. Black markings were all around his body, and his glowed in an eerie orange, almost glow, light. It pulsated, as if it was a heart that was still pumping.

And worst of all, red squares were covering half of his face, already eaten away his left eye.

"E- Damionis?" You took another step back. "What- what happened to you?"

"Happened… to you…" He screamed, which slowly turned into a roar so loud you had to cover your ears. For a brief second, he gasped, and the squares on his face dissolved. One of his hands reached out to you, but the other one grabbed it and pushed it down.

"R- Run… run, run, run! Let me- let me die here… run before I can…"

Another roar. This time, you didn't bother covering your ears. You ran out of his property, not bothering to remove your cloak that got caught between his gate. If his earlier roars didn't attract anyone's attention yet, then you were certain that him breaking his fence just to chase after you at least alerted the nearest house. And you prayed to all twelve gods above that the one who noticed it wouldn't be a witch hunter. It didn't matter if it was Zagreus or Nikador. You folded your hands together, almost begging that it would be a witch. You even prayed to Mnestia that Aglaea would somehow find you and appear with a method to cure Damionis.

But not a witch hunter. Anyone but a witch hunter. If he was going to die, then not like that. Not at their hands.

Maybe you could use magic. Maybe if you were smart about this, you could hold him down and use your own magic to clear his mind.

You turned around to see just how close he was, and you immediately regretted your decision to do so. It wasn't Damionis behind you anymore. Rather, it was something else. Something that you had only seen outside of Okhema, when either Aglaea or Professor Anaxa was teaching how attack and defend yourself against them. Damionis was long gone now, and in his place was a Black Tide creature.

Damionis raised his arms, now nothing but sharp blades, in the air, and you gritted your teeth. No, you couldn't use magic right now. It would be too risky. You needed to grab something to parry the blade.

Just as you were about to jump to your right, something ran past you. A flash of black and purple, followed by the sound of a blade clanging against another blade. A witch hunter stood in front of you, their large sword clashed against Damionis' corrupted arms. The witch hunter, however, was stronger. With a grunt of effort, they were able to slash their blade forward, cutting Damionis in the middle.

Your hands clenched into fists, and you looked away. Hopefully… hopefully, he didn't feel that in his final state.

"Are you okay?"

You lifted your head and turned to the witch hunter in front of you. They removed their golden mask and hood, letting you see Phainon's furrowed brows and frown on his face. "You okay?" he repeated. "That thing didn't hurt you, did it? What happened?"

You shook your head. "I'm- I'm okay. Lady Aglaea just asked me to pass around warm clothes for everyone, and- and I reached Damionis' house and… wait, what are you doing here?"

"Do you remember what I told you this morning and I was investigating Okhema's borders? I've sensed the corruption since this evening, and I've been killing as much Black Tide creatures as I could to try and lessen it." A scoff left his lips, and you could see his hand tightening around his sword. "I knew I should have been faster when I heard that roar for the first time. If I wasn't, I would have been too late and you would—get down!"

Phainon pushed you away from your current spot, and the two of you fell to the ground. Your head landed on his chest, and you found yourself trapped between his arms as he broke your fall. Your body still burned in pain, even when he helped you sit up, but you knew you would have been in a worse situation if he didn't catch you.

"Thank you," you muttered. "That fall sounded painful. Are you—"

You wanted to run. Wanted to get up and leave him behind. But you didn't. Couldn't. Your legs were frozen, breath stuck in your throat. The lack of a cloak covering you didn't help the sudden cold, either.

It was like your brain was just suddenly realizing what you were seeing. Flame Reaver slowly stood in front of you, wearing his witch hunter uniform again. And just like that night, his eyes were sharp and narrowed down, the light gone from his eyes again. You weren't the source or recipient of his anger, at least not yet, but you could still feel the pure hatred from his murderous glare.

"These wretched witches only know how to destroy and take from everyone," he growled as he picked up his sword from the ground. In front of him, Damionis was slowly standing up, legs lowered to a stance as if ready to strike him any time. "I don't know who cursed you with corruption, but I can assure you that I will end them with my blade and send them to Thanatos' eternal flames of damnation. And… I'm sorry that it has to end like this."

At that moment, you couldn't look. Not at Flame Reaver, not at Damionis, not at the people who had stepped out of their homes to see what was going on. You could only stare at the ground beneath you, feeling your heart and stomach twist. If you could, you would have thrown up. But even if bile would rise in your throat right now, you didn't know if you would be able to take it out of your body or if you would swallow it back down.

You wanted to scream at him that Damionis was a witch. That nobody cursed him, and that his corruption was a side effect of residual magic that witches couldn't cleanse because people were killing them left and right. You wanted to tell him that his title as Flame Reaver was useless if he couldn't tell something like that and even prayed for Damionis to receive eternal rest. And most of all, you wanted to tell him that he was basically condemning Aglaea, the woman who was the reason why the Black Tide was only starting to affect Okhema now and not years ago.

You had reminded yourself that, at the end of the day, Flame Reaver was a witch hunter. The only reasons why he was kind to you was either because he didn't know your history or because he was using his kindness as a means to lure you in for a confession. And yet, hearing him say that out loud…

Perhaps you were an idiot for feeling human around a witch hunter.

Of course you were an idiot. How many pleasant interactions did you two actually have? Pleasant interactions wouldn't be enough to change the truth. They never were.

You didn't look up until you felt a hand on your shoulder. Flame Reaver knelt down in front of you. Behind him, you could see what remained of Damionis slowly turn into smaller squares before fading away. More witch hunters started approaching, but you didn't bother listening to what they were saying.

"Hey," he whispered, thumb rubbing your cheek. "Did you know him?"

"Vaguely." Not as much as you wanted. Which perfectly described how you felt with every witch the Council and witch hunters had killed. "I- I don't talk to him much outside of the city… and- and like I said. I only came to his house because Lady Aglaea told me to hand out warmer clothing to people who needed it, and- and his house was my last stop, and…"

You took a sharp inhale as a few tears finally fell down your eyes. You were crying, and it wasn't even because you lost someone you knew. Sure, it also pained you because you didn't get to know him properly, but that wasn't the main reason, no. Rather, Flame Reaver's words earlier hurt. You could feel the fire in them, and it burned you on the inside.

And it was even more painful when he looked at you like that. With his brows furrowed down, lips opening and closing as if debating what to say, and the softest and brightest blue eyes not leaving your gaze.

Why was he looking at you like this? Why was he looking at you in such confusion? How could eyes that reflected a sunny and warm sky also carry the fiery rage of eternal damnation?

"It's okay," he whispered. "It's- it's okay. Here, let me help you up again."

"It's fine." Even if your legs were shaking, you pushed yourself up.

A crowd was forming now. You could hear people were talking about how a Black Tide creature managed to enter Okhema, and no doubt they were twisting the tale to make it worse than it seemed. You grabbed your cloak and—dammit. That was right. Your cloak got caught in Damionis' gate and you didn't bother getting it back or else you would have been caught.

"Here." He removed his own cloak and wrapped it around you. It was warm, but not in the same way that Aglaea's works kept you warm. Rather, you could still feel he warmth of his body on it, alongside a faint scent of bulrush and… ashes. "It's a little tattered, but it'll keep you warm."

Before you could thank him, he grabbed the hood and pulled it up, covering your head completely. You were about to say your thanks, but the crowd parted as someone stepped inside. Even when he stood in front of you, you were still able to see Lygus walk to the spot where Damionis disappeared. His hands remained behind his back, and a deep sigh left his lips.

"Corruption has entered Okhema," he said as he scanned the crowd, making you step back even more. "This is what happens when we let witches run amok without punishment. Our own people are turning into monsters of their creation, and they feel no remorse."

You bit your tongue, this time literally, as you resisted the urge to talk back. If he knew that Damionis was a witch, he wouldn't be making these sentiments. Instead, he would probably be rejoicing, saying that a witch was finally facing the consequences of their actions and that this should be a sign of repentance.

"Our witch hunters will be increasing security for tonight," he continued. "We will be implementing a stricter curfew for the rest of the Month of Weaving. Anyone found outside of their homes by Curtain-Fall Hour will be taken into the Marmoreal Temple for questioning. And if we find any witches… pray that the gods you have chosen to abandon will not abandon you."

You heard Lygus talk to the witch hunters with him, but you didn't bother listening to what they said. Instead, you stayed where you were and waited for all of them to part. Once they were gone, only then did you let the sigh of relief leave your lips.

"Let me walk you home," said as he approached you again. "It's dangerous right now. Let me at least make sure that you make it back to Lady Aglaea safely."

You wanted to decline, but you knew that wasn't the right choice between two terrible options. You either walk with him, or worry about witch hunters who were extra alert and no doubt would interrogate any lone person they saw.

So instead, you grabbed the hood of the cloak and nodded. "Okay… thank you."

"Of course."

You kept your head low as you walked back to Aglaea's house. Once or twice, you saw a witch hunter approach you from the corner of your eyes. But every time you tensed up, Phainon would place his arms you and pull you closer to his side. You couldn't see his face from under the hood, but his hold on you was firm. You thought he was going to take you to the Marmoreal Temple, and you held your breath each time you found a familiar path that would lead to it. But he never did. He just held you.

When Aglaea's home came into view, you stopped in your tracks. No doubt she was using her magic right now. While you didn't worry about Phainon being near Aglaea's house during the morning, it was a different discussion if she was actively using it.

"I can walk by myself now," you whispered. "Thanks."

"Of course. And… and I'm sorry about earlier. You shouldn't have seen that. I'm sorry."

You shook your head. "It's fine. It's not my first time seeing a Dark Tide creation die. And I'm sure it won't be the last."

"That's not what I- never mind. Take care of yourself, alright? There are people out there who care about you and would lose sleep if something happens to you."

Your grip on your cloak tightened. Right. Lady Aglaea must have at least seen what was going on from her window. You were so focused on your own worries and pointless feeling of betrayal that you had forgotten about her. "You're right. I should at least let Lady Aglaea know I'm okay. Thanks again for walking me."

"Right. Sure."

You turned around and—

"I'm glad you're feeling better around me."

Your brows furrowed down as you faced him again. "Excuse me?"

"I- I said I'm glad you're feeling better around me."

"What do you mean? Where is this coming from?"

"Nothing. It's just that… I remembered how you wouldn't even look at my direction when we used to talk back then. And it makes me happy knowing you've warmed up to me, you know? It's like… I can be someone you can trust." It was faint and unlike him, but there was a small and barely noticeable smile on his lips as his brows raised a little. "Well, at least I hope can become someone you can trust."

That was impossible, and you knew that. It didn't matter how close the two of you would become, or if he would turn from an acquaintance you regularly ate with to someone you could call a friend. The mere fact that he was a witch hunter and you were a witch meant that, no matter what would happen, you could never trust him. Whether as Phainon or as the Flame Reaver.

And yet…

"I also hope you can become someone I trust," you replied.

Phainon sighed. He almost sounded relieved. "Well, goodnight. For- for real this time. I don't have anything else to say. Goodnight."

You waited for Phainon to be out of sight before you continued walking. When you opened the door to Aglaea's shop, darkness wasn't what greeted you. Rather, it was none other than Aglaea herself. Her eyes were wide, and her steps were a bit faster than usual as she approached you.

You pressed a palm on the door, adding numerous layers of locks and magic. "Aglaea! A- Are you alright? Did anything happen to you?"

"I caught wind of the gossip on the street," she said as she placed her hands on your shoulder. "Enough about me. How are you? They didn't hurt you, did they?"

You shook your head. "No, I- I'm fine. Don't think about me for now. Please, tell me how you are first. Your threads still covered every inch of Okhema, but the Black Tide somehow reached Damionis and corrupted him. Please, please, tell me if you're okay, Aglaea. There shouldn't be corruption while you're still protecting everyone, but somehow there is one now."

Aglaea looked down. She grabbed your hand, leading you to the living room before sitting you down. It was rare to see her like this. Usually, even if she didn't want to answer your questions, she would either tell you directly that she couldn't answer it or she would deflect with a different answer. But right now, she was quiet as she stared at her hands, watching as her golden threads appeared between them.

"Do you remember the time you asked me why I finished Phainon's clothes so early when I still had an extra month left?" she whispered.

"You said that your queue wasn't that long and you wanted to rest during the Month of Freedom was well," you replied, keeping your voice as low as hers or else you would shatter the fragile silence between you both. "That… that was just an excuse, right?"

"I can tell that my hold on Okhema has been weakening lately. The barriers are faltering, corruption is leaking in. Since the Month of Weaving was close during that time, I didn't want to alert you. So instead, I finished all of his clothes early so he has no excuse to be near the shop. And with his clothes done, I'll be able to rest just until I can replenish my energy. But it seems like it wasn't enough. I won't be able to hold the barrier for longer."

"Why- why didn't you tell me? It would have spared you the troubles!"

"You were already worried that a witch hunter was on your tail. If I told you that, then you'll insist on taking my place. But I can't let you do that. Not with your anxieties still bothering you."

Your arms fell to your side as your eyes widened. This was your fault. If you just hadn't been too paranoid around Flame Reaver, if you weren't so reckless that you would be worrying about him finding you out, then Aglaea wouldn't have to worry about you. You were so focused on your own fears that you forgot she was thinking about your every move as well.

"That means I'm not ready to take your place, then." Your earlier tears returned, and you covered your face with your hands. "Your magic is growing weaker by the minute, and… and I'm still not ready to replace you… "

"Oh, darling. Come here."

When she opened her arms, you didn't hesitate to return her hug. Like what you always did when you were a child, you would bury your face in her chest while she hummed a soft melody under your breath, and the fire crackling in the hearth the only thing breaking the quiet.

"I'm so sorry," you whispered. "You're doing your best to protect everyone, and- and here I am, thinking about myself."

"Don't feel bad for doing so. You need to prioritize yourself, too."

"But- but your magic… If the day comes when you can't even squeeze out a single gold thread anymore, I won't be ready to replace you. How can I protect everyone here when I don't even know if I'm protecting myself properly?"

"That day will not be arriving for a long time. As long as I still stand and cast spells, I can protect Okhema." She sighed and patted your head. "But if it makes you feel better… Like I told you before, even I wasn't ready to replace my former teacher. It's a daunting task, so please know that everything you're feeling right now is normal. You just have to do the task once the day arrives."

"I wish I didn't have to… I'm sure cleansing the Black Tide would have been easier than forcing you to continue this thankless job."

"Believe me, there are people out there who are grateful, even if the entire city won't appreciate you." She paused and sat taller. "Whatever happened to your cloak? Or is that even yours?"

"My…" You looked at where she was staring at, and your eyes widened. "Wait this isn't mine! This is…"

Phainon's. Crap. You were inside Aglaea's house. If you would return this to him now, then no doubt he would be able to sense even the faintest of magic that clung on to this. You would have to do a lot of cleaning first just to get rid of its presence.

You took it off your shoulders and held it in front of you. It was large, and the ends were torn and tattered. There were multiple patches that sealed what looked like burn marks, and the part that connected the hood to the cape was crudely stitched together. Almost as if he sewed it in for the sake of having the pieces be connected.

"It's old," you muttered.

Aglaea held it up as well. "Would you like me to fix it?"

"No. It's already a problem that I accidentally brought it with me. I wonder if he did this on purpose or…"

"I hope I can be someone you trust," Phainon had told you earlier.

You shook your head. "Or maybe he was just being nice."

That thought would never even cross your mind before, especially when you two first met. And it might be cruel, but you would have burned the cloak. The idea was still tempting, and you almost voiced that suggestion. But as you stared at the stitch on the hood, you couldn't help but think of Phainon in the middle of the night, trying to think of the easiest way to fix his ruined garment, and then deciding that if a haphazard stitch worked, then it was better to leave it like that than to leave it ruined.

An idea almost entered your head. But at the same time, you remembered how he looked when he killed Damionis, the words that left his lips and reminded you of how different you two were.

Your grip on it tightened. "I'm being ridiculous, aren't I?"

"What makes you say?"

"I… I'm thinking of making him a new one when I was just scared of him killing me earlier."

You thought Aglaea would be unamused with the idea. After all, why on earth would she use her magic or teach you how to make a cloak for a witch hunter of all people? And didn't he just condemn you all to eternal damnation earlier? Why on earth were you thinking of making something from scratch for him? You could just find one of Aglaea's premade cloaks and say it was a gift from her, and then it would be done.

Aglaea, however, smiled. Her blue and green eyes lit up a little as her brows slightly raised and lips relaxed. "Would you like me to teach you how?"

You shook your head. "No… I… I don't know. Maybe no. Not yet. I'm not sure."

"Well, if you change your mind, you can always ask me anytime."

"Now I'm sure I'm being ridiculous."

"You're opening up your heart to someone for the first time after keeping it locked up for so long." She grabbed Phainon's cloak and rolled it in her hands, perhaps to wash it later. "New experiences are always intimidating and make us worry we'll pick the wrong choice."

"Am I picking the wrong choice, then?" You leaned your back against the couch and wrapped your arms around yourself. "What's the point of opening up my heart if it's going to get me killed someday? Why couldn't it have opened up to anyone else? Someone who I won't have to worry about becoming my executioner in the future?"

Your vision was starting to blur. Great, just great. You were crying again. You didn't want to cry right now, especially not to some guy you just met less than half a year ago.

You always feared every witch hunter and member of the Council finding you out someday and burning you alive. But at the thought of Phainon being the one to do that… it wasn't just fear that coiled around your heart. It was something stronger than that. You didn't know what that exact feeling was just yet. After all, you two weren't even friends. How could he affect you this much?

As you wiped your tears, you stood up. " Why am I feeling this way?"

"Like I said; you're opening up your heart for the first time after keeping it locked up for so long. As for why you opened it to a witch hunter… I'm afraid I can't say for certain. Perhaps you'll understand in the future." She pressed a soft kiss to your forehead and smiled. "Get some sleep, love. It's late at night, and you've had an exhausting day. Some rest will help your head.

You nodded as you returned to your room. Once you were on your bed, you rolled to your side and stared at your closed curtains. For a moment, in the darkness, you saw a flash of dull blue, shooting you a cold and hard glare while its owner held a large sword. In the next, those same blue eyes softened and lit up, and you could see a smile that matched their gentle gaze.

You sighed and shut your eyes. Aglaea was right, you needed to sleep. By morning, your mind would clear up, and you would chide yourself for being ridiculous and having these thoughts about a witch hunter.

V. I’ve Lost My Faith and Myself All The Same

Back then, when the Black Tide wasn't as bad as it was right now, you always heard about other cities waging war with one another during the Month of Strife. In fact, the now-fallen Castrum Kremnos was one of those cities whose bloodlust would never be satiated. At least you could always think to yourself that Okhema would never be one of those places that would just mindlessly declare war as if it was a hobby. Everyone in the Holy City wanted to preserve everything and everyone as much as possible, after all. You could just ignore the gossip and talks about war and just enjoy the fact that winter was here, and that it was a fair trade to replace your garden in exchange for the beautiful snow.

That was when you were younger. Now, the Month of Strife was your least favorite month.

Now that the Calamity Season was here, you would be living with Aglaea again just until the weather would become warmer and spring would arrive. Though sometimes, you would return to your cottage and sleep there instead. Aglaea's house was near Kephale Plaza, which meant that you would be hearing the executions every night. Prisoners or witches that weren't killed months before all had their death days scheduled for this month, and it would only stop once the Month of Mourning would finally come.

Every dinner, the smell of burning hair and flesh would make you lose your appetite and throw up. You would lose your appetite and skip dinner, sometimes even breakfast if, somehow, the smell still hadn't faded away. Perhaps it was the amount of people they started burning together at the same time, or perhaps your body just refused to forget the smell, but you couldn't escape it even in the Marmoreal Diner.

You sighed as you leaned back on your seat, rubbing your temples. You were hungry, and you didn't eat anything but bread or cheese and crackers for almost three days now. But could you even eat anything that would fill your stomach without thinking that you might be eating a person?

"Hey." When you lifted your head, Phainon stood next to your booth and waved. For a second, you thought he was wearing his uniform. But when you blinked, you realized it was just one of the black clothes Aglaea made.

"Hey," you greeted back.

"Do you… mind if I sit here?"

You shook your head. This was where the two of you ate together, anyway. It would be rude if you declined. He sat in front of you and sighed.

"You look… awful," he said with a small chuckle, but his smile immediately faded away. "S- Seriously. Are you alright?"

"No. I just… I'm just hungry. I haven't been eating properly lately."

"I… I understand. Lady Aglaea's house is near the…" He shook his head and cleared his throat. "If you're feeling hungry but can't stomach meat, then might I suggest a salad?"

"I don't know if that'd be enough to make me full, but if you suggest, then sure. I guess I'll have a salad as well."

When the Cery salad arrived, you were doubting if it could really satiate your hunger. After all, it was just a bunch of leaves and croutons. But when you finished the bowl, you were surprised at how satisfied you felt. Sure, you were still a little hungry, but you weren't as hungry as you thought you'd be. If you truly still wanted to eat something, then maybe the cheese and crackers you had been eating for days now would help. Even if you were sick of them.

"I'm surprised that actually hit the spot," you said as you finished your glass of water.

"Hey, don't underestimate how much a salad can help," Phainon replied, before a sigh left his lips. "It's what I would eat whenever the smell of meat just feels… overwhelming. Sometimes, I would skip eating meat for so many months and just eat nothing but vegetables."

A small hum left your lips. You remembered wondering about that as a child. You would see the witch hunters dining together either in the Marmoreal Diner or any other tavern, eating meat by the bone and laughing as they got drunk together. And you always felt resentful, because you would sometimes not eat the delicious food Aglaea would cook for you because you couldn't stomach anything.

As always, he would walk you back to Aglaea's house. And as always, you would stop before he could even reach the front door. "Thank you. I thought my trip to the diner would have been a waste, but I'm glad"—I'm glad you were there—"that I was able to eat something."

"Of course." Phainon nodded. "And… if you can, please send Lady Aglaea my thanks. For the new clothes, I mean. It's the first time I was able to change into something else that didn't smell like ashes."

"I'll let her know."

And when you went back inside, you palmed your face and gritted your teeth. His cloak. You forgot to return his cloak again.

That night, when you couldn't sleep, you stared at the cloak folded neatly on your nightstand. The thought of making him a new one returned to your head again, but another voice pushed it down and silenced any more thoughts about it. Would making him a new one really be worth it when, right now, he contributed to innocent people, your people, being burned to death?

Whenever the noise outside grew stronger, a part of you was always tempted to sneak out of the house and just return to your cottage. Loud didn't even begin to describe how much it hurt your ears. It didn't matter if it was the angry mob yelling curses or the screams of the innocent. They always reminded you of that night.

It was like you were there again, kneeling on the ground as you watched your mother burn. She didn't even try to fight back. She just stared at you, tears falling down her empty eyes, as the fire devoured her alive. What did she tell you that night? Did she even say anything? Why could you never remember how her mouth moved? Was she smiling? Crying? Praying?

"Mother, please tell me what you're saying." You were also crying now, and you couldn't stop the sobs from leaving you. "Mother, don't- don't leave me like this… not you, too."

Your mother opened her mouth… and screamed. A scream that tore through your ears and pierced your chest. Covering your ears didn't help; it only made her screams louder. As if her voice was coming from your brain and not from her.

"Mother!"

You sat up from your bed and gasped. It was a cold winter night, but sweat was trickling down your forehead. The fire in your hearth crackled, but the one from the stake outside was still louder. And of course, the scream. Or screams, as it sounded like they were killing people at the same time again. Even when you hid under your pillows, it still didn't block the noise out.

Hopefully, Aglaea was sleeping peacefully in her room. Hopefully, unlike you, she wasn't going crazy from hearing so many people die while even more people celebrate.

A sigh left your lips as you stood up. It wasn't like you could sleep now, anyway. You might as well go for a walk and maybe return to your cottage. You grabbed your cloak and left a note on Aglaea's table. That way, she wouldn't be worried if she wouldn't find you in the morning.

The crowd was large when you went outside; you could see the end of it from all the way here. Perhaps it was because they were killing more than one person at the same time, and so more people were watching as well. The flames were large, and you could see them from here. You pulled your hood up before one could notice you and turned around.

But… morbid curiosity gnawed at your stomach. Wouldn't it be interesting to see who was dying? And even if you shook that thought away, it still held on to your head, repeating it. It was almost as if you could hear its hoarse voice whispering in your ears. It would be futile if you went there, even if it was just because you were curious. If it was a witch you knew, you would resent the Council for killing more of your people. If it wasn't, you would still resent them for their negligence. And yet, a part of you still wanted to entertain that thought.

Regardless of what you would have picked, it didn't matter. A pair of footsteps were approaching you. Before you could take a step away, someone called your name. A voice that had once been the source of your nightmares.

"It seems like Aglaea has a habit of taking in mongrels," Caenis said, venom dripping from her tone.

Your brows furrowed down, but you didn't linger on that thought. Instead, you gave her a respectful bow. "Good evening, Elder Caenis."

"A good evening indeed. I didn't expect you to come out." She placed a hand on her hips as her eyes narrowed to a cold glare. It was the same glare she gave you when your mother had convinced the Council of Elders you were an innocent child, but she didn't believe a single word.

You still remember what she told you when she found out Aglaea took you in. "If it weren't for that woman, you wouldn't be here standing. You would be burning in Thanatos' eternal flames with your mother."

And she was right. It was only because of Aglaea that you were still alive. You would have been living in the streets, either taken advantage of or die from the Council's hand anyway. People might still be suspicious of you, but just hearing someone refer to you as "Lady Aglaea's kid" was enough to silence them.

Caenis wasn't one of those people. But fortunately, she was in the minority who couldn't actually do anything about it.

"I don't want to be too much of a bother, Elder Caenis," you said. "I'm not here to cause trouble; I just went out for a walk."

"A walk where? How can I be sure you're not going to secretly going to commune with the devils of the Black Tide?"

"Because I'll make sure that's not going to happen."

Phainon… Your eyes widened when he approached you both. His Flame Reaver mask made you jump up at first, but you still let out a small sigh of relief when you saw him.

He removed his mask from his face, letting you see his brows furrow down as he shot Caenis a glare. "She's not bothering you, is she?"

Caenis scoffed. "Flame Reaver. What are you doing here now? Aren't you supposed to be with Lygus and watching over the executions?"

"Forgive me for moving from my post and interrupting then, Elder Caenis." His eyes softened as he met your gaze. "Well, I saw my friend here. And didn't you hear me? I'll watch over them and make sure no communing with the Black Tide devils or witchcraft would happen. Not while I'm here."

If it was possible, Caenis' glare hardened even more. You saw the way her hands balled into fists as she scoffed. "Forget it. If you want to deal with this brat, then be my guest. And you." She pointed a finger at you. "If anything happens to him, don't bother showing yourself if you still want to live."

Even when she left you both alone, you could still hear her muttering curses under her breath. In the past, her glares and harsh words always made chills run down your spine, even if the winter night was freezing already. But when Phainon placed his arm around your form, pulling you away from her and close to him, everything felt… warmer. If it weren't for the fact that there was still an execution nearby, you would have closed your eyes and allow yourself to get lost in his embrace.

"I'd say don't mind her," he said, "but you've probably been trying to do that for years now."

"You've no idea." When you sighed, fog formed in front of your face. "Thanks for saving me back there."

"Of course. What kind of friend would I be if I left you hanging?"

Friend. He used the same word earlier when he saved your skin from Caenis. You were too focused on the fact that you almost got dragged to the Marmoreal Temple to notice it the first time. Did he even mean it when he said that, or did he just say it so Caenis would leave you alone?

"If you don't mind me asking," he continued, "why are you out? You don't have to answer if you don't want to. I'm just curious. And, well, maybe nosy."

"Couldn't sleep properly, so I thought of going for a walk." You tried to turn to where the pyre was again, but you immediately turned your head away before you could see more. "Okhema's actually not bad during winter nights. It's a nice time for a walk, but the curfew and witch hunters on patrol makes it a little difficult for me to enjoy it."

"I see." He placed his free hand on his nape and cleared his throat. "If you're having difficulty sleeping, then may I suggest a place where you and I can go to? It's got this great view of the stars, and the grass is mostly frost rather than snow, so it wouldn't be too cold."

Somehow, you managed a smile. "That's impressive. Even I don't know a great view like that."

Mostly because you never had the time to explore anything outside of Okhema. The only times you went out of the city, and by extension Aglaea's threads, was whenever Professor Anaxa took you out to practice your magic better. But other than that, you couldn't really explore the city or its exterior as much. Witch hunters might find your nightly rendezvous suspicious, and you would be dealing with Black Tide creations so much that you wouldn't be able to appreciate your surroundings.

He returned your smile with a laugh of his own. "Well, it is a little walk away from here, maybe for fifteen minutes or less. But if you're worried about any monsters or dangers, I can assure you. The walk there is safe. And if we do bump into anything, I'll protect you."

A fifteen minute walk… it was already away from Aglaea's protections. And if Phainon was planning to do anything, then you would be too far from her to call for help. This wasn't even paranoia; he was leading you to an obvious trap.

"I don't know," you said. "Fifteen minutes sounds like it would be long. I'm not sure if it would be safe."

"It will, I promise. I'll keep you safe." He placed his hand on his chest as his face softened. His brows raised a little, and though the smile on his face faded, he looked more relaxed like this. "Trust me. I won't let anyone hurt you. You've… become important to me."

You looked down, avoiding his gaze. It was so hard to believe in that when you knew he would hurt you if he knew what you were. If a Black Tide creature were to appear, you knew you wouldn't be able to stop yourself this time. Either the situation would call for it or your instincts would kick in, but you would have to use magic. And once Phainon would see that…

"I…" I don't trust you. I don't think I'll ever trust you. And I know for a fact that you don't trust me, either. "Will it just be you and me?"

Phainon's smile was a soft one, unlike his usual wide and goofy grins that would make you laugh. "You're the only person that I've shown this place to."

"Wow, I feel honored."

"You should be." And there it was, his usual goofy grin on his face. "I'm guessing that's a yes?"

You didn't know why you found yourself nodding and returning his smile, when this could lead you to your very death. And if you die, Aglaea would have to continue carrying the burden of protecting Okhema for more years and may not be able to train a new witch to take her place.

If you didn't notice the cold before, then it definitely hit you now. If you die, no one will be able to help ease Aglaea's burden. Say you change your mind. Tell him no and go back to sleep.

But before you could speak, Phainon had already nodded and stretched his hand out to you. "Allow me to lead the way, then."

Aglaea's words echoed in your head again. You were opening up your heart to someone new after keeping it locked up for so long. And you still didn't know why it opened up to a witch hunter of all people. You wanted to trust him a little, even if you still had your doubts.

Maybe… maybe you should go with him. Maybe you won't regret this. Maybe you should trust him, even if not wholeheartedly.

"Wait here a second," you said. "Let me just grab something inside."

You went back in the house, wrestling with your doubts again and resisting the urge to go back to bed, and grabbed his cloak from your nightstand. Once you were back outside, you passed it back to him. "I forgot to return it to you that night. But thank you."

You had washed this cloak several times just to make sure that not a single spot of magic clung to the fabric. Even so, your stomach still twisted when Phainon's hands brushed against yours as he took it from you. If he felt anything, he didn't say. Instead, he just put it on and smiled.

"I almost forgot about this old thing," he said. "I was wondering why it's been cold lately."

"Sorry about that again."

"It's just an old cloak. It's fine. Besides, it gave me an excuse to wear Lady Aglaea's clothes again for a change. They're definitely better than a tattered piece of cloth." He stretched his hand again. When you accepted, he locked his gloved fingers with yours. "Let's go, then."

Phainon's steps were slow as he led the way, but something told you he was excited. Perhaps it was the way you could see his subtle smile even though his back was facing you. Or maybe it was the way his hand would squeeze yours. And whenever he did, he would turn around and show you that wide grin you had associated with him, followed by a childish giggle. It was cute, really.

You knew you were out of Okhema when the air thinned. It was a little colder, as if Aglaea's threads was the reason why the city was warmer than it was supposed to be, and the winds picked up a little as you continued walking up a small mountainside. The entire time, Phainon never let go of you. Once or twice, he would turn around to check how you were doing. When it got even colder, he pulled you closer and moved his hand to your arms, pulling you closer to him so you could feel warm.

You shivered and gulped. Gods, please keep me safe from death. Please.

Like he promised, it was at least fifteen minutes when he finally stopped. A layer of frost covered the dark green grass, and the trees around you were minimal. You could see all of Okhema from up here, even your cottage at the outskirts. The pyre was still bright, but it paled in comparison to the thousands, perhaps even millions, of stars that dotted the night sky.

"They really do look prettier up here," you whispered.

"Don't they?"

"How'd you find this place?"

"When I first arrived here a few months ago, the Council of Elders told me to find as much witches as I could." He lied down, not caring that the ground beneath him was cold and snowy. "Lygus didn't stop bragging me to them, which then ended up me getting to work as soon as possible. One day, I just decided to leave for a bit and let my legs take me wherever. That was when I found this place and made it my hideout since."

He patted the spot next to him. You followed suit and also lied down. The ground was cold, but it wasn't unbearable. If anything, the temperature strangely felt comfortable.

"People never stopped talking about your reputation when you first arrived, you know," you said. "Whenever I went to the Marmoreal Market, I kept hearing this Flame Reaver from every merchant. Kept saying that you had a accurate nose for witches and that you're never wrong."

Phainon chuckled, but you could tell it was humorless. "You have Lygus to thank for that."

You almost scoffed. Yeah, thank Lygus for giving you for lighting your mother's pyre, your professor's pyre, and for spreading the word that the greatest witch hunter to have ever graced Amphoreus had arrived.

The last bit made you furrow your brows. "So… are you as good as he says you are? Like, are you really good at hunting down witches and not just…" Not just wrongfully accusing innocent people just to say you caught a witch?

The words never left your lips, but it seemed like he still understood. Phainon sighed, and fog formed in front of his face. "I suppose I am. I'm not sure what to call it, but I guess you can say I have a sixth sense for detecting witches."

You scooted further back. That voice in your head was yelling at you now. This was a mistake, this was a mistake, this was a mistake. But if you ask him to leave now, when you had just arrived and he started talking about his reputation and status, then that would be a dead giveaway.

You gulped and licked your lips. "Is that the reason why you became a witch hunter, then? Because you knew what to look for?"

He rolled over to his side, now fully facing you. Everything about him was so soft. From the way his eyes flicked down to your face before meeting your eyes again, to the way his white locks brushed against his forehead. "Not really. But, when I was a kid, maybe twelve years ago, the… the Black Tide destroyed my hometown. And- and I was the only survivor."

A gasp left you. "I- I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…"

"It's okay." He scooted closer. "Actually, there's- there's something else I want to tell you. Something I've never told anyone."

"Why are you telling me that, then?"

"Because I trust you."

Your heart clenched in your chest. If his words were true, if he really did trust you, then you couldn't help but feel guilt crawling up your neck. You would never be able to do the same for him.

"What is it, then?" you asked.

"Back in my village, I had a friend. Her name was Cyrene. And, well… she was a witch."

Your brows furrowed down at that. His childhood friend was a witch, but he was working as a witch hunter? If that were the case, then surely he must have known that witches weren't a disgrace to the gods and actually follow them too, didn't he?

"When we were younger," he continued, "she had this set of oracle cards that she said 'always spoke to her' and that they were a 'gift' from the God of Time. The other kids in the village and I would always go to her and ask about our future. They would always get excited if they got something cool, like "Warrior" or "Ruler", but throw a tantrum if it's something like "Drunkard" or "Devil" and demand a redo."

His laugh was as soft as he was. Even though he was looking at you, he was staring far off ahead, as if he was staring at something behind you that you couldn't see. He was already gentle, but somehow, his face became even softer. It was like you were looking at a completely different person.

No, not a different person. This was still Phainon. Just a side that you hadn't seen yet.

"So, what did you get?" you asked.

For a second, he was quiet, as if contemplating. After a beat, he grabbed something from his pocket and placed it between you two. It was an oracle card. Specifically, The Deliverer, a man carrying not just his heavy sword, but the weight of the world on his shoulders.

You always found oracle cards difficult to decipher. Before you found a god to devote yourself to, you remembered trying to read them as a kid, and then always getting frustrated that you couldn't hear a single murmur. Even followers of Oronyx had stated themselves that they were a difficult god to follow, and that one should not expect to hear any answers from oracle cards without rigorous training.

But somehow… you could feel the magic radiating from this card. It wasn't strong, but it was noticeable enough for other witch hunters to sense. How Phainon was able to hide this from the Council and his fellow witch hunters was beyond you. The only explanation you could come up was that they thought the magic they were feeling from him was from the witches he had hunted.

"This one," he continued. "The Deliverer. I always found it wrong that this was the one I got. The Deliverer is supposed to be this guy who's willing to carry something really, really, really heavy, but I never found myself to be super amazing. Back at home, I would just either tend to the sheep or help my father in the wheat fields."

"You never asked to draw another card?"

"I never saw the reason to. I mean, if I redo something because I don't like the result… then what's the point of divination?"

That just made things more confusing for you. One of his childhood friends was a witch. Since he said other kids also went to this girl, then that meant his village knew she was a witch. Not only did he keep an oracle card from her, he was also faintly aware of how divination worked and that asking for a do over would make it lose its power. No doubt if the Council of Elders caught wind of this, then they would ask him to burn his card and even punish him for keeping an item of witchcraft.

"So… why did you become a witch hunter, then?"

"When the Black Tide took my hometown, I- I don't know how, but I was the only one that survived. It took my friends, my family, my- my dog, I had to kill them while they were asking me for help, I"—he took a deep breath—"I thought I was going to die there as well. But then, Lygus found me."

A chill traveled down your spine, and your eyes widened. Lygus?

"He saw that I was the only survivor left," he continued. "He told me… things. That the reason why the Black Tide destroyed my village was because we had a witch, and that her magic was slowly corrupting everything until it caught up to us. And since I was clearly strong enough to survive the Black Tide and destroy its creations, he said that I had what it takes to become a Witch Hunter. After that, he took me in. Raised me, trained me—he couldn't be with me all the time, but he taught me everything I knew."

"I see…" It made sense now. You remembered how Lygus left Okhema for a few years back then. And, even when he came back, he would rarely stay long.

That was why Phainon earned his reputation. That was why Lygus was the one who spread that information. He raised Phainon ever since he lost his family.

His free hand reached for yours and squeezed it. "When I started my training and earned my title as a witch hunter, I started to believe that that was why I got the Deliverer card. The burden I have to carry… it's killing people if it means saving the world and ridding the Black Tide from Amphoreus. It's what I always told myself, at least."

You squeezed his hand in returned. "But why did you keep the card?"

"I guess it's because it's my last connection to home. Sometimes, I swear I can hear it talking to me, and I would get so scared. I would pray to the gods for protection from sin, and I always get tempted to throw it into the fire. But if I throw it away… I'm even more scared that I won't be who I am anymore."

Phainon sighed and smiled. Not his usual large grin. Not even the soft ones. While his lips still curled the same way, his eyes didn't have that same shine. The sky above you was full of stars, and yet not a single one reflected on his eyes' surface. "Sorry," he whispered. "I didn't intend for it to go that far. I didn't mean for you hear about my burdens."

You shook your head. "It's fine. I'm glad you told me this. Not because it means you trust me with your problems, but because I know it should be easier for you know that you've told it to someone."

"But I still trust you." One of his hands reached forward, wiping the snow from your cheek. "What about you? Do you trust me?"

The answer was easy: no. You didn't trust him. You didn't want to break his heart. Here he was, telling you the heaviest secret that had been dragging his shoulders down, and you would ruin the mood by saying you were a witch? The thing he had trained his entire life to destroy? You'd be a monster to shatter him like that.

But his childhood friend was a witch. Doesn't that mean that you might be able to change his mind about you?

You immediately pushed that thought away. It didn't matter if you were an exception to his rule. Not when he was still hurting people like you.

You rolled away from him and faced the sky. "Did you mean what you said earlier? About me being your friend, I meant."

"You're the first genuine friend I've had since I left Aedes Elysiae."

"We've known each other for half a year. Maybe even less."

"Is that not enough time for genuine friendship to form?"

"It's too quick of a time to decide if you truly see the other person as your friend."

"Well, I see you as one." He pocketed the Deliverer card and held your hands. He didn't pull you to him, just held you. "I mean it when I said that. It's like… it's like I've been holding my breath for twelve years, but you reminded me how to breathe."

You faced him again. He was closer this time. You could feel his hair against your forehead, the way it was warmer if you scooted closer to him even more. You could even feel his breath on your nose.

Your fingers fiddled with his own. "Can… can I tell you something, too?"

He nodded. "Of course."

You may not be able to tell him that you were a witch, but perhaps you could tell him something similar. It would be the same thing, anyway.

"My…" Your voice crack. Gods, why did it have to be now? "I lost my mother twelve years ago. She… she confessed to being a witch, and the Council executed her for it."

Phainon paused. And for some reason, he laughed. Not the mocking type of laugh, no. It was the usual Phainon laugh when he found something amusing or interest. And maybe you were hearing things, but he sounded relieved when he sighed. "I don't think that counts as a secret when everyone knows about that."

"What? What do you mean?"

"Come on, even I knew that."

"No." You shook your head and stood up. "No you- you did? You know?"

"Of course I did." He sat up as well. "It was one of the first things they told me when I arrived in Okhema. How did Lygus say it again? Oh." He cleared his throat and deepened his voice, mimicking Lygus' voice. "Do be careful with the little florist in the city. You will hear people say that they're Aglaea's child, but do not listen to those words. Aglaea merely took an orphan in. Her child is not her own, but a witch's. Or something like that. And besides, you don't even look anything like Lady Aglaea. It was easy to figure out once I saw your face."

"O- Oh."

Of course. Of course he knew. Everyone in the city knew, even those who came to Okhema to seek refuge. Why would you think that one person wouldn't know about it? Even if Lygus didn't tell him, then no doubt the merchants would have. They had seen you with him before, so certainly they would have warned him about you whenever he was in the markets by himself.

You didn't realize it, but tears were falling down your eyes now, and sobs were escaping your lips. Idiot, idiot, idiot! You opened your heart to a witch hunter, and now look where it got you?

The smile on Phainon's face fell. "What- what's wrong?"

"I'm sorry. It's just- are you sure you've known all this time?"

"Why is it so difficult to understand that I have?"

"Because if you knew that, then you wouldn't have been nice to me!"

You flinched from your own tone. You didn't mean to yell at him. In fact, you didn't want him to see you. Not like this. But it was too late to cover your face. He was already holding your cheek, wiping your tears with his thumb.

Why was he so gentle? At least if he was a little cruel with you, it would be easier to push him away once the inevitable would happen.

You sniffled and met his gaze. "Why are you so nice to me?"

"Maybe… maybe it's because I don't believe that just because your mother was a witch, so are you." He leaned closer, hand still on your face. "Or maybe because I always remember that my best friend was a witch, and she was just an innocent girl who didn't even think of leaving our village. So if you were a witch, maybe you're like her. And that maybe… no, never mind."

It was still quiet. The only thing you did was stare at his eyes, and he did the same. You could hear your heart pounding in your chest, and you wondered if he could hear it as well. If there was still snow in your face, no doubt it melted now with how warm your cheeks were.

He was the first to break the silence. "Are you a witch?"

You shook your head. "No."

Liar.

Phainon nodded. He pulled you towards him for a hug, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "Then I trust you."

You returned the hug and buried your face in his chest. "I…"

"It's okay. You don't have to say it yet. Just know that I trust you."

You tightened your hold on him. This was the first time you hugged someone else that weren't your parents or your teachers. Unlike Aglaea or your mother, who were softer, or your father that always gave you a crushing bear hug, or even Professor Anaxa who would just give you a pat on the shoulder, his hug was firm. Almost like he was holding on to you, letting you know he was here. And most of all, he was warm.

Your entire life, everyone looked at you as if you were cursed. Even though Aglaea's name was enough to silence them, you still heard the whispers behind your back. Why would Aglaea adopt a witch's child? Why would she risk her business and reputation just to take in a kid that should just rot in the streets? For the first time, someone else looked at you like you were a normal person.

That was it, wasn't it? Why your heart opened up to him, why it would hurt more if he found out the truth. He showed you so much kindness, and you would be a monster if you reciprocated that kindness by telling the ugly truth.

When you opened your eyes, you weren't in Phainon's arms anymore. Instead, you were back in your room at Aglaea's house. The fire crackled in the hearth, and snow was gently falling out your window. You sat up, but immediately regretted it as your head started to spin.

Was that… was that all a dream?

You sighed and rubbed your temples. Of course it was a dream. Why would something like that ever happen in reality?

When you turned at the window again, you frowned. It looked like it was late already. Hopefully, you didn't sleep in too much. You changed into a warmer set of clothes and went downstairs, where Aglaea was already eating halfway through a golden honeycake and sipping a cup of coffee.

"M- Morning, Aglaea," you said with a small bow. "Sorry for waking up late."

Aglaea stared at you for a second before nodding. "No need to apologize. I also had difficulties sleeping last night. Have a seat. The food is still warm."

You took a seat across her and grabbed your own stack of honeycakes. As always, the way she cooked them was the best. Soft and sweet, almost like you were biting a cloud. You grabbed the container of honey and added more to your plate. It was better with more honey, but you knew Aglaea didn't like her food too sweet, so she always—

"Would you mind telling me why I found Phainon trying to sneak into the house at Entry Hour with you in his arms?"

You dropped the container of honey. Before it could spill, you caught it, thankfully, and wiped the little bits that managed to fall out. After taking a few breaths, you turned to her again. Was her dining area always this hot? How were you sweating in the middle of winter? "H- Huh?"

She picked up something next to her, and you realized it was the note you left last night. "I found this on the table when I woke up, so I had assumed you were in your cottage. But all of a sudden, I heard someone trying to enter from the windows. When went to investigate, I found Phainon breaking in, carrying you in his arms, and looking for the door to your room."

If it was possible, your face grew hotter. Oh. Oh. Last night wasn't a dream.

Aglaea raised a brow, and her accusing stare made you want to cover your face and hide under the table. "Did anything… happen between you two last night—"

"No!" You jumped up from your own response. Your tone definitely didn't help. "Gods, gods, no, I promise nothing like that happened! I just- I couldn't sleep last night and then I went out then Phainon found me so we went to this mountainside and we talked and I must have fallen asleep without realizing it—wait, did you say he went inside the house?" Your heart skipped a beat. "Aglaea, did he—"

"He might have," she replied. "However, when he saw me, he asked where your room was and tucked you to bed. He was very polite about it, though he did look as embarrassed as you when I asked when we had a little… chat."

"Aglaea!" You covered your face with your hands. Not enough. You removed your coat and hid the rest of your face there. "I promise nothing like that happened. Please, you're embarrassing me…"

She chuckled and shook her head. "Alright, alright, no need to hide in shame. I was simply asking a question, and I appreciate the honesty."

It was quiet as you continued eating your breakfast. At least, it was quiet inside. Outside, you could hear the people of Okhema starting their day. But after a while, Aglaea was the first to break the silence. Her expressions always shifted so subtly. If someone didn't know her, they would assume she always held the same empty stare. But you knew her ticks. You could tell the difference between her relaxed and stern face just by examining her eyebrows. If she found something amusing or not just from the faint way her cheeks pushed up her eyes.

And you could tell right now that, despite her lips remaining into a straight line, her brows were slightly raised. Amusement? Or perhaps curiosity? "Did you find your answer?"

You furrowed your brows. "What answer?"

"Why your heart opened itself for the first time to a witch hunter."

"Oh." That one.

Your mind was in a tough position right now. You wanted to smile, but at the same time, your chest was aching. "Is… is there a reason why you aren't stopping me? Aren't you worried that I'll die?"

You didn't think she would look at you, but she did. You had never seen Aglaea cry before. Not as a child, not now. For a brief moment, you thought she was about to. But if there was even a hint of tears near the corners of her eyes, it immediately disappeared.

"I am," she replied. "I'm more wary of him than you think."

"So why aren't you stopping me?" You held yourself back. It was too early in the morning to cry. "Please stop me. I- I'll stop seeing him if you ask me to. I can tell him that you told me that yourself. I'm sure he'll understand it better if I'm following orders than intentionally avoiding him. I don't…"

I don't want to die. That was true, wasn't it? It didn't matter if you died to Phainon or the other witch hunter. You didn't want to die and leave Aglaea the burden of protecting Okhema longer than her magic could handle. You didn't want the Black Tide to devour everyone and destroy your home.

But those weren't the words that left your lips.

"I don't want to see the look in his eyes once he realizes the truth."

You had gotten used to the soft look in his eyes. They were so blue, and they were so beautiful. And his smile… If his eyes were the sky, then his smile was the light of dawn that matched.

You had gotten so used to them that you were slowly starting to forget how he looked at you when you first met. And you didn't want to be reminded.

"Oh, my darling child." Aglaea sighed as she cupped your cheek. "How can I tell you to stop seeing him when you've never looked this happy while talking about anyone before?"

"Happy?" Your grip on your fork tightened, but you immediately put it down before you could break it. "I'm scared. More than I've been my entire life."

Outside, you could hear someone laughing, followed by the sound of a soft thump hitting against a wall. Someone was throwing snowballs at someone else. It was muffled, but you could hear the laughs that followed afterwards. If anyone was happy here, it was definitely them.

"I envy them," you muttered. "They don't worry for their lives like we do. They don't know that the Council of Elders is willing to sacrifice them if they think they're witches. Meanwhile, I learned to not attract attention to myself or I'll die as young as ten years old. Sometimes… sometimes, I wish I wasn't born a witch."

You had expected Aglaea to call you a blasphemer. After all, how could you scorn something gifted to you by the gods? Your mother started the spark of your love for magic, and Professor Anaxa and Aglaea risked their lives teaching you how to hone your skills. And yet, you had the audacity to say that you wished you weren't born like this? What was the point of their sacrifices if you were going to be ingrate, then?

But she didn't say those words. Not even anything remotely similar. Instead, she moved from the head of the seat and sat next to you, pulling you into a hug. "I know," she whispered. "I've had those wishes, too. But unfortunately, we cannot change what we are."

You returned her hug. How many times had she hugged you after throwing a tantrum like this? You were already twenty-two, and yet here you were, crying like a spoiled child. "I wish we could."

"Perhaps the gods are kinder to us in another life and will grant us our deepest wishes there."

"Why can't they be kind in this one?"

"Because they're gods. They know we're human, but they don't understand how human we are. We can only hope that there's a life out there where they can be kind."

Somehow, you managed to chuckle. "Your words are cold."

She smiled and squeezed you tighter. "You seem tired. How about you rest in your room?"

"Tired? It's morning. And do you not need help around the shop?"

"I'll take a break from sewing as well. Perhaps I'll just read a book and entertain a customer looking for new clothes."

"I see." You stood up and nodded. Only now did you realize that she was right. You did feel tired. Did you and Phainon fall asleep on top of the mountain, and that was why he took you back when it was already morning? If that was the case, maybe the uncomfortable ground was the reason why you felt tired. "Thank you, Aglaea. I don't think I've expressed that enough."

"Of course. Now, go get some rest. You deserve it."

And rest you did. You grabbed a bottle of Ambrosia for yourself and sat in your windowsill seat the whole day, reading one of the books on your shelf. Every now and then, you would look at the window and stare at the bustling plaza of Okhema below. Merchants yelling their practiced lines for potential customers, children gathering snow on the ground and throwing it at each other…

Phainon wasn't there. At least, you didn't see him. And anytime you caught yourself thinking of that, you would immediately look away from the window and return to your book. As if he could see you from all the way up here. You pushed that thought away as well. You were here to rest, not to think about the man that had been stressing you out from the moment you laid your eyes on him.

You liked to think that you were being productive, even if the only thing you did was sit down, read books, and drink ambrosia as if you were a drunk scholar. You didn't even realize the day was over until Aglaea told you that she had finished cooking dinner. And before you knew it, you were in bed again, staring at your hearth.

Aglaea's words earlier echoed in your head. Perhaps the gods are kinder to us in another life and will grant us our deepest wishes there. What would another life even look like? Was there truly a world out there where you weren't fearing for your life? Were you happier there, or was that life somehow worse than this one?

Maybe you should go to sleep. Thinking these thoughts clearly wasn't doing you any good.

VI. Lean On Me and You’ll Be Alright

None of your flowers could survive winter. In fact, few survived fall. As soon as the weather grew too cold, those that couldn't withstand the temperature simply wilted away, waiting for spring before they could bloom again. If you could, you would enchant all of your plants so they could survive even the harshest of blizzards. But you knew that a lone cottage at the outskirts of the city having flowers blooming during Calamity Season would be enough evidence for witchcraft.

The only flowers that could survive winter without magic were Antilas, and they grew even more abundant during the Month of Mourning. Most didn't even consider them flowers. Rather, they thought of them as weeds and would pluck them out as soon as they saw a patch of purple growing near their properties. You didn't share the same sentiments as most people had. Rather, you saw them as gifts from Thanatos. The Nether Realm was said to be a sea of flowers where one could find eternal rest, so you always believed that they sent Antilas during winter so that somehow, the living realm would still have flowers during the cold seasons.

Whether that was true or not, you still thanked them for the flowers. After all, they were the only flowers you could bunch into a bouquet before heading to the River of Souls.

It also didn't matter how you treated them. You could pluck of the petals one by one, cut them in half, or even crush them under your foot. They would never wilt or die. They only disappeared when they wanted to disappear, perhaps letting the west wind blow them away and return to the Nether Realm. But despite that, you still cared for them like they were any other flower you owned. You carefully snipped the ends of the stem, then grabbed a black ribbon in your cottage to tie them into four different bouquets.

The snow hadn't stopped falling for the past three days now. The skies were a permanent gloomy grey, accompanied by small white flecks that would blend into the snowy ground, just like tears. How fitting. It made you wonder… was Thanatos as gentle as you thought them to be? Did they also understand that some souls that arrived to the Nether Realm were taken too early? Or…

You shook your head. No, you didn't want to think about that. You wanted to keep that hope. If there was a god out there who truly was kind, it had to be Thanatos. Death had to be kind. You would lose your mind if they ended up being the most cruel god of all.

The streets were also quieter, which was strange to think about. Just a month ago, it was lively during the day and dreadful during the night. The month after that, everything was so quiet it was as if the world was holding its breath. But immediately after the Month of Mourning was the Month of Fortune, and people would be in good spirits again and start celebrating the last month of the year. Time truly was a strange thing.

As you continued walking, you lifted your head. The Marmoreal Temple was visible wherever you went, especially since it sat upon a hillside that had a view of the city. Inside there, priests and acolytes were praying for the deceased, and most people would be in the cemetery, sitting next to the grave of their loved ones. They had bodies to return to. Bodies to bury.

You never had that luxury.

You were about to pull your hood when you felt a hand on your head. Unsurprisingly, it belonged to none other than Phainon. Who else would be comfortable enough to touch you like that, even in a gloomy season?

Despite that, his voice was still low as he greeted you. "Hey."

"Hey."

"You going somewhere?"

You looked at the bouquets in your hand and sighed. "Not the cemetery if you were thinking of that."

"I see." A pause. "Do you… want me to accompany you? I heard people who have lost their loved ones throw flowers or their favorite items in the River of Souls. I know I'm a witch hunter and that I have no right to be there, but… I was wondering if you'd at least let me accompany you."

You looked at the bouquet of Antilas again. You weren't really sure if you wanted him to come with you. It was like he said—a witch hunter like him wouldn't just be out of place, but it would be downright disrespectful. To allow him there would be to spit on the non-existing graves of those that had died to the witch hunts in the past.

At the same time… you remembered that night again. When he told you that he was the only survivor after his village was destroyed by the Black Tide, and how Lygus immediately found him and trained him to be a witch hunter as soon as possible. Did he even have time to pause and take a breath, to understand what had just happened?

You took a deep breath. If Thanatos could hear you right now… may they give you forgiveness and tell the lost souls that you ask for the same thing.

"Here." You passed one of the bouquets to Phainon.

In turn, he blinked. "What's this for?"

"People don't go to the River of Souls just because they lost their loved ones to the witch hunts," you said. "They go there to mourn their loved ones who didn't get the luxury of a proper burial. Besides, it's not like the cemetery where lots of people would go to, so there's a chance that it'll just be the two of us. But if you're still worried that people won't think you're welcome… know that I don't think the same."

His eyes were wide, mouth agape. "No." He shook his head and passed the flowers back. "No, I'm sorry. I- I can't accept this. I shouldn't have even suggested. I'm sorry, it was stupid, I—"

"Phainon." You held his wrist. Tight enough to keep him in place, but also loose enough so he could let go if he wanted. "It's okay. I don't know if you ever had the opportunity to properly grieve. And as someone who's been going here for twelve years now… it helps. Even a little."

His gaze kept shifting between you, the flowers, you, then to the flowers again. After a heavy sigh that made fog form in front of his face, he finally accepted the bouquet and nodded. "I… thank you."

The entire time you walked to the river, the only sound that passed between you both were either the crunch of the snow against your boots or the occasional cart passing by. Okhema was quiet, sleeping on a bed of grief. But while most slept with a blanket of peace to keep them warm, there were those unfortunate like you who were left exposed to the cold winds of the Council's cruelty. And when you finally reached the river, the thought only made you tighten your grip on the remaining three bouquets of flowers.

You knelt at the edge of the water, making some of the snow fall and your reflection ripple. No matter how could the winter would become, not a single drop of its water would turn to ice. Aquila could send their strongest blizzard that would freeze everyone to death, the River of Souls would still continue to travel all throughout Amphoreus. Until eventually, the currents would end at the Nether Realm, where Thanatos awaited.

You hoped—no, prayed—that these flowers would reach the Nether Realm. That they would find your mother, and that she would also find your father. That Professor Anaxa would see the flowers you sent for him and mutter about how "unnecessary" they were, but still accept them regardless. You prayed that the priests and priestesses were wrong, and that Thanatos didn't create an eternal fire to punish witches and blasphemers to burn for eternity.

You dropped the first bouquet for your father, praying that the corruption of the Black Tide didn't stay with him even in the afterlife. You dropped the second one for your mother, praying that she found peace after the flames. And for the firs time, you dropped the last for Professor Anaxa, thanking him for his sacrifices for you and the other children of Okhema. Usually, you would drop another bouquet for those that no one would mourn for, but Phainon had them currently.

Another bouquet fell, making it ripple once again. They slowly followed the three ones you dropped and floated away.

"You're right," Phainon said, making you turn to him. Parts of his white hair covered his face, especially his eyes, so you couldn't see them properly. "I never had time to mourn the people I lost. I guess I don't like thinking about it. I'd rather focus on my training and growing stronger so I can help make the world better. Every second that I'm not improving is a second that I'm not helping someone."

You almost reached out your hand for him, but immediately put it down. Now wasn't the time for that. "Forgive me if it sounds like I'm overstepping, but you don't have to help every single person, you know. It's impossible to be the only person who can save everyone."

"I know, but… but if I was stronger, maybe I would have been able to save more than just myself. Maybe my parents could still be here. Maybe I would have made better choices." He turned to face your direction, but his eyes didn't meet yours. Despite that, you could still see that his brows were knitted together. "Do you ever get that feeling that you've made a terrible mistake in your life, but it's already too late to turn back and you know you can never be redeemed?"

"Phainon…"

You weren't the right person for this. Not when you thought of the same thing. Not when every single witch thought of the same thing. If, by some miracle, the witch hunts would finally come to an end, no one would allow him to walk free. Everyone would want justice against the Flame Reaver for taking away so many lives and tearing apart so many families.

Before you could think of what to say, he already shook his head and crossed his legs. "Sorry. Did that again, didn't I?"

"It's fine. But do you… always carry things by yourself?"

When he chuckled, you couldn't tell if it was humorless or if he truly found what you said funny, even a little. "Why shouldn't I? My problems are mine alone. I don't want people to carry the same heavy weight I'm carrying."

"Maybe it's heavy because you're carrying it by yourself. If you let other people help you, it would be lighter."

He didn't say anything else. But judging from the way his jaw clenched, he clearly didn't want to talk about it further. So instead, you sat with him in the silence, watching as the ice-cold waters flowed past you both. Despite the cold, you found the sound of the river flowing soothing. If it wasn't winter right now, you would have dipped your feet and just feel it rushing past you.

"I'm sorry about your professor," he said.

"Hmm?"

"Your professor. Anaxa. I… I was the one who brought him to the Council. I know now's not the right time to bring that up, but it's been eating me away recently. I think you should know who got your teacher killed."

"Oh." You turned your head away and gripped your cloak. "I see."

"I'm- I'm not asking for forgiveness, and I'm not expecting you to do so, either. But… I hope that, even if this changes your perspective on me… we can still be like this."

You wondered how Aglaea would react to this. Would she still let you treat Phainon as normal, even if he was the reason why Professor Anaxa was gone from this world too early? Or would she still act as if what you were feeling was normal? Just how much did it matter that your eyes would light up every time you talked to him, when he also caused you pain in the beginning?

It was getting colder now. Maybe if you went somewhere warmer, your head would be in a better space. You stood up and dusted the snow that gathered on your clothes and stretched out your hand to him. "It's freezing. I think we should head indoors. Do you want to accompany me to the diner? Their porridge is perfect for a cold day like this."

When he took your hand, you pulled him up. He dusted his clothes as well and showed you a smile. "Sounds good. Let's go."

You wanted to tell him that he didn't have to smile all the time. That he should express his true feelings more. In fact, you had so many things you wanted to tell him. So many things you wanted to ask and know. The more you two talked to each other, the more you realized you didn't know him at all. He wasn't just some guy that always showed you the brightest of smiles whenever you crossed paths. He wasn't just a witch hunter that wanted you dead. There was something he wasn't telling you. Something you wanted to know so you could help ease his burdens.

But you weren't the right person for that. You weren't the right person to discuss this with him. Not when you didn't tell him anything about yourself, either. If you wanted Phainon to be honest with you, wouldn't it be right if you were honest with him as well?

Today was one of the rare moments when the diner wasn't busy even though it was lunch. As such, it didn't take long for your two bowls of porridge and cups of hot chocolate to arrive. You blew the steam off and immediately took a sip, sighing when the drink warmed your stomach.

Talking right now felt inappropriate. The two of you were eating in silence, just like the rest of the diner. Perhaps it was out of habit, or perhaps you just wanted to lighten up the mood. But you blew into the windows, making it fog up. After repeating it a few times, you traced your finger on the glass, doodling a small flower.

"What are you doing?" Phainon whispered as he scooted closer to the window.

"Whenever I used to come here with Aglaea during the winter, we'd always do this."

"Blow steam into the windows and… draw?"

You nodded, then drew a smiley face next to the flower. "She's been taking care of me ever since I lost my parents, and I'm really grateful for all the work she's done. If it weren't for her, I have no idea where I'd be right now. She made my clothes, taught me how to sew, how to cook, funded my flower shop… "

"She… she really loves you, huh?"

"She does. And I always hate it whenever I can't repay her." You shook your head and faced him. "So, what about you?"

"What do you mean what about me?"

"I mean… did you have any good memories with Lygus? He took care of you for twelve years, after all."

It was weird to think about Lygus being kind and caring, especially since you only saw him from a distance, and it was always whenever he lit up the pyre. But if you still saw witch hunters with their own families, if even Phainon still had a shred of kindness in his hardened heart, then surely Lygus must be the same, right?

"Oh." Phainon took a sip of his own hot drink and leaned back against the seat. "I don't… I don't really have that many good memories with him. After I officially became a witch hunter, he would drop me off at different cities and then leave for Okhema. After that, he'd return to check on me and the city I'm in, then reassign me to a new location if need be."

"Did… did you two at least do anything together?"

"He would teach me about witches if that's anything. But if you meant anything like how Lady Aglaea treats you, then…" He shook his head. "No. Not really."

You couldn't imagine how that must be like. Sure, it was lonely that you never had any friends, but at least you still had Aglaea at the end of the day. But not only did Phainon say you were his first genuine friend since Aedes Elysiae, he didn't even have any support around him. The man that took him in was busy with his own affairs. And even if he did find someone that could have almost been a friend, he had to leave the city soon for a reassignment.

You took another sip of your hot drink. This time, you didn't blow it on the window. Rather, you exhaled at his face. His eyes widened a bit, and the warmth from the steam made his cheeks turn somewhat red.

"Wh- what are you—huh?"

"You should try drawing on the window as well. It's fun."

"But I'm not a great artist."

"Do you really think drawings made from fog on a window requires skill?" To prove your point, you drew another figure on the glass. First, a circle with dots for eyes and a small smile. After that, you tried to draw Phainon's messy hair. And to make sure you knew it was him, you added the two tufts of hair that always stood on the top of his head. "You know what, forget I said anything. You'd need skills as good as mine to create this masterpiece."

"That… that looks nothing like me." Despite that, he chuckled. "Hold on. Let me try."

Just like you, he took a long swig of his hot drink and blew on the window. At first, he drew you. After that, he drew the sun at the corner of the window, then added a small heart next to the doodle of you.

The diner was quiet. It was the Month of Mourning. And yet, you found yourself smiling with Phainon as the two of you tried to recreate each other again through glass drawings.

As always, when you were about to part, he would walk you to Aglaea's house. He always did, but that was because you were staying with her for the colder seasons. If the seasons were warmer again, would he be willing to walk all the way to the outskirts of Okhema, to the rumored witch's hut, just so he could make sure you got home safely?

"Thanks for today," he whispered once he reached the usual spot he would stop. "It… it really did help. Even a little. Thank you."

"Of course." As you scanned his form, your eyes turned to his tattered cloak, before back to his face. "Stay warm, okay?"

"You too."

When you went back inside, you didn't waste a single second. You headed to Aglaea's workshop, where she was mending a client's coat. At the sight of you, her eyes furrowed down. "Darling, what are you—"

"Do you think I can make him a new cloak before the end of the year?"

She blinked. "Pardon?"

"Do you remember what you told me back then? That, if I change my mind, you'll teach me how to make a cloak for Phainon? Do you think I can make a new one before the end of the year? Or is it too late?"

"What a… surprise." She rested her elbow on her palm and cupped her chin. "And here I thought you forgot about it. But I suppose I do have time to teach you. Come."

She gestured for you to follow, and you did so without any questions. Aglaea led you to her weaving room, and the two of you sat side by side as she started.

"If you wish to finish this before the end of the year," she said, "then may I suggest you gift it to him on the last day of the Month of Fortune, then? It can be something symbolic. Think of it as him starting the new year with something from you."

You didn't know how long making a cloak would take. But you did know that, if you finished it before your deadline, that you would want to give it to him as soon as possible. Aglaea might have to bind your hands together with her golden threads just so that you wouldn't be a fool and give it to him early. But if it would make the gift better, then so be it.

That was how you spent the rest of the Month of Mourning. If you weren't outside, you would be in the weaving room, somehow sweating despite the current month being the coldest month. If there was a single mistake in the thread or pattern, you would undo it and make it better. You didn't know how you did it, but you even weaved a golden pattern at the ends and have the sides be different colors.

During the night when you weren't working, you would toss and turn in your bed. How would he react to the cloak? He probably wouldn't jump for joy. After all, it was just a cloak. And it wasn't like Aglaea made it, you did. And even if this wasn't your first time making something, you weren't as amazing as her when it came to garmentmaking. No one was, but would the cloak even be amazing in his eyes?

Sometimes, though, it wasn't his reaction to the cloak that would send you to sleep. Sometimes, just when your brain was shutting down for the night, you thought of what would happen if you told him the truth.

How would he react if you told him you were a witch? Would he end your friendship? If he did, would he at least keep your secret, or would he tell Lygus and lead you to your execution? You wanted Phainon to be honest with you, but that also meant being honest with him. Did you have the strength to do that?

When the final month arrived, it seemed like Zagreus heard your prayers. Which was the worst way to have your prayers answered. When everyone turned their calendars for the final Month of Fortune, a leap year appeared at the end when everyone was sure that there wasn't one just a month ago. Scarlet Month as everyone called it. You couldn't help but find the name fitting, because Zagreus was definitely going to see your burning scarlet rage if you were to ever meet them.

However, that didn't stop you from continuing your work. It got to the point where Aglaea had to kick you out of the weaving room just so you could take a break and not burn yourself out. When neither of you had the time to cook, you would instead make a quick trip to the diner. And if you bumped into Phainon, you would eat with him.

"Are you… okay?" he asked.

You looked up from your Dromas stew and nodded. "Never better. Why do you ask?"

"You just… drank an entire bottle of ambrosia straight from the bottle."

"Did I now?" You glared at the glass, as if it was the God of Trickery themself. "Do you sometimes feel like you're having a one-sided beef against something you know would just laugh at you for taking the bait?"

That seemed to have washed away his concern, as he just chuckled. "Did Zagreus, ah, bless you on this fine occasion?"

"Is that what we call it these days?'

"Well, look at it this way. Out of all the gods, Zagreus is the one who works. in the most mysterious ways. What could be today's curse might also be tomorrow's blessing."

The common saying when it came to Zagreus' beloved gifts. Unfortunately, he had a point. You might be complaining right now that there was an extra day, which meant you would have to wait longer, but at least it pushed your deadline back further. Though gods know if you could actually finish it before the month, and by extension year, ended.

Though finally, by some miracle, after almost two months of nearly tripping on the loom, muffling your screams with so many pillows, panicking if you had accidentally snapped a thread in half and have to redo, and debating if you could really ask the gods to smite Zagreus down… you finished it. After adding the hook and eye, you were completely done. You just had to wait for one week until Spirit Day, then you could give it to him.

You were finally able to come out of the house without worrying that you were delaying time. So when you found Phainon again and ate together at the diner, you couldn't help but hum.

"You're in a cheerful mood this time," he said when your food arrived. "Did your curse finally become a blessing?"

"I don't think it matters." You shrugged. "Maybe I'm just glad that the year is almost over and that the next one is going to have a fresh start."

"Oh, speaking of the new year. Do you… have someone to celebrate the Spirit Day with?"

You blinked. His cheeks and the tips of his ears were pinker, no doubt thanks to the cold. When his eyes met yours, he cleared his throat and turned to the left instead, watching the bustling streets.

"I mean, obviously you're going to be celebrating it with Lady Aglaea," he continued, "but I was. Wondering. Umm, if you can, you know… Celebrate with me as well. Maybe we can open lucky cookies together. Then after that, I'll take you back home before midnight so you can be with Lady Aglaea again."

"Oh, of course." You smiled and nodded. "Aglaea's going to be busy entertaining the Council and potential guests, so I won't be able to spend much time with her, anyway. I won't mind using it as an opportunity to spend time with you."

"Great! I mean, umm, that's- that's great that you can spend time with me, not that you can't spend time with Lady Aglaea. I also can't spend the day with Lygus since he also has Council duties and all. In fact, I can't remember if I've celebrated Spirit Day ever since…" He cleared his throat and sat taller. "Let's not ruin the last week of the year by dampening the mood."

You wanted to tell him that it would be fine if he "ruined" the mood. But seeing that smile on his face, you just continued eating instead.

Okhema felt like a completely different city during Spirit Day. It was nothing compared to the Month of Joy, but the streets were still alive and livelier. Merchants and vendors had an array of stalls selling food, clothes, or toys for children. Some people were already starting to play music despite the fact that it was still morning. People were lining up the Marmoreal Diner, picking up their orders of lucky cookies to break open once the new year would arrive.

Of course, with an event such as Spirit Day, Aglaea donned her most beautiful dress—a white dress with gold embellishments and yarrow flowers adorning her, and a beautiful white cloak to match. And it wouldn't be Aglaea without her making you sit in front of your vanity mirror and adorning your face with makeup and body with jewelry.

"Your outfits are beautiful as always," you said as she continued fixing you up. "Even I feel beautiful."

She smiled and chuckled softly. "I do like to think that anything I touch will become beautiful. And that includes my own child." A sigh left her lips as her face softened. "Your parents will be proud to know how you turned out. You've grown into an amazing person."

You returned her smile. "Thank you for taking me in and turning me the way I am right now. You didn't have to."

"Nonsense." She shook her head. "I know I can't save every orphan in the streets. But if I can save even one person, then perhaps there's still a chance for tomorrow to be better."

The silence between you two was heavy. She looked like she wanted to say something, but didn't just so she could keep the peace. It made your already twisting heart ache even more. For the past nights, a certain thought had been plaguing your mind. And if there was someone out there who was able to give you advice…

You gripped your garments, but immediately loosened before you could ruin them. "Aglaea… do you like Phainon? Even after you found out he's the reason why Professor Anaxa's… gone now?"

She hummed. "I haven't interacted with him enough times to make a proper assessment. Why do you ask?"

"I'm… I'm planning to tell him the truth. That I'm a witch."

That made her stop. "You are?"

"I've been thinking about it." You gripped your garments again. Aglaea's clothes were anything but fragile, but you swore you were about to tear it apart with how tight you held it. "I'm… I'm still paranoid if this is his plan. Wait for me to lower my guard, then once I'm comfortable enough, get a confession from me and then use that as his chance to kill me. But at the same time… another part of me is saying that it's time I trust him, and being honest is going to help us both."

"Even if it risks your life?"

"I… I don't know."

Once she finished dolling you up, Aglaea held your hands and guided you to your full body mirror. You knew you were beautiful to an extent—with how she took care of you, it was impossible to not feel like you were. But right now, you just found yourself spinning in front of your reflection and admiring yourself.

Aglaea made you beautiful. She did everything for you as you grew up. Make your clothes, mend your reputation somehow, fund your flower shop. And yet, here you were. You might as well tell her that you were planning to end your life and spit on the kindness she offered for the past twelve years.

"Oh, look at my gorgeous child." She kissed your forehead and pressed her own against it. "You've grown up so much. Your heart finally found someone to open up to. If you're willing to risk your life for it, then who am I to stop you?"

It felt like someone poured ice cold water on your body. You couldn't meet her in the eyes, not like this. Not when she was telling you that you should follow your heart and that if you were to die, then you might as well leave her to carry the burden of protecting Okhema forever.

"Y- You're not stopping me again." Your voice almost cracked, but you managed to take a sharp breath. "Why? Why won't you tell me to stop? If you're not going to forbid me from seeing him, at least knock some sense into me! Tell me I'm being ridiculous, that I should think of Okhema and my duties, that- that if I don't care about myself dying, then you'll die. I'll stop as soon as you tell me to. I don't want to hurt anyone…"

You had hoped she would yell at you. That, for the first time, you would finally see what Aglaea's anger was like when you were the recipient. Perhaps if you finally understood what it would be like to be on that end, it would knock that needed reason to your head and you'd finally understand just how stupid you were being.

But like always, Aglaea never did that. She just smiled. If you went through with this plan, would this be the last time you would see it? Would you really want to be the reason why that smile would never grace the earth again?

"Perhaps I trust your judgment," she said with a shrug. "Or perhaps it's something else that I understand. After all, if someone was able to make you lower your walls you've spent twelve years carefully putting up, then that must mean he's important to you."

"You're not worried that this is a trap?"

"It could be. But perhaps you just have to trust my instincts on this one. Something tells me that he can be reliable."

That wasn't helpful. If you relied on instincts just to tell if someone was reliable or not, then you would have been dead a long time ago. Or perhaps not. After all, your instincts always said that no person was reliable. And now, it was still telling you that Phainon belonged to that category of people. That it was better to be safe than to be sorry.

"Are you…" Your hands were shaking, and not even taking a deep breath could ease your anxiety. "Are you scared?"

"Of course I am." She pulled you closed for a hug, resting her head on your shoulders. "Even if I think he's reliable, that doesn't change the fact that I'm scared for you. I don't want the Council to take another child from me again."

Again?

The thought of Aglaea having a child before didn't sound too surprising. She felt like a natural at taking care of someone, almost as if she had been a mother before. She already knew what to do with you when she first took you in and seemed to understand you already. You had assumed that she must have taken someone in before, but you immediately brushed that thought away and chalked it up to her being a family friend. So to hear those words from her directly…

"You've… lost a child to the Council before?"

She met your reflection's gaze, fingers fixing your headpiece even though it was already properly in place. Perhaps she just needed to distract her fingers. "Her name was Cifera," she said. "She was just a regular girl, not a witch like you or me. She came from Dolos after the Black Tide destroyed her hometown. I asked her before if she wanted to stay with me instead of just occasionally helping me run the shop or eating with me, but she was an adventurous little thing. Always getting into troubles, too. Until one day… she stole from the wrong person, and they called her a witch because of it. She died very young… I think she would have been a little older than you if she were still here."

A shiver traveled down your spine. You knew killing children wasn't out of the question for the Council. You didn't believe it when you were younger, but you had watched enough executions to know that they would rid of anyone they found a witch, even if they were a child.

You didn't know what Cifera looked like. Perhaps you had passed her once before, and you simply didn't notice. Or perhaps your paths never crossed at all. But you wondered if there was a world out there where it was three people in front of this mirror. Where aside from Aglaea, she was here as well, and the two of you would be admiring the garments Aglaea made for you both.

"Is this your way of saying I shouldn't tell Phainon anything?" you asked. "Because it's working."

"It's my way of saying that I do not wish to see you die in the same way your mother or Cifera died, and I know that you won't." Another kiss to your forehead before pulling you in for another hug. "But if things do take a turn for the worse, then know I'll do whatever I can to protect you and take your place if needed. If he ends up not being like the man you thought he would be, then do not blame yourself. It's not your fault for falling in love."

Ah, that word. You didn't want to use that word. It made whatever it was you were feeling more real and not just the whims of your heart that you decided to follow like a fool. But of course, like always, Aglaea noticed it. Those perceptive eyes of hers could see everything. You were an even bigger fool for thinking she wouldn't realize it.

You grabbed the new cloak you made for Phainon from your closet. You had taken extra measures to make sure it would be perfect once he received it. Once you finished weaving, you took extra time with washing and even allowed yourself to use just a little bit of magic—both for the flowers you used as detergent, and for heating it up so it wouldn't be damp once the day arrived. And even right now, your fingers shook as you placed it inside your satchel, making sure it stayed folded while also not creasing.

You took a deep breath and offered your arm to Aglaea. "Let's hope Zagreus' coin flips in my favor today."

She locked her arm with yours and chuckled. "I'm sure it will."

After fixing your clothes for the nth time, you went down the stairs and out of the house. Usually, during this day, the first thing that would greet you were either children running past you, or the sound of vendors calling out to anyone they saw. The smell of food would hit you next, and you would either say your goodbyes to Aglaea as you two parted, or you would join her to get some snacks before meeting again later.

But those weren't the first things you noticed. Not this time. Instead, you first saw Phainon, standing in front of the house, and wearing the white set Aglaea had made for him. He hadn't noticed either of you yet, as he was too busy muttering something about his shoes matching his clothes. When Aglaea cleared her throat, he jumped up slightly and faced you both. His mouth opened, but no words left him. Instead, his jaw dropped even more, and his eyes widened.

"Wow… I mean- wow. Wow. You look… I- wow." He cleared his throat as well and stood taller. "You look beautiful too, Lady Aglaea. You- you two really dressed up. I suddenly feel underdressed."

Aglaea crossed her arms and hummed. "You feel underdressed despite the fact that we're all wearing clothes made by the same seamstress. Is this a slight against me?"

"What? No, no, no! I didn't mean- I meant- I just—I'm so sorry. Can I start over?"

Aglaea leaned towards you and whispered, "If you ever find me saying I do not accept him, know it's because I think you can do better and not because of the other thing."

Your eyes widened. If someone told you your face was on fire, you'd believe them. "A- Aglaea!"

"Why?" Phainon asked. "What did she say?"

Of course, Aglaea's response was only a chuckle. She waved her hand in the air and only shot you both a sly smile. Quite uncharacteristic of her, which only served to make your face hotter. "I have matters to attend to, which includes the Council of Elders pandering to me just so I can continue funding them for the next year. You two enjoy your night, and do not forget to pick up a lucky cookie before midnight."

And she left, disappearing in the sea of people.

When you turned to Phainon, he was still staring at you with that same wide-eyed look from earlier. He took a deep breath, followed by an even longer sigh. "You're… you look- you're really beautiful, by the way. If I didn't know any better, I would have thought Aglaea was the real God of Romance and that you made a deal with her to look that beautiful."

"Heh." You flicked your eyes to the side. "Guess you can say she's… very blessed." You immediately shook your head and grabbed his hand. "Come on, there's this stall here that sells my favorite skewers only on Spirit Day. You'll love it!"

"Wait, wait, the ground is icy I'll slip—"

You dragged Phainon all around the streets of Okhema. How many skewers had you eaten? How come it still wasn't enough to make you feel satisfied that you had to buy more despite feeling like your stomach was about to burst? And why was Phainon insisting that you should also get some salad to eat because he swore it was better than any Dromas or cloudsheep skewers that you were making him taste?

"No, no, you're not drinking another bottle of ambrosia again!" He grabbed your hand before you can make your purchase. "You've drank three bottles already and that was just two weeks ago. Let's just… have olive juice together. I don't want you passing out before midnight."

You rolled your eyes. Despite that, you chuckled at his words. "Alright, alright. Olive juice it is. Do you want some pie pockets with that? There's some grape pie here, or how about some duck instead?"

When was the last time you enjoyed the Spirit Day like this? When you were younger, you always clung to Aglaea's side and hide behind everyone's judging stares. And as you grew older, you either stayed in the house or sat in one place while Aglaea did all of the socializing. But tonight? Tonight, you watched and laughed as Phainon tried to shoot balls in a hoop that you both swore was rigged.

"I could have sworn I'm actually shooting them," he muttered as he kicked the snowy ground. His only reward was a vegetable ball, to which he shuddered after eating it. "It's bland… I can make salads better than this."

"You… sure do love salads, don't you?"

"Of course I do. There's a lot of things you can make with a salad. Tuna, vegetable, fruit, chicken, even Cery salad. It's quick to make, and there's a lot of varieties." He stopped in his tracks for a moment. Before you could ask, the smile on his face returned, and he dragged you by the wrist. "There's a dance at Kephale Plaza. Come on, let's join!"

"D- Dance? Phainon, I've never danced with anyone before!"

"You're in luck—neither have I. Let's step on our toes together, then!"

Before you knew it, he had placed his palm against yours, and the two of you followed the same dance as everyone else. You weren't really sure what you were doing. None of your teachers taught you how to dance, as you never saw the reason to do so. Once or twice, maybe even more than thrice, you nearly stepped on another dancer's foot. Phainon had to drag you by the waist when you nearly bumped into another dancer. When you almost stepped on his foot again, you kept your eyes down, watching your steps.

"Is the ground really that much more interesting to you?" he asked, and you could hear his smile from his tone.

"Unfortunately, it has to be unless I want to step on another person again."

Phainon pulled you towards him, placing one hand on your shoulder and the other held your stretched hand. Before you could hit him again, you placed your free hand below his shoulder blade. You flicked your gaze up for a moment. His face was so close to you to the point where only his eyes filled your vision, but you could still see a hint of a smile.

"I think I don't mind if I end up with a missing toe if it means I get to look at you like this," he whispered as he spun you around, then held your shoulder again to stop you.

You scoffed. "I think you would regret that sentiment in the morning."

"True, but I'd rather regret that regret not being able to do this."

Once the dance finished, you placed one arm in front and one behind as you bowed, to which Phainon mirrored your gesture. When he stood tall again, he chuckled. "See? That wasn't so bad."

You lightly knocked your knuckles against his chest, which just made him laugh louder. "Don't ask me to carry you if your little feet hurt."

"So will you carry me if they're not hurting, then?"

You gasped, but a laugh still followed afterwards. "You know what I mean!"

"Nope. Unfortunately, I do not." After his laughter faded, he looked at the sky before back at you. "Seems like the Thief Shower is about to start soon. How about we grab a lucky cookie from the main banquet and go back to that place I showed you? It's unfair that I showed you the most beautiful in all of Okhema, but we only got to go there once. On an unpleasant night, no less."

He reached out his hand to you. Your hand faltered for a moment, but you still accepted his offer. The two of you grabbed a lucky cookie from the feast table and sneaked out. Every inch of Okhema's streets was filled with people right now, be it merchants or just people celebrating the occasion, so he had to guide you to the alleyways before leading you back to that place again.

You didn't have a lot of time left. There was at least an hour, or perhaps less, before Zagreus' Thief Star would turn into the Thief Shower. While a single Thief Star signaled the end of the day, a Thief Shower would signal the end of the year, and that the Month of Fortune had come to a close while the Month of Gate opened its doors for a new beginning. You remembered the view of the stars when he took you there that night. Perhaps the Thief Shower would look prettier there.

After a while, the two of you reached that spot again. It would be difficult to lie down now that the frost covering the grass had turned into a small layer of snow. Before you could sit down, Phainon removed his tattered cloak and laid it on the ground.

"After you," he said with a small bow.

"Why thank you."

When the two of you sat down, he chuckled and leaned back on his hands. "What a night. I can't believe the year's almost over. Felt like it was just yesterday when I first arrived in Okhema."

"I've never had such an eventful year before."

"Really? You look like the type of person that always has something exciting going on."

"If you call me talking to my flowers for half a year and then locking myself in my room for the other 'exciting', then sure. I have the best life anyone can think of."

"They'll definitely write poems about your adventures. Like how you downed at least one bottle of ambrosia a week for the past month."

"Hey, can you blame me? I was—"

You immediately paused. Right. You had spent so much time enjoying the night eating, playing games together, and even dancing that you forgot about the other thing. It was a good thing you remembered it before the year could end. You had a feeling there was only a few minutes left before the Thief Shower, and you would kick yourself if you forgot about another cloak this time.

"I was busy with something," you continued, fingers clutching the snow beneath you. With a deep breath, you opened your bag and took the cloak out. "I was busy with something for you.

Phainon's brows raised as he took the cloak from you. "This is?"

"Do you remember the night you gave me your cloak and I forgot to return it? I saw that it was a little tattered, so I asked Aglaea if she could teach me how to make one. I just finished it last week after working on it since the Month of Mourning."

Phainon unfolded the cloak and unfolded it in front of you both. The bottom was a dark shade of blue, almost black, and slowly rose into lighter until the hood was a regular blue color. Golden embroideries decorated the bottom, most of them resembling rays of the dawn, and stretched upwards. And of It was just like like the cape Aglaea made for the outfit he was wearing right now, though this one wasn't as elegant as hers.

"I hope you like it," you muttered.

His eyes were wide as he scanned the cloak, flipping it back and fourth to examine the second side. It was a single shade of gold, and even darker gold patterns decorated the inside. "You made this for me?"

"I know it's nothing like what Aglaea makes. I mean, nothing will ever compare to whatever she makes. And it's also my first time—"

Phainon placed a hand on your shoulder, making you look at him. And as always, the smile on his face was soft and gentle that you just kept your lips pursed instead of running your mouth. "I love it."

"Y- You do?"

"Of course." He wrapped the cloak around himself and sealed the hook and eye together. "Sure, it's not Lady Aglaea's work, but you still made something beautiful for me. Thank you. Now I feel bad that I didn't manage to get you anything. Is this tradition in Okhema to give gifts during Spirit Day, or is it just an actual tradition that I was never made aware about?"

He was smiling. He was smiling. Why did he have to smile right now? Why did that smile always make your heart beat faster and make you feel like you were losing air? Did you really want to ruin the mood right now? Were you really to break whatever was between you both because you were selfish? Would you really be happy if you did this?

It seemed like he noticed your mood shift. His smile fell, and his brows furrowed down. "Everything okay? Did I… did I say something wrong? You can tell me, you know."

Deep breaths. You just took a deep breath and sighed. "Actually… there's something I want to tell you. Phainon—"

"Khaslana."

You looked up. His smile wasn't there, but his gaze was still soft. Brows raised, lips a straight line, and eyes staring right at something only he could see. He looked like a completely different person.

No, that was wrong. It was just like that night, in the exact same place. You were just seeing another side of him. And unlike that day, where you only caught a glimpse, he was fully opening that side to you.

He leaned closer and placed his hand on top of yours. "My real name is Khaslana," he whispered, followed by a sigh that made the fog cover half of his face. "Not even Lygus knows my real name. So… please. Call me Khaslana when it's just the two of us."

Khaslana. It was a name that sounded so much different from Phainon. And since he was willing to tell you this… your cheeks felt warmer now. "You really trust me that much, huh?"

"Of course I do. You've become important to me now."

"In such a short time span?"

He hummed and pressed a finger on your forehead. "You're changing the subject."

You had hoped he didn't realize that. A small chuckle left you, before you sighed again. "Khaslana… I need to tell you something."

"What is it?"

He as even closer now to the point where you could feel his breath on your face. Warm, just like the sunlight. He was the sunlight.

You were up in a mountain, but you could hear the festivities of Okhema from down below. It seemed like the Thief Meteor was about to fall any moment now.

"I know you've been suspicious of me since we met," you whispered. "I know that, in the beginning, you were just trying to get close to me and trying to actually see if I was a witch or not. I know that no one was able to convince you to stop investigating me just because I'm Aglaea's child, and- and I know so much. I've lost sleep wondering just how much you knew and if I can really be safe around you. Even when I stopped being paranoid, a part of me is still worried right now that, as soon as I tell you the truth, I'll be as good as dead. And- and I'm clearly dragging all of this just because I don't want to- don't want to say anything. But…"

You took a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

"You're right. Whatever you used to think about me, you were right. I am a witch."

He didn't say anything, which made you hold your breath. What would he say? What would he do? You had replayed this scenario countless times in your head now, but you never knew what direction fate would take you. Should you pull away? Maybe it was for the best. Maybe this was his way of saying that you should go.

Before you could move, he placed one hand on your shoulder again. The other lifted your chin up, making both of your eyes meet. Oh, his eyes. Bright and blue, just like a clear sunny day.

If the sun were to never rise again, you could just look at those eyes and would instantly remember what it felt like to sit on the rooftop and watch the dawn.

"You're right," he whispered. "I always had a feeling that you were, and I never let go of that thought. But you're wrong about something. Whatever I used to think about you before… I was completely wrong about that. I was completely wrong about you. And… and now, I know that I was completely wrong about everything I believed in."

He grabbed one of your hands and placed it on his mouth. "Will you say my name?" he asked. "My real one."

You gulped. If you kept gulping like this, you might swallow your tongue next. But still, you took another deep breath. "K- Khaslana?"

He kissed your gloved palms, making you hold your breath. "Again… please."

"Khaslana."

He kissed each knuckle before leaning forward once more. "Again, please… I haven't heard anyone say my name in twelve years… it's- I need to hear it from you."

Your brows furrowed down. "Do you… not hate me?"

"Hate you?" He shook his head. "I care about you. Why would I hate you?"

The Thief Shower fell. Just as his lips met yours.

Everything about Phainon was soft. From his eyes, to the way his bangs would brush against his forehead, to his smile. You remembered the times you wondered if it was a façade. A front he was putting up so he could come closer and you could lower your guard, then kill you when the time was right.

But you were wrong. Oh, so wrong. Because even Khaslana was soft. His lips, his kiss, the way he held your chin to pull you closer. If you didn't know he was a witch hunter before this, then you wouldn't have thought that someone as soft and gentle as this was a witch hunter.

All those nights you spent tossing and turning, wondering what his reaction would be once he knew the truth… none of them involved this. Nothing could prepare you for this.

Gods, your hands. You had hands. Where would you even put them right now? Could you even move right now? You were just frozen in place, hands pinned on the ground and eyes wide as Khaslana kissed you with his eyes closed. With a mental shake of your head, you closed your eyes and leaned your head towards him. You had no idea what to do, so you just prayed that he somehow already knew it.

He was the first one to part. When you opened your eyes and caught your breaths, he was already staring at you. The hand not touching your chin caressed your cheek. Before you knew it, he kissed you again. This time, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, returning his kiss.

It was like you were in a completely different world right now. There were no witch hunters, no Council of Elders, and no death awaiting you someday. You were a witch kissing the man you fell in love with.

When you parted a second time, you pressed your forehead against his and panted, catching your breaths. Despite that, a small chuckle left your lips. "You made me panic for six months and then have the audacity to kiss me? I should kill you right now."

"You could." He shrugged. "Or, you could kiss me again."

"Don't push your luck." Despite your words, you pressed another soft kiss on his lips. A quick one, unlike the one he gave you, but still a kiss.

You stayed with him for a while. The two of you just sat there, your head on his shoulder and his arms around your waist. Your eyes were heavy, but you didn't mind if you fell asleep this time. You knew Khaslana would just carry you back home, anyway.

"I think I owe Aglaea after this," you muttered after a while. "She wasn't being pushy, but she did encourage me. No doubt I'll hear an 'I told you so' after this."

"Really?" He chuckled as he kissed your temple. "Did she… say anything else about me?"

"Nothing much except that I should lower my walls a little around you so I won't be too paranoid and obvious. Why do you ask?"

"You mean she never told you about the time she pointed a giant needle sword at me when I snuck inside her house and looked for your room?"

Your eyes widened, and you sat taller. "She what? She never told me that happened!"

"Oh, she didn't? Well, whoops. You never heard me say anything. Hey, how are those lucky cookies? Weren't we supposed to open them as soon as the Thief Shower fell?"

"The—oh." You grabbed the lucky cookies from your satchel. Both were still intact, fortunately. "You're lucky that this is a good distraction, or else I would have interrogated you about that time."

"Well, I hope it's not too late, then." He accepted his cookie from you. "Do you think one of us will get a silver coin?"

The thought made you snort. "I think I've had enough blessings from Zagreus for the year, thanks."

The two of you broke your cookies at the same time. Khaslana placed one half of his cookies in his mouth before taking the slip of paper inside. "The truth shall set your heart free. What do you know, this cookie is accurate. Any chance these are also magic? Or did I just have a really lucky start to the new year?"

You couldn't believe this. He was asking you about magic, as if that was the most natural thing in the world. It made you realize that your heart still hadn't calmed down from the fact that, just moments ago, you were worried that you would have to hide yourself from him forever. If it weren't for how much your stomach was doing flips, you would have thought you were dreaming.

"I would love it if a cookie was able to dictate how my life would go for the next year, but I always get the ones that don't make any sense." You grabbed the slip of paper and unrolled it. "The warmth you've always known will grow cold, but you will not see the fire die out. See? What does this even mean? Do you want the other half of my cookie? I don't like raisins, anyway."

Khaslana grabbed one half from you as you ate the other. Once the both of you finished, he stood up and offered his hand. "Let me walk you home. I don't want Lady Aglaea to think I've kidnapped you somehow, and I think I'd rather not be at the end of her needle again."

"I still cannot believe that she hid that from me." You grabbed his old cloak from the ground and accepted his hand. Even when you passed it back to him, he just chuckled. "But I think she's not worried about that."

Your fingers locked with his as the two of you walked down the mountain at the same time. You hadn't realized just how stiff his palms were until now. Definitely callous from all of the rigorous training he did in the past. You remembered the time he was able to carry his large sword with just one hand, and you still had no idea how he managed to do it.

By the time you both arrived at Okhema again, the festivities had died down. People were either closing their stalls or leaving their places. There were still some trash left in the street, but you knew that nobody wanted to clean that. At least, not right now. Someone would be back in the morning and sweep all the dirt alongside the snow.

It seemed like Aglaea was still awake, as there was a faint orange glow coming from one of the windows. As soon as you reached the front door, it immediately opened. Her brows were furrowed down, but when her gaze flicked downwards, a small smile formed on her face. "Welcome home, my darling."

You returned her smile. "Glad to be home."

"It's getting late now. Come in."

With a nod, you turned to him again. "Thank you for walking me back, Phai—Khaslana. Goodnight."

Khaslana smiled. He lifted your hand and pressed a kiss on the back. "Goodnight."

You didn't realize just how tired you were until you entered Aglaea's house. You were never this tired after a Spirit Day before. Perhaps it was the dancing. Or perhaps it was the fact that you could finally breathe easily after worrying for nearly half a year that you were going to die. And now, you could go back to your bed and sleep without worrying about what tomorrow would bring.

"So." Aglaea's voice snapped you out of your thoughts. "Did you have fun?"

You sat down on one of the couches and took a deep breath, followed by an even longer sigh. Your feet were aching after all the walking and dancing, your stomach was aching from the amount of food you ached, and you were sleepy. Thank the gods that Khaslana convinced you to drink olive juice rather than another bottle of ambrosia, or else you would regret once morning arrived.

And most of all, you had the best night of your life.

You lifted your head and looked at her. "Aglaea?"

"Yes?"

"Mind telling me the story of the time you pointed your needle sword at him when he tried sneaking it during that morning?"

Aglaea chuckled. "Perhaps another time, child. Perhaps another time. But you should go to sleep now." She stood in front of you and placed a kiss on your forehead. "Goodnight."

A sigh left your lips. "Yes. Goodnight."

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teyvat-inks · 3 days ago

Text

"Thy kingdom come, thy will be done to me, betrayer Throw your stones and stab me with your hateful stares Curtain call, the final act, so say your prayers So long to you beloved traitor."

「 ✦ LOWER ONE'S EYES ✦ 」

masterlist | you are here | part 2 ->

Word count: 16410 Reading time: 1h 22m Featuring: reader, phainon, aglaea, lygus Other characters: caenis, anaxa, cyrene, cipher (mentioned), tribios (mentioned), hyacine Tags: all tags are applicable to the fic as a whole and not just the part posted, major character death, written before 3.5, alternate universe, potential ooc, slowburn (im serious phainon doesn't appear until maybe 5k words in), gn reader, no use of y/n or [name], witch hunts, not time period accurate, bittersweet ending, implied grooming, gets suggestive at some point but no nsfw content, aglaea as reader's adoptive mother, implied aglanaxa if you squint, reader has trust issues and still refuses to trust phainon 30k words in, phainon is refered to as flame reaver at the start and khaslana near the end, slight edits made, no beta please kill me already Notes: If this is your first time interacting with me or my works, please read my rules beforehand. hey remember when i said i was worried that the witch hunter!phainon x witch!reader fic was going to finish at 25k but then i thought it might end at 30k but it finished at 42k before edits. ha. hahahahahaha. its at 64k words. and since i refuse to post something that long on tumblr, i decided to split it into parts. part 2 will be posted in three days. while the fic isnt based on it, the title and chapter titles are from lower one's eyes. specifically, the english cover by trickle. give it a listen if you have the time! it slaps at it was my #1 song on spotify wrapped during 2022. youll never guess what #2 was (it was the original version). thank you all for listening to my yapping and enjoy the fic! edit: forgot to mention! if you guys want to be tagged for the second part, please let me know! i'll add you to the taglist!

I. A Last Supper With Nothing to Say

You were ten when it happened. And yet, the memory was still so clear in your head.

Night had just fallen, and your mother was cooking a hearty Dromas stew in the kitchen of your cottage. You had lost your father to the Black Tide recently, but your mother never stopped smiling. Even right now, as you heard her repeatedly say, "It's just dinner for two", she didn't look sad. If she didn't look sad, why would you be? You were always happy in your home, after all. It was just like any other night. The only difference was that your father was being happy in the Nether Realm with Thanatos now instead of with you and your mother.

It was supposed to be just like any other night. But when your mother placed the bowl of stew on your side of the table, someone knocked three times. The first round was gentle, and you had thought that your father came back from the Nether Realm and was about to tell you stories about Thanatos. The second round was still the same, but your mother told you to sit still and let her deal with the guests. And when the person knocked a third time, it was angrier, almost as if they were planning to break your door if your mother didn't open it any time soon.

When your mother opened the door, someone from the Council of Elders came in with witch hunters behind her. The woman, Caenis, had accused your mother of witchcraft. That she was the reason why your father died. She had bewitched him, and then used the Black Tide to kill him and to make her dark magic stronger.

You were confused when you heard her accusatory words. But before you could say a word, your mother had used a spell to keep your lips sealed. By the time that the spell wore off, your mother followed Caenis and her witch hunters, leaving you alone in your cottage.

You already knew what was going on. You knew what happened if someone was found guilty— even found guilty, just declared guilty—of witchcraft. It was an immediate execution. They rarely did investigations. If someone, especially someone from the Council of Elders, called someone a witch, a trial was useless. Their minds were already set that the person was guilty. They considered witchcraft as an insult to the gods, a blasphemous act that as associated with the corruption that was the Black Tide, so they would want the witch to be gone as soon as possible.

But you and your mother were witches. The two of you had spent your entire lives hiding from the Council just so no one would know the truth. Unfortunately, it was too late. It was a lost cause now.

Somehow, your mother had convinced the Council that you were innocent. That you were just a child, unaware of the sins she committed. Though they were still suspicious of you, you were spared from the death penalty. Even as a child, you knew you weren't above the law. You had heard from gossip before that even children your age were executed if they were declared witches. You had no idea how you escaped punishment. Perhaps it was your mother's last act of magic to save you from an early death.

And so, there you were, running to Kephale Plaza while crying and yelling to anyone who would listen. You grabbed for clothes or scarves, falling to your knees, hoping even just one person would listen to you. Your mother had no connections to the Black Tide; no witch was. In fact, you were all protecting everyone from the Black Tide from advancing forward. She was innocent, and the Council was about to kill her despite her lack of crime.

But only one person picked you up from the ground: Aglaea, your parents' friend and another witch in hiding. Among all of the people, she was the only one who thought of picking you up from the ground and making sure you didn't get crushed or stepped on. Even when you tried to run to your mother's pyre, she grabbed your hand and buried your face in her chest.

"Don't look, child," she whispered. "Please… don't look."

You couldn't remember if your mother screamed or cried that night. Everything was too loud. From the people all screaming, "Burn the witch!", to the sound of the fire as another member of the Council lit the dry hay up, to your blood roaring in your ears. You held on to Aglaea, the last anchor in your life, while everyone watched and cheered as the flames took your last family member away.

Aglaea told you to not look, but you still did. You still saw it. You saw how your mother looked at you with tears falling down her reddening eyes. Her hands were tied to a stake, so she was unable to run away from the fire ate away her hair, her dress, and soon her skin. But even so, you could never recall what her mouth looked like in that moment. Were they opened, screaming in agony? Were they closed, showing you one final smile? Or were they moving, telling you one last message that you couldn't recall no matter how many times you replayed that memory?

You never left that spot. Even when people finally parted. Even when all of Okhema fell asleep, and even when dawn was rising on the horizon. You remained there, kneeling in front of the ashes that was once your mother. Aglaea never left your side, either. You were thirsty, your stomach growled, but neither of you moved until lunchtime. Since you didn't sleep or eat the entire night, you had no energy to protest against Aglaea's suggestion of returning to her house.

The Black Tide took your father. And now, the people who feared it took your mother.

You were ten when it happened, but you still understood what this meant: all eyes were on you. It didn't matter that your mother convinced the Council that you were innocent. Any wrong move, and they would realize she had lied to them. And if people found out about that, you were next.

When Aglaea finished making lunch, she placed the bowl of salad. "Darling, I know it's too soon… but for your safety, you'll be living with me from now on."

Her words snapped you out of your thoughts. You lifted your head up and met her soft gaze. "Live… live with you?"

"Your… your parents and I had talked about it already. I agreed that, if the day came that you would be all alone, I'll let you live with me. It will keep you safe. No one would dare to accuse the main sponsor of the council of witchcraft, let alone the child she's taken in."

That was true. Aglaea grew up in wealth, with her money regularly funding the Council of Elders. It was how she had always managed to avoid suspicion. Even if people suspected she could be a witch, they wouldn't want to lose their main benefactor.

"I can provide you with anything you need," she continued. "I can teach you magic. I'll teach you the spell that's been protecting Okhema from the Black Tide. Do you know Anaxagoras? He's not just a professor, but also a witch, and I can have him teach you both basic education and magic. If you want, I'll teach you how to use a needle and work in my shop. What do you say?"

You took a spoonful of the salad. Aglaea's cooking was always excellent. During the times you and your family received her food, you always loved how flavorful they were. But right now, everything was bland.

"I… I don't know." Your eyes were burning, but no tears fell. "I want to stay in our house, too… Mama has a lot of flowers that I wanna take care of. And… And Dad always said he made the cottage for them after they got married, and…"

She sighed and patted your head, taking the seat next to you. "It's alright, I understand. I just don't think it's safe for a child to live alone now. You don't know how dangerous these streets can be."

She was right again. You doubted you could live off the streets, and it would just increase the chances of people thinking you were a witch.

Aglaea hummed. "How about this? You still live with me, but you can go to your cottage anytime you want, and I'll accompany you. Once you're older, you can choose to live back home if you want, or you can stay with me if you wish. Does that sound better?"

You wanted to say no. You wanted to tell her that you would rather sleep on your own bed, wake up to the smell of earth outside your own window, and talk to your own flowers as if they were your friends. But the same thought echoed in your head. Eyes were on you. Any wrong move, and it could be you at the stake. Any wrong move, and not even Aglaea could help you.

You had no choice but to nod. "Okay… Thank you, Lady Aglaea."

She smiled and patted your head again. "Of course. Anytime, child."

That was how your life went for the next few years. Aglaea took you in and raised you as if you were her own. Every morning, she treated you to a delicious breakfast. In turn, you would help her in her tailor shop whenever you could. At eleven, you did the basic tasks she asked for. Fetch me my needle. Get the tape measurer. Hold this basket. At twelve, you started mending simple things, like a broken button or a ripped seam. Occasionally, a customer would shoot you a suspicious stare. But at the sight of Aglaea's crossed arms, they would immediately purse their lips and not even glance at you anymore.

When both of you had free time, you returned to your cottage. Sometimes, you would clean it up. But most of the time, you attended to the plants and flowers in your garden. Even if you wanted to talk to them, which you rarely had the energy to do so, you had to keep your lips pursed. Talking to flowers could be a sign of witchcraft. You didn't want to risk anything.

Before the sun would set, you two would return to Aglaea's house, where she would teach you one of three things—how to cook, how to sew… and how to use your magic.

She taught you her own magic of sewing and making clothes. When there was a topic out of her scope, she would schedule a session with Professor Anaxa, a teacher and another witch in Okhema, where he would tutor you with not just magic, but also basic education. Most importantly of all, she taught you the spell that protected Okhema from the Black Tide.

"It differs from witch to witch," she said when you learned about the spell for the first time. She pinched the air, and golden threads appeared between her fingers. "For instance, my way of protecting Okhema is wrapping the city in invisible golden threads and creating a barrier. But I also have to be careful, and the spell can't be too strong. If it is, the Council and witch hunters will be able to sense it and connect the spell back to me. Overusing my magic can also tire me out quickly, and it would cause the barrier to break."

You nodded. "Lady Aglaea… if we're protecting Okhema from the Black Tide, then why does everyone think witches are behind it?"

She sighed and pulled you closer to herself, arms wrapped around your form. "That's because the Black Tide is magic. More specifically, residue of magic that witches should be regularly cleansing, or else it will corrupt. But people took it to mean that if witches no longer existed, then the Black Tide wouldn't as well."

"But if there's lesser witches, then wouldn't that mean the Black Tide would just stay corrupted?"

"It's impressive that even a child like you understood that," she said with a chuckle." Unfortunately, most people don't. And now that the Black Tide has been growing worse in some locations, it would take a lot of witches to cleanse it. So, the best we can do now is to block it from advancing, and hope that we'll have enough witches in the future to clean it."

Aglaea poked your nose, earning a small giggle from you. "I sense greatness from you," she continued. "I know you'll be more powerful than me, and your own barriers will be stronger than mine. And who knows? Perhaps in the future, you'll be able to change Okhema and gather enough powerful witches to finally clean the Black Tide."

And being the curious and nosy child that you were, you immediately asked Professor Anaxa about it when you went to his study the next day. Your response was a sigh and him closing the scroll he was reading, before gesturing you to sit on the couch across him.

"So she's burdening you with that task at such a young age," he said as he crossed his arms. "No matter. She needs a successor, after all, and you're young enough to take her place when the day comes. I don't usually send people my thoughts and prayers, but it seems like you would need it."

"You don't sound so happy to hear that, Professor Anaxa."

"That's Anaxagoras to you," he said with a frown, which only deepened when you giggled. "And yes, I'm not really fond with this tradition of ours. However, it's not my place to scare you about it. Let that woman do it for you once you're older."

"Is there a reason why only she can do it?"

"She doesn't have to do it by herself. In fact, there used to be some cities that had more than one witch cast the spell, but it's difficult to perform. If even one witch falters, then the other has to overwork or else it risks danger." His single eye turned to you, which seemed to glow in the dimness of his study. "If you ask me, I'd rather you not worry about protecting Okhema by yourself and would prefer to see a life where everyone can cleanse the Black Tide instead. But unfortunately, such a future is still out of reach. Let's just hope this placeholder task will last us long enough."

And when you told Aglaea his response, the two of them bickered again the next time they saw each other, to which you watched with amusement.

When the first day of a new month would arrive, she would always make sure that the two of you would celebrate it, even if it was just in secret. You learned that her strongest moon was the Month of Weaving, with her patron god being the God of Romance, Mnestia. It was also when her main magic of weaving would be stronger, and the garments she crafted would be more beautiful than ever.

Your own magic also grew stronger over the years. It took a while, but you soon started dedicating yourself to Georios, the God of the Earth. Originally, you wanted to dedicate yourself to Cerces, like your mother. It was said they also watched over the cultivation of plant life and nature in Amphoreus. But Aglaea and Professor Anaxa had convinced you otherwise, saying that you shouldn't burden yourself with the pursuit of knowledge if you simply wanted to take care of your garden.

"Besides," he said during one of his lessons, "you should feel honored that you're dedicating yourself to the God of the Earth. After all, they created the Dromas. What better god to serve than that?"

And you knew that, when the topic would shift to his favorite creatures, the only proper answer was to listen and nod. So, when the Month of Cultivation came, you swore yourself to the Pillar of Stone.

The entire time, Aglaea never stopped taking care of you. She was natural at being a mother. Once or twice, the word "Mom" would almost leave your lips, but you always managed to stop yourself from embarrassment. Still, it was almost like she had her own child before. But since she never mentioned anything, you just assumed she already knew what to do.

By the time you were seventeen, she was finally confident enough to let you live all by yourself and return to your family cottage. So, you returned home, this time all by yourself. Opening the door was like opening a frozen memory. You regularly cleaned it up, so no cobwebs hung from the ceiling or dust gathered on the surface. Even the dishes were clean. It was like nothing had changed. Your mother was still going to come downstairs, telling you she had a new spell ready for you to learn. Or that your father would enter through the back door, greeting you both with a hug and telling you the stories of how he helped fight off the Black Tide.

For the first year, your routine was monotonous. Wake up, tend to your garden, help Aglaea in her shop, then go home. When it was the Calamity Season, you would sometimes stay in Aglaea's house again since you had nothing to do during the winter. At some point, she started asking for your flowers for her garments. Every time people started asking her where she got her flowers, to which she always would redirect them to you. Eventually, they started talking to you. Asking if you still had some of those flowers and if they could buy some. As if a few days ago, they wouldn't even want you to buy food from the market in fear of you somehow poisoning them.

Fortunately, with Aglaea's help, you were able to put up a flower shop in front of your cottage. If people walked near your house, they might see your beautiful garden, then purchase either a bouquet or a pot from you. Sometimes, but most especially during the Month of Joy, you would go to the marketplace and sell flowers to people who walked by.

And whenever you sold your flowers in the street, your ears always picked up the same conversation from everyone.

"Isn't that the witch's kid? Those flowers are probably cursed, then. Why are people buying? Aren't they worried?"

"Hey, that's Lady Aglaea's kid you're talking about. Why would she sponsor a witch when she's a devoted follower of Mnestia? You think she'd tolerate someone who's a disgrace to the gods?"

You always released your breath every time you heard those conversations. You were safe for now.

For now.

You didn't know how long this safety would last. But you didn't worry about it for now. The important part was that, even though people were still suspicious of you, they feared Aglaea more to actually do anything. And that was enough.

II. Shutting a Throat So Singed, I Don’t Have a Word That Won’t Sting

It had been twelve years ever since you lost your parents. With those twelve years, it felt like Okhema barely changed. In fact, like the Black Tide, it felt like it got worse. With Okhema being the largest city in Amphoreus, it accepted more refugees from cities or villages, the population wasn't the only thing that grew. There was also the paranoia.

Back then, while witch hunts were common, it still wasn't a regular occurrence. You didn't hear witch accusations just by walking the street, or wouldn't assume that another missing merchant meant the Council took another one for questioning. Now, you keep hearing that the Council shouldn't be accepting refugees that would bring the Black Tide with them, or that security should be stricter for people's safety.

It was all ironic. If only they knew that the strongest witch in the city was single-handedly protected them all from the very thing they believed witches caused. If they actually understood what they were afraid of, they wouldn't have this issue in the first place.

Sometimes, you had to attend the executions with Aglaea. While you couldn't be there for every one of them, it felt like basic courtesy to be there. To silently mourn an innocent soul, witch or not, that no one would even make a grave for. After all, if you didn't mourn for them, no one would.

With the rise in people entering Okhema also saw the rise of witch hunters pouring in. Nothing changed in your life. It just meant you had more people to be wary of. But still, you couldn't help but feel like things have been a bit… eerie.

You couldn't remember when it started. Perhaps it was a few months ago, perhaps it was even longer than you initially thought. But something changed.

You didn't know every witch in Okhema for safety reasons, but you knew the ones Aglaea introduced you to. There was the young man who tended to the Dromases and would use his magic to make their feed healthier. Then, there was the kind old lady who you always bought fruits from and would sometimes share you secrets on how to properly care for your plants, even during the colder seasons. Another one was a person your age, still trying to find out what their talent was going to be. You couldn't know them on a more personal level, but you knew them enough to be acquaintances.

And you would never be able to know them better, because all three of them were dead. Gone. Devoured by the same fire that took your mother.

It was then when you heard the gossip. A new witch hunter had arrived, someone who the Council was confident had an accurate nose. You didn't catch his name, but you did hear the nickname they gave him: Flame Reaver. He came from a small and unheard village called Aedes Elysiae, and a member of the Council left Okhema for a few years to train him personally.

"I doubt he's as good as they claim him to be," you told Aglaea when you delivered the yarrow she asked for. "I'm sure it's just pure chance that he's killing the "right" ones. If you kill seven people and four of them end up being witches, of course you'll think you're good at your job."

"Let the Council declare what they want to declare," she replied as she weaved the yarrow into a headpiece. "It makes them feel better about themselves and think they're "cleaning" the world from darkness."

"A little hard for me to do that." You scoffed and crossed your arms. "It's hard to let them do whatever they want when it's affecting so many lives permanently. I can't just sit idly and watch as they kill anyone in Okhema that questions their authority. At this rate, no one will be able to protect them from the Black Tide."

"Your spirit is strong." She turned around and faced you. Twelve years had passed since she first took you in, but she still looked at you with those soft eyes and smile. Aglaea placed a hand on your face, brushing away a bit of dirt that got on your cheek. "A strong spirit might not be enough to change the world, but it can be a spark for change. Just remember to be safe as well. Be a fire that guides people in the dark, not a fire that destroys without a thought."

You returned Aglaea's smile and pulled her in for a hug. "Don't worry, I'll be sure to stay safe."

You had gotten used to the chaos of Okhema that the next week was surprisingly peaceful. No fingers being pointed at each other, no mobs knocking on doors and dragging people to the Marmoreal Temple for questioning, no strife in general. While most people basked in the peace, your skin prickled. Something was off. Something was extremely off. This wasn't a breath of fresh air, this was the calm before the storm.

And your fears proved to be true.

The peace was cut short. Unsurprisingly, there was another execution. You had no plans to attend it. It was sundown, and you had just finished selling flowers in the street. You just wanted to go home. But just as you were about to leave the marketplace, your ears caught the name of the person being executed, and you immediately froze in your tracks.

Professor Anaxa.

Yourteacher. The one who had convinced you to not burden yourself with Cerces' teachings, just like him, and pursue a gentler and more lax god like Georios. The one who taught you not just magic, but general knowledge that you could use in your everyday life.

This was bound to happen someday. It was the thought that repeated in your head as you ran to Kephale Plaza. Professor Anaxa was already a controversial figure. People saw him as a heretic, a madman, a blasphemous scholar. He always insulted the gods at any opportunity he got and saw no reason to respect them. In fact, it was a miracle it took them this long to get him. He practiced alchemy in broad daylight, and no one seemed to bat an eye.

It was bound to happen someday.

You pulled your hood up and joined the crowd.

Even Aglaea was expecting it.

Your feet picked up their pace.

Professor Anaxa always said that his execution might as well happen tomorrow, so they didn't need to delay the inevitable.

The crowd was large, larger than it usually was. It was as if everyone in Okhema was here to watch and celebrate someone's death. When you saw Professor Anaxa, you covered your mouth to hide your gasp. They didn't just tie him to the stake—they had his wrists bound, arms spread wide open and tied to two wooden poles next to him, and his ankles were tied with even more rope as he hovered over where the fire would be later. It was as if he was the most dangerous person to ever exist. As if his death would suddenly purge the Black Tide.

He had always looked forward for this day… There was even a smile on his face as he scanned the crowd with his singular eye, the other one gone no thanks to one of his alchemical experiments in the past.

And yet, your heart still ached. He was still one of your teachers. Aside from Aglaea, he taught you everything you knew. You almost devoted yourself to Cerces because of him, and he persuaded you to live a simple life without worry of pursuing greater knowledge that you couldn't fathom.

Why? Why did they have to take him as well?

Keep your chin up. He would tell you that. In fact, you could even hear that in his voice. This is nothing to mourn for. Consider it a sign that I, Anaxagoras, achieved something so great that the council would rather execute me rather than understand my findings.

Someone holding a torch stood in front of him, and you didn't need to squint to know who it was. You recognized that man. A man who always claimed to be neutral, and yet was the one who lit every single pyre before he left Okhema for a few years to do gods know what, and continued to do so even during his return. The man who lit your mother's pyre.

Lygus.

"Citizens of Okhema," he began. "Heed my words—only those with unwavering faith shall accept Kephale's protection. The flame of blasphemy will not be allowed to take root here."

You had expected him to set fire to the hay, like he always did. But when he turned to Professor Anaxa, he threw the torch at him, making his pants catch fire before it could even hit the straw. And as the flame grew bigger and bigger, the crowd became louder and louder.

"Blasphemous!"

"Unforgivable!"

"Blasphemous!"

As expected, Professor Anaxa paid them, nor the fire, no mind. He didn't just smile, he laughed. It almost reminded you of the times he would teach you basic gardening magic, stop in the middle of his lessons to laugh and write something on the board, before dropping you off back to Aglaea just to disappear for a week or two. It was as if this was just another one of his eureka moments and not his death sentence.

"This body has long been tempered by near ruin," he said, like it was just another lecture. "But reason, desire, passion… will always re-ignite the burning fire within my soul!"

And fitting for his final performance, the fire turned from a bright and blinding orange to a deep blue-green and devoured him whole. High pitched screams erupted from the crowd as everyone backed off, some even running away, from the demised scholar.

As expected of him. He was on death's claw, and yet he still chose to bid farewell with an act people would always remember.

You lowered your head and held your hood. Another witch, gone too soon. You could feel tears gathering in your eyes, but seeing how he laughed… at least he got what he wanted.

You glared at Lygus again before turning your gaze to the others near him. They all wore the same attire; the pitch black robes that belonged to the witch hunters. Most of them wore masks, but you could imagine that they all had their brows furrowed down as they glared at the green fire. One of them removed his mask and wiped his face. His hood was up, but you could see the wisps of white hair peeking out. And now that his mask was off, his bright blue eyes stood out, almost as if they had their own glow to them.

The man froze, his eyes narrowing, before turning to his left. That was when you realized he was looking at you.

Running away from a witch hunter wasn't a good idea. It was grounds for suspicion. If you ran, then you were dead. But at the same time, you couldn't stay here. Aglaea's protection could only reach so far. If someone, especially a witch hunter, accused you in front of a crowd, then the majority would also vote for you to be burned as well. At least if you left, you might have an easier chance to escape. And if he caught you, it would be easier to convince one person rather than an entire city to spare you.

You turned around, leaving the mob and the burning body of your now deceased teacher. You kept your head low and tried to blend in as much as possible. Though if a witch hunter already had his eyes on you, a hooded figure walking away would be suspicious.

Even though you were now out, you still walked. Don't run, just walk. A warning so many witches had told you already. If you run, you’re as good as dead. If you walk, at least it won’t confirm their suspicions. And if you think you can use magic to get away, then you might as well confess you’re a witch. They’ll know if you use magic in front of them.

Your legs were itching to pick up the pace, to just run and maybe make him lose you. It was getting darker, and you were in an alleyway. Surely, you might be able to outrun him? Your cottage was at the outskirts of the village, away from most people. If you continued walking at this pace, then—

"In the name of Kephale, stop."

Dammit.

You did what you were told and turned around, watching as he removed his own hood. Now that he was face to face with you, everything about him was strangely bright. It wasn't just his eyes that stood out from the darkness, but his snowy white hair that reflected the light from a streetlamp behind him. His brows furrowed down as he scanned you from head to toe.

Those eyes… they were such a bright shade of blue. And yet, they glared at you as if you were lower than dirt.

You were half expecting him to spit on you, like how other people did. And when he spoke, you almost took a step back. "Remove your hood," he said.

You gulped, but you still followed. "Is there something wrong, sir?"

"You were at Kephale Plaza earlier, but left as soon as I saw you. Explain yourself."

Oh gods. Your heart was beating so loud that it was the only thing you could hear. That was the reason why he was suspicious of you? Because you left at the sight of your former teacher being burned alive? It was okay, it was fine. You could answer him. No need to panic.

"I- I'm sorry. It's just… Professor Anaxa is- was"—the correction made your stomach twist—"my teacher. It was- it was difficult to watch. Especially since the Council took unnecessary measures and tied him up like he was dangerous monster."

"He was a witch and a heretic. Those precautions were warranted."

You bit your tongue, almost literally. Sure, Professor Anaxa was eccentric, but he was far from a dangerous monster. But you couldn't say that. You weren't allowed to talk back. Not unless you wanted to be next.

“You say he was your teacher,” the man continued, snapping you out of your thoughts. “That means you must have been aware of his witchcraft, even to some extent, aren’t you?"

Cornered again. You couldn't say no; no one was unaware of Professor Anaxa and his beliefs. Saying no would be an obvious lie. "I believe everyone in Okhema knew about it."

"Then why didn't you report it to the Council of Elders?"

"If everyone was aware of Professor of Anaxa being a witch, but no one killed him before now, I- I saw no reason to send my teacher to death."

"So you would stay complacent because everyone else was doing it?"

"No, it's just that- I—"

"Reaver!"

Another voice appeared behind the man. When he turned around, another witch hunter was running towards him. The other man's eyes were wide, before his brows immediately furrowed down. A mask that covered the lower half of his face, but it was easy to tell that he was frowning when he grabbed his companion's arm and pulled him away from you.

"Hey, you got a death wish or something?" he hissed. "Do you have any idea who that kid is? That's Lady Aglaea's for gods' sake!" The man then turned to you and bowed. "I am so sorry for my friend here. He just got relocated to Okhema a few months ago, and he's still unfamiliar with how things work."

"Lady Aglaea's…" The man furrowed his brows as he looked at you. "But they don't even look alike. You're not saying this is—"

The other witch hunter nudged his chest, making him mutter an "ow" under his breath. "Again, so sorry about him. Please forget this ever happened. It wouldn't do good for the Council's reputation if they found out that the Flame Reaver wrongfully accused someone of witchcraft. I'll take him now."

It was as if someone poured cold water all over your body. Flame Reaver?

Even as Flame Reaver and his companion left, you remained rooted in your spot. Your throat was dry, and you doubted drinking an entire lake would be able to fix it. That was him. The Flame Reaver who was said to have an accurate nose for hunting witches.

Before the two of them left, Flame Reaver cast you one last glance and put his mask on again. You took that as your cue to pull your hood up and walked back to your cottage.

You always had difficulty sleeping these days. But right now, you tossed and turned in your bed even more than usual. You would have been shaken if it was any other witch hunter, but you doubted you would have been this restless. But the fact that it was Flame Reaver, the man that even the Council themselves was claiming to be accurate…

That word didn't stop echoing in your head. Accurate. If he truly was like what they claimed him to be, then you would have been dead meat if no one came there to stop him. Aglaea would have taken care of you for nothing.

No. You shook your head. You shouldn't linger on those thoughts. You were alive, and that was all that mattered.

And like what you told Aglaea before, how could they tell if someone was an "accurate" witch hunter, anyway? The ones they wrongfully accused never came back from the dead. In their eyes, wouldn't that make every accusation a spot on accusation? How did they determine if someone fit that claim? Even the Flame Reaver must have made some mistakes before.

He wouldn't find you. You were safe. They were suspicious of you, but you had evaded their eyes for twelve years now. You were safe.

You didn't know when you fell asleep. But you did know that, by the time you opened your eyes, it was morning already. You slept, but your mind still felt like it was floating on water. Unfortunately, you couldn't stay in bed and sleep in. You had work to do, no matter how little it was.

And so, you began your usual routine. Washed yourself, changed into one of the comfortable attires Aglaea crafted for you, then worked in your garden. You were careful with using magic, especially since sometimes, people would come in to your shop. Whether it was to ask why their flowers were dying even though they watered it everyday—

"No," you had said to the child that was crying when their tulips didn't look like it was blooming, "not every flower has to be watered daily. Tulips only need weekly watering. It's alright, you didn't know. Here, let me fix your flowers so it can grow again."

—or if it was a man whose lover was upset at him, and he was hoping to ask for forgiveness by buying some flowers.

"Do you even know what her favorite flowers are?" You scoffed at him. "Of course you don't. Well, you can't go wrong with ros—"

"She doesn't like roses."

Deep breaths. "Well, how about sunflowers, they're also popular."

"She hates yellow."

"Well if you know your partner that well, then, why don't you get flowers you know she'd like?"

"But I don't know what she likes! Aren't you the florist here?! What flowers would say, I'm sorry?"

You almost bashed your head against the wall when the man finally left.

When lunch rolled around, you finished most of your needed work earlier than usual. Perhaps you could pay Aglaea a visit.

Aside from that… Professor Anaxa just died last night. Though the two always bickered and argued, they both praised each other behind their backs. Aglaea was even the one who recommended Professor Anaxa to you. You should at least check on her. See how she was doing after the city lost another bright witch.

You grabbed your usual flower basket, just in case children would want to buy from you, and closed your shop for the day. As expected, once you reached the main streets of Okhema, they were the first ones lined up after you. Some of them offered trinkets, like the little boy who offered his "special pebble" that he found from the ground in exchange for roses for his mother. Some begged their parents to buy a flower crown, to which you would receive a suspicious glance before eventually purchasing one.

Now that you were older, your heart ached at the sight of them. These were children, no older than you when you first lost your parents. Did some of them also lose their parents to the witch hunts or the Black Tide? And most of all, how could the Council see these little ones and not hesitate to execute them if they were witches? Did they hate you all that much that they would be willing to kill children?

The thought stayed in your head, even when you finally reached Aglaea's shop. At least here, you could feel more at ease. A small chat with her always soothed your troubled mind.

"Aglaea, I'm ba—"

Perhaps you had offended the gods somehow. Or perhaps the threads of fate had already finished spinning the tapestry of your future, and decided that your demise was a beautiful color. Because why else would Flame Reaver be inside of Aglaea's shop?

He was looking down at first while Aglaea took his waistline's measurement, but he lifted his head when you entered. Something about him looked different, though you couldn't tell what it was. It wasn't like he changed his appearance. Maybe it wasn't him, but the change of scene. After all, last night, you met him in a dim alleyway during a cloudy night with your only lights being a streetlamp behind him. Now, the sunlight from the shop's window illuminated the side of his face, letting you see the smaller details. Like how his white hair was messy and unkempt, or how he had dark circles under his eyes.

Your stomach twisted, and you felt bile rising up in your throat. Was he also suspicious of Aglaea? No, no he couldn't be. He immediately let you go when the other witch hunter said you were her kid. He must have understood her importance. Or… was he also suspicious of her because of that fact? Did you drag Aglaea to her death as well?

"Ah, darling." Aglaea's voice snapped you out of your thoughts. She placed the tape measure on Flame Reaver's shoulders and took his measurements. "You're just in time. This is my last customer of the day, and I finished making lunch a while ago. Come in."

If you had any confidence earlier, it all turned to ashes.

Fortunately, Aglaea was doing a better job at keeping her composure. She just grabbed her pen and wrote the numbers down on her notebook. "Have you met Phainon?" she asked. "He's the Flame Reaver the Council was singing praises about."

"We…" You gulped. "We bumped into each other last night."

Even though she didn't pause, you saw the way her hand faltered. "Oh, I see. I did not know about that."

Now that Aglaea was done with him, Flame Reaver stepped away from her and placed a hand on his nape. "I- I sincerely apologize for that, Lady Aglaea. I didn't know that- I shouldn't have- I'm sorry for being suspicious of your child. My colleagues already warned me about it."

Aglaea simply hummed. "Do be careful next time. You know how seriously the Council takes accusations of witchcraft. Once it happens, it's near impossible to escape their clutches."

"Of- of course. I understand." He nodded. "Umm… is that everything for the clothes, then? When can I go back to, uhh, collect them?"

"Usually, I would say that it would take at least five months before you can expect the first garment to be finished, especially with how long my queue is. But since you're an important customer, I will be prioritizing yours. I estimate that everything will be done before the Month of Weaving can even start."

"Thank you. I'll see you, then."

Before Flame Reaver could walk past you, you took a step away from him. Unfortunately, he still turned his gaze at you. If his eyes were soft or gentle, you couldn't tell. It still felt like he was looking at you the way he glared at you last night. And right now, that was the only thing you could see on his face.

"I… umm…" He cleared his throat. "I think it's unfair that I apologized to Lady Aglaea but not to you. I- I'm sorry."

You shook your head. "It's fine. We can forget that last night ever happened."

Though you doubted you would actually be able to do that. The memory of almost being caught would definitely haunt you for a while.

"I didn't get your name, by the way. I'm—well, Lady Aglaea already told you who I am. But regardless, I'm Phainon."

Phainon. As if you would ever remember that name. You were certain you would call him Flame Reaver till the day you would die.

You told him yours. "And please. There's no need for formalities. You can just call me just that."

Flame Reaver repeated your name a few times before nodding. "Of course. I- umm- I'll go now. Thank you for the new clothes—or maybe, for taking my measurements, Lady Aglaea. And I'm sorry again about last night. I'll see you both."

Even when he finally left, you still didn't know if you had permission to breathe. The air was still thick. You were worried that, if you took a deep breath, you would suddenly find multiple knives piercing your lungs and making you choke on your own blood.

You didn't even notice that you dropped the flower basket until Aglaea picked up and placed it on a table. She placed one hand on your shoulder, while the other caressed your cheek.

"Child…" she whispered in that same motherly tone she always used on you. Whether it was because she was about to scold you for agreeing with Professor Anaxa's antics, or because you accidentally scraped your knee and needed healing.

You didn't fight back. Instead, you just leaned closer and wrapped your arms around her. "He's- he's gone. Professor Anaxa. They- they got him last night.

Aglaea pressed a kiss on your forehead and returned your hug. If you closed your eyes, you could imagine your mother doing the same thing. "I know. I heard. We should be at least thankful that he managed to survive this long, especially since it feels like he was intentionally trying to get himself killed. Though I'm sure he would be mocking us for mourning him. He'll want you to focus on what he deems more important things."

You almost laughed at that. "You mean have all the Dromas in the city gather together for his funeral?"

"I think he would rather you do that than throw all of his Dromas memorabilia into the River of Souls." She shook her head. "But enough of that. How are you feeling?"

Your heart clenched in your chest. "Is he… is he suspicious of you?"

"I'm not sure if he realized it yet, especially since we don't use magic anywhere inside the shop itself."

"Why did he come here?"

"He said he wanted to get his measurements so he can have clothes aside from his uniform. But I think he might have been looking for you."

"Aglaea, he's not—"

"He won't." Her hold on you grew tighter as you met her gaze. Her blue and green eyes always looked like she knew more than she was letting on, like her golden threads didn't just protect the city but also listened to the whispers in the streets. But despite that, she never stopped being soft and gentle.

How could a witch hunter look at her eyes and say she wasn't human?

"He won't get us," she continued. "He will not get you, and he will not get me. I'll have his new clothes finished before the Month of Weaving. That way, he has no reason to visit my shop. And if you want, you can stay with me for that entire month and say that you're just there to help me. We'll be safe, darling. I promise."

If it was possible, you held her even tighter. Even before your parents died, she was always there for you. And when she took you under her wing, she always did everything she could do to keep you safe, even if it sometimes felt like it was beyond what your parents asked for. Not once had you done anything to repay her kindness, but she never stopped being kind to you.

"Thank you, Aglaea," you whispered. "Thank you."

"Of course, darling. Anytime."

III. Lower Your Eyes, My Love and Spite Look Quite Alike

Like every time a witch hunt would happen, the days would pass by normally. It didn't matter if the Council found another person they deemed suspicious and dragged them to be "interrogated"—which you knew consisted of them whipping a confession out of the poor suspect and either leave them ostracized or dead in their home a few days later—or if there was another innocent soul burned at the stake, or if talks about the Black Tide became less of gossip and more of regular market conversations. Oronyx didn't freeze time so you could grieve your parents, why would they freeze time just so you could grieve those with looser connections to you?

At least Flame Reaver didn't approach you after that day in Aglaea's shop. You would occasionally see him in the Marmoreal Market or the main streets, but you didn't give him the opportunity to see you or talk to you. If you had to deliver flowers to a couple celebrating their anniversary, you would act casually so he wouldn't realize you saw him. If you went to Aglaea's shop, you made sure to linger there longer and even help around just until he would leave. If children were asking you to teach them how to make your flower crowns, you gathered as much as you can so he wouldn't think of interrupting children having fun.

You didn't know if he was suspicious, but you wouldn't give him the chance or opportunity to be more convinced.

Were you being paranoid? Probably. And maybe that paranoia would be the cause of your execution instead. But you would rather be paranoid and be over-prepared instead of being caught off guard.

The days turned into weeks. Before you knew it, it was the Month of Freedom, where everyone was free to do whatever they wanted. The seasons were also starting to change—the leaves shifting from bright and healthy greens to deep and dark reds. Every time you stepped out of the house, the first thing that would greet you would always be the satisfying crunch of the leaves beneath your shoes.

Surprisingly, Aglaea had also finished making all of Flame Reaver's garments. You didn't know how she did it, especially since she didn't use any magic to make his clothes. She even had to move one of her looms to a space in her house where she didn't use magic at all just so that not even residue of magic would cling on to the fabric. You were her only assistant, and she never ar asked for your help.

So it was a miracle that, a month later, you were helping Flame Reaver put on his new white coat.

Ever since you met him, the first thing you always noticed from him were his eyes. The murderous glint he showed you that night, the empty look they had that didn't reflect any light, the way they would flick to the side every few seconds whenever you were near each other, as if he was subtly watching you from his peripheral vision. So right now, as you watched him examine the elegant leaf pattern on his sleeves, you naturally found yourself looking at his eyes.

They were usually empty and blank, but you swore you saw them light up for a brief second before dimming again.

"These look… intricate," he said in that usual mumble of his. As if his voice would break if he spoke above a whisper.

"I'm glad you think so," Aglaea replied with a smile. "Here, let me add a finishing touch."

She clasped a blue and gold cape on his left shoulder, the length almost the same as his own coat. Blue on the back, gold on the front, with embroidered lines on the edges that resembled the sun's rays.

"They're… they're beautiful."

You had to agree. Aglaea really outdid herself with this one. Then again, this was Aglaea, after all. When did she not outdo herself? You also couldn't help but think that white suited him better than black. Perhaps because it matched his hair. Or maybe his cape's colors also matched his eyes.

"It's it's a shame that I can't wear this everyday."

You raised a brow. "What's stopping you?

"Well, I- I have to wear my uniform everyday, after all."

Ah, right. He looked so different in that coat that you had almost forgotten who or what he was. On the bright side, at least it was another testament to how amazing of a seamstress Aglaea was. The clothes she made could completely change a person's demeanor.

"I can't thank you enough, Lady Aglaea," Flame Reaver said once he was back to his uniform. Your shoulders tensed at the sight, and you took a small step back to hide behind one of the mannequins. "These outfits… wow. I don't think words can express just how much I love them."

"Of course, of course," Aglaea said with a wave of her hand. For most people, they might see her expression as either her usual gentle smile or perhaps even a blank look. But you noticed the faint way the corner of her lips curled up in a small smirk.

A few minutes after he finally left, you breathed a sigh of relief and sat down. You were never this nervous around a witch hunter before. And yet, every time you saw him, your legs would always shiver and your heart would start pounding so fast it would hurt. You could never tell if it was a sign to run or if it was your body freezing in place. You didn't even understand why you were so scared of him. Was it really because he almost caught you that night? Or because of his stupid reputation. Maybe that was the case. Perhaps even your own doubts weren't able to douse your fear of being caught.

"He's gone," you said, taking another deep breath and long sigh. "I thought he would take longer."

"It did seem like he was planning to stay around for a while," Aglaea replied as she sat across you. "But, it's as you said. He's gone now."

Your brows furrowed down. It was rare to see it on her face, but there were dark circles under her eyes. Even if she was tired or overworked, she always adorned her face with makeup, so it was difficult to tell. Even then, the curls of her golden hair were clearly unbrushed, and she didn't have the golden laurel wreath that always made her more elegant.

It was difficult to imagine her working during the late hours, stitching every pattern, connecting every piece, and even weaving every fabric, all by hand and without using her magic. Her gift was a part of her, and it was who she was. You were sure it pained her to not use her talent, but she still did it if it meant keeping the both of you safe.

"You know, it's still the Month of Freedom," you said. "You still have another month before the Month of Weaving. Why did you finish all of his clothes so soon?"

Aglaea lifted her head and met your gaze, making her tiredness more evident, even with the smile on her face. "I simply want to celebrate the Month of Freedom, like everyone else. I realized that my queue isn't as long as I thought it would be. So, why not use the opportunity to finish his garments, take a break for the rest of the month, and then continue my work once it's the Month of Reaping?"

That excuse felt… flimsy. Weak. You knew there was something else she wasn't saying. But you weren't going to question her about it for now. She was tired. The last thing you wanted was to stress her out with questions even more.

So instead, you nodded. "I understand. Get some rest, then. Do you want me to make dinner instead?"

"That will be lovely, darling. Thank you."

Since she closed the shop early, you had time to make a nice meal. Still, anxiety still ate away your veins as you watched her while you both ate together.

Maybe she was already tired before making those clothes. Perhaps she truly did mean it when she said that she wanted to clear her schedule for the Month of Freedom and have a break before her schedule would start piling up. Besides, her moon was coming soon. Her magic would grow stronger, and the outfits she would make would be more extravagant. Not to mention that she would use it as an opportunity to strengthen the threads holding Okhema's barrier together. She needed to rest and save her energy for her busiest month.

True to its name and the god that it was dedicated to, the Month of Freedom was peaceful, and it quietly transitioned to the Month of Reaping. Usually, this would be the time you would visit Professor Anaxa's home and listen to his rambles for an entire month.

"You don't have to burden yourself with the knowledge that came directly from this god," he would tell you, "but that doesn't mean I won't be teaching you what I deem valuable information to share. Now, grab a pen and paper and make sure to write everything down."

And you would sit with him in his study, writing down only as much as you could before complaining to Aglaea that he was sprouting nonsense again. To which the two would bicker again, and he would be forced to teach you "simpler" and "easier" spells that could actually help you grow stronger.

But he wasn't here anymore. When you opened the door to his house, there was no voice to scold you that you should have knocked. No one to warn you that he hadn't cleaned his house since last week, as he was engrossed in another alchemical experiment. You dragged no one away from the transmutation circle, no one to convince that trading his popliteal vein wasn't worth the risk of transforming into a Dromas at will.

Despite the silence, you did what you usually did whenever you got the chance to visit him. You cleaned up his house, leaving only his study and bedroom the way they were. The multiple Dromas plushies he owned looked lonelier without him. You would throw them into the River of Souls and hope that they would find him in the Nether Realm, but you had a feeling he would haunt you if you dared lay a single finger on all of his valuable items.

"I'll be leaving now, Professor," you whispered. "Thank you for all of your teachings. May you be reborn as a Dromas in your next life."

Despite your heart feeling empty, it was also heavy when you opened the door. But before you could even take a step out, a scream almost left your lips.

Flame Reaver stood in front of you.

Was he following you? His eyes widened as if he was shocked, but he could be pretending just so you wouldn't think he was following you. Dammit, you didn't even notice he was nearby. The peace that the Month of Freedom gave you must have made you lower your walls. You needed to remember that a witch hunter might be on your tail now.

"F- Flame Reaver. Good morning," you said with a nod.

He returned your nod. "Morning. What… what brings you here? This isn't your home, is it?"

You shook your head. "No, sir. It's- it was my teacher's. Professor Anaxa's. I just… I came here to clean his place up. It's been tradition of hours that, during the Month of Reaping, I'll come to his home and help him tidy up the place while he studies what he can. How about you? Why are you here?"

"I have orders from Lygus to confiscate anything I find suspicious here. So if you can, let me inside."

"Confiscate?" Your brows furrowed down. "I'm sorry, I'm confused. What is there to confiscate. Professor Anaxa is long dead. You've no need to investigate his home when you've already killed a witch, don't you think?"

"He might still have some things the Council will find useful. Perhaps a list of any witches he knows, or if he tampered with the dark arts and he left symbols that we should be wary of before it corrupts Okhema. I'm sure you understand. I won't ask a second time. Let me in."

Your hands clenched into fists. If Professor Anaxa was here, he would have pointed his gun at Flame Reaver and tell him to get out. Aside from his Dromas collection, his research was another thing he valued the most when he was still alive. He didn't even share you what was in his notes and scrolls. Rather, he would either make you write what he was saying, or rewrite a new one for you that you would be able to understand.

You didn't want to let him in. But at the same time, if you didn't, then he would drag you to the Marmoreal Temple. Before you knew it, you'd be dead.

This was a lose-lose situation.

With a gulp, you stepped aside and let him in. "I- I know you're here to investigate, but if you can, please leave his Dromas collection in his room. It meant everything to him, and I would rather they remain the way they are."

He raised a brow as he entered Professor Anaxa's home. "It's clean…"

"Like I said, I cleaned it up."

He opened the door to Professor Anaxa's room. If he weren't a witch hunter, you would have chuckled at the way his eyes widened. No doubt he saw the multiple Dromas plushies, Dromas figurines, Dromas blanket, and even Dromas onesie that you had laid on top of his bed.

"You were… you weren't joking when you said that it's filled with Dromas," he said as he stepped inside, and you almost squeaked as you followed him. "Is there a reason with his obsession with Dromas? Does he use them for potions? Maybe trades their body parts for power? Make deals with the devils of the Black Tide and use them as sacrifice?"

This was a trap, you could tell. Everyone in Okhema knew that Professor Anaxa was a witch, but you had mentioned before you were his student. While he did teach other children things that weren't related to witchcraft, this could still be a way for him to get you to slip up that you were aware of what he did that involved magic. It could be a way to get a confession from you.

"Umm… I- I don't know if this is the answer you're looking for, but I don't- I'm not aware of everything Professor Anaxa did behind closed doors. He just taught me basic education. Though I doubt that he actually used Dromas for whatever witchcraft he did. He just seems to like them. A lot."

Flame Reaver almost reached for one of the figurines on the windowsill, but immediately withdrew his hand. He was quiet for a while, just standing near the window with his chin resting on his hand. While he did stare at the window, it didn't seem like he was staring at the Dromas figurines specifically. Rather, he was simply facing their direction.

You didn't know what he was thinking, and you didn't want to know. You just wanted him to get out and not disrespect your teacher anymore. But at the same time, you didn't want him touching anything here. What if he accidentally broke one of Professor Anaxa's utensils? What if he would grab one of his plushies and rip it open just to see if he was hiding anything inside? You needed to think your actions. Impulse would be your death sentence. But how would you even get him to leave?

"I promise there's nothing in this room that would be of use to the Council's investigations." The words left your lips before you could even think twice, making you mentally kick yourself. Your hands clenched into fists as you felt your eyes burn. "I know you're worried that- that he might have left something here that will curse Okhema. But it's not in his room. This is really just his collection that he loved so much."

Your words seemed to snap him out of his trance. Flame Reaver lifted his head and looked at you. His mouth opened, closed, opened, and then closed again, before sighing. "You're right. I can't sense anything here. I'm sorry, I was just thinking about something."

Deep breaths. Your nails were digging in to your palms now. If you would clench your hands even tighter, no doubt it would leave crescent-shaped wounds or even bleed. Perhaps being in your deceased teacher's home was making you irrational. If he were still alive, he would have told you to leave for your own safety and disregard the Dromas collection.

"I- I should go," you whispered as you turned around. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be interfering with official Council business. I- I apologize."

Before he could mutter another word, you left. Like always, you didn't run. You just walked. You kept your head high and hands by your side until you returned to your cottage. Only then did you allow yourself to fall to your knees and for your tears to fall.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! You should have left as soon as you saw him, but you didn't. You thought that you should be protecting Professor Anaxa's belongings instead. If he was still alive and found out that you made such a reckless decision, no doubt he would have been mad.

"Prioritize your safety," he would have said. "Once Aglaea passes, you're the next in line to protect Okhema from the Black Tide. Let my collection burn to ashes if it means that you would still be around."

You wiped your tears from your eyes as you stood up. Would he really say that? Or would he have told you to protect his collection at all cost? You remembered how much he loved that collection. It was ridiculous, but you always noticed how he seemed softer whenever he held even the smallest plushie he owned. It was valuable to him, and you didn't want anyone in the Council getting their dirty hands on it just so they could hurt more of your people.

Get a grip. Flame Reaver was, no doubt, convinced now. You should have left when he arrived, but you didn't. So now, you would have to clean up your own mess and make sure that he wouldn't be able to catch you. Because if you died too soon, then that would truly anger Professor Anaxa, and he would no doubt chase you off with his gun in the Nether Realm.

For the next week, you had been starting your morning in one of two ways—opening your eyes and realizing that you didn't get proper sleep, or get up from bed without any sleep at all. You rarely had energy to make breakfast, too. So, not only were you constantly sleep deprived, you didn't even eat unless Aglaea reminded you to.

You dragged yourself out of bed and did your first routine. Wash, get dressed, open the shop. Maybe today, you should get lunch at the Marmoreal Diner later. You still had work to do, so unfortunately breakfast was out of the picture. Even if your arms could barely carry the watering can, you still picked it up and watered the flowers that needed watering. Fortunately, it wasn't a lot. It was fall now, and most of your flowers would be wilting in the winter. But taking care of them before they depart wouldn't hurt.

You were in the middle of watering a patch of golden flowers when the bell rang. Which was a little odd. While you did have customers during morning, it wasn't even the usual breakfast time yet. Maybe you forgot a delivery or a reservation? With how little sleep you had lately, it wouldn't be surprising.

"In a minute!"

You put down your watering can and stood up, removing any dirt that clung to your clothes. If it was Aglaea, the last thing she needed to see was how sleep deprived you were. If it was a customer, you needed to smile and let them know they weren't walking into the devil's den.

"Good morning! Is there any way I can help you today?"

Your smile almost faded immediately when you saw who it was in front of you. Flame Reaver.

The whispers and gossip returned to your mind. About how he had an accurate nose for finding witches. About how, once he found his target, he wouldn't let them go until he found damning evidence of their witchcraft. You remembered that night again, when he found you in the alleyway, and the day he found you in Professor Anaxa's home with you acting extremely suspicious.

Great. You had done it. Your recklessness yesterday had sealed your fate. You might as well grab a shovel in your shed and dig a ditch. At least that way, you wouldn't burn to death. If you hadn't been so reckless that day, then maybe he wouldn't be here.

His uniform didn't help, either. A black garb, with a golden crescent moon on his chest, and a torn cape. If someone told you that this was what Thanatos looked like, you would have believed them.

Calm down. He wasn't here to drag you to the stake yet. That was the worst case scenario. Which was still possible, but you didn't want to dwell on that thought for now.

"Morning," he said with a wave and a small smile. As if he didn't look like an executioner. "Umm… your flower shop looks nice. You… you grew here everything yourself?"

"I… I did." You nodded. "Morning. Is there any way I can help you?"

"Umm, well. I- I just wanted to apologize again for that day in your teacher's house. I continued investigating after I left, but I didn't touch any of his Dromas collection like you asked. I'm- I'm sorry. I must have bothered you that day."

You allowed yourself to sigh in relief. For now. You didn't know if he was going to bring up the fact that you were a witch, but you would let yourself relax before the worst would come. "It's alright," you said. "Honestly, it was a ridiculous thing to be mad about now that I'm looking back on it. I shouldn't have stepped in when you were working."

"No." He shook his head. "I also would have been on edge if someone I didn't know started touching my deceased loved ones' important belongings."

At least he was aware of that.

"Words aren't probably enough to express how sorry I am," he continued. "I originally thought of buying you flowers as an apology, but then I remembered that you were the florist. So maybe… maybe I can buy flowers from you instead?"

It was an innocent request, but you knew it was anything but. It was almost the same reason why Aglaea rushed making all of his new clothes without using magic. Some witch hunters were more sensitive at sensing magic more than others. And if he was both excellent and trained for that, then even the smallest hint of magic could be a death sentence.

Unfortunately, you weren't in a situation where you could reject him. Aside from the fact that you had been acting nothing but suspicious, you had no valid reason to not give him any flowers. If you did, he would ask you if your flowers were grown with magic, and then drag you to your death. And either Aglaea would be forced to cut ties with you to protect yourself, or they would drag her along.

It was a bright and sunny day outside, and yet it felt like the abyss was clawing you, dragging you, telling you that the Council was right and that there was a special place in the Nether Realm specifically for witches like you.

You raised a brow. "You want to buy flowers?"

He nodded. "I'm not really an expert on them, so I don't know how to properly care for them. Maybe… maybe something low maintenance? I'll definitely remember to water them and give them sunlight. The window in my house has a lot of light, actually. I just don't know if I can take of flowers where I need to cut the stems frequently, or if I have to change pots every season."

You nodded and turned around, repeating it was fine in your head again. You didn't use magic all the time to take care of your garden. You had taken care of flowers without any magic at all before. The question was, had you taken care of a flower that fit his criteria?

After scanning your display, you found one. Golden flowers, just like the one you were taking care of earlier.

"Here." You picked the pot of golden flowers up and passed it to him. "These are chrysanthemums, and they're on the low maintenance side. Place them on a spot with enough sunlight, and you only need to water them whenever their soil feels dry. Of course, if there's anything wrong with your flowers, like you're not sure why the leaves are turning yellow or why they're dying even after you water them according to schedule, you can always ask me questions."

Even though the last thing you wanted was more interactions with a witch hunter.

After paying, he pulled the pot closer to him and smelled the flowers. Just like that time in Aglaea's shop, his eyes lit up, even for a moment. "They smell very sweet." His usually straight lips curled into a faint smile. As if buying golden flowers was the highlight of his day that had just started. "Thank you. I- I'll take care of them. I like to think I have a green thumb."

Somehow, you doubted a man who could kill people with no remorse would be talented enough to keep a simple pot of flowers alive.

You were about to bid him farewell when your stomach growled. Right. You hadn't eaten yet. Maybe since yesterday lunch.

"You- you hungry?" he asked, reminding you that he was still there. "I know this is too forward, but would you like to join me for breakfast in the Marmoreal Diner? Consider it my treat. And as an apology for… everything."

You felt a brow twitch. He wasn't even hiding the fact that he was keeping an eye on you now, was he?

"It's fine, I can cook. Besides, didn't you already buy the flowers as an apology?"

"Well, how about an extended apology? Witchcraft accusations are heavy and shouldn't be taken lightly. Do you really consider me buying flowers as water under the bridge? And besides." You didn't think it was possible, but his smile widened. It felt a little out of place, especially since you only saw him with a grim expression on his face all the time. "Can you really say no to free food?"

Yes, yes you could. This was a trap. You were an idiot for being reckless in Professor Anaxa's house that day, but you weren't foolish enough to say yes. At least this time, you had a reason to reject him.

"The offer sounds nice, but the answer is still no. I hope you understand."

If he was disappointed, it was a little difficult to tell. His smile became smaller, almost fading, but that was his usual expression. "Don't worry, I- I understand. Thank you for the flowers again. I'm sure they'll be a lovely addition to my home."

With a final wave, he finally left your shop. Even when he was gone, you still couldn't forget the smile he showed you. A big and wide grin, almost as if the world was alright. As if he didn't have the blood of multiple witches on his hands. And most of all, you still couldn't forget the night you two first met.

It didn't matter how many smiles he showed you or how many flowers he bought. At the end of the day, he still wanted you dead.

Your heart was still restless in your chest, even when you finished working in your garden to cook yourself lunch. How long was he going to stay in Okhema? Hopefully, not forever. Whether it was because other witches had found a way to cleanse the Black Tide, or because he would be assigned to a different city, it didn't matter. You missed being able to breathe without worrying you'd be dead if you exhaled wrong.

You wondered if Oronyx, ever the childish god as the stories always said, was playing with you and making time slower to spite you specifically. Everything felt so agonizingly slow, and the passing days felt more like passing years. The Month of Weaving couldn't come any sooner. It would be the last month of fall and Aglaea's busiest season. Your shop wouldn't be open, and you would be spending your days helping her instead. You would be under her protection, and no witch hunter or member of the Council of Elders would be insane enough to drag you out of her shop.

Maybe you could also sleep in her house again. You were having difficulty sleeping these days, and you never had the energy to make breakfast for yourself. In fact, you didn't open the shop today. You could feel your body growing weaker and weaker by the minute, and no amount of magic could sustain you skipping your meals.

Once you were sure your door was locked, you stretched your arms and sighed. It was quiet today, save for the fallen leaves dancing in the air as the wind blew them away. It was a perfect weather for a nap. If you didn't feel like passing from hunger in the next three seconds, you would have stayed in bed and just slept.

Though just before you could leave your garden, a chill traveled down your spine. Something felt… off. And it wasn't just your paranoia or a gut feeling. Something in the air was wrong. You couldn't pinpoint what the exact feeling was, but it was as if there was corrupted magic nearby. Which didn't make sense. Aglaea's threads held a tight grip on the city. Corrupted magic like the Black Tide shouldn't be able to get in.

Unless… unless it did? She had been protecting Okhema all by herself for almost twenty years now, maybe even more. And not once did she stop to take a break, even to the point where the spell was still working in her sleep. It wouldn't be unsurprising if a Black Tide creature managed to enter Okhema. You couldn't fault her for that.

You didn't have a lot of energy right now. Which, unfortunately, meant you couldn't deal with the problem. Perhaps after lunch, you could pay Aglaea a visit and tell her about it. She might also be able to tell you what to do. Acting rashly might hurt you.

You pulled your cloak tighter around yourself and stepped out of your home. As soon as you did, the chill you felt grew worse. You stopped in your tracks and close your eyes, then took a deep breath. Something was coming towards you. Something you had felt before. A Black Tide creature was coming your way. Something that couldn't enter Okhema no matter what. Which meant…

Aglaea's threads… you couldn't feel them. Even when you pinched the air, you couldn't find even the thinnest thread. Did the barrier shrink? Was she alright? What if she passed out in her home from fatigue and didn't realize it made the spell stop?

Dammit. You couldn't just leave this here. If this entered Okhema, then no doubt the witch hunts would just grow more intense. You had to deal with this before it grew worse. Your magic was weak right now, but it would be enough to handle a Black Tide creature.

It didn't seem like it was far from your cottage. Rather, it was the forest near your home, which meant it hadn't entered the city yet, thankfully. While you didn't want any of them corrupting your garden, you would rather they attack your home first than hurt the normal people of Okhema. At least you could handle yourself.

The forest grew darker the deeper you went, with the sunlight peeking through the red and orange leaves providing you light. After a while of walking, you finally reached the place where the corruption felt the strongest. At that moment, it felt like the gods had decided to punish you by letting Zagreus let lose and have you be a victim of their pranks. Because kneeling in front of you had to be none other than Flame Reaver himself.

It didn't look like he noticed you yet. Instead, he was focused on the black and red marks on the dirt—a telltale sign that a Black Tide creature was here not too long ago. He took out something from his pocket, but you couldn't tell what it was. Only that it looked like a card of some sorts. You can definitely feel corruption from the mark, but it wasn't what you felt. If it was just a scratch on the dirt, then it wouldn't have been this strong.

Maybe you should just leave him. The last time you meddled in his business, you almost got caught. And he was a witch hunter. It would do you better if he died. It meant you had one less thing to worry about. Nothing would change about your life, but at least the worst one was gone, right?

You were about to turn around when you faced him again. He wasn't even looking at the mark anymore, just at the card he was holding earlier. Your eyes moved to the right—

"Flame Reaver, get down!"

Before he could stand up, you got out of the bushes and ran towards him, pushing him out of the way. Your vision blurred, and your arms burned as it scraped the ground beneath you. But at least you were hurt because you pushed him away rather than because the gryphon managed to scratch your skin.

You tried to open your eyes, but your head was spinning. The gryphon roared again, but it was hard to tell what was going on. Your eyes were heavy, your body was heavy. It was fall, but everything was both too bright and too hot. Even though you were on the ground, you could feel sweat falling down your forehead. In the middle of the Month of Reaping, too.

"Hey, hey. Can you hear me? Can you get up?"

When you opened your eyes, you had half expected to see you still on top of Flame Reaver when you had pushed him out of the way. But instead, he was above you, blue eyes wide as he held you in his arms. When you turned your eyes to the side, you could see his sword planted on the ground, with the gryphon fading away into squares before disappearing.

He called your name again, free hand lightly tapping your cheek. "It's okay, it's okay. I got you. Can you get up?"

Despite your shaking legs, you nodded and forced yourself to stand up. Before you could trip again, he grabbed your arms once more. "Easy, easy. Sit down for a minute. Here." He grabbed the flask of water from his waist. "Drink up. You're probably really thirsty right now."

"Th- Thank you." Gods, even your voice was dry.

You gathered any remaining strength you had to open the flask and slowly drank the water. It was cold, and it stirred your mind awake somewhat. Your vision was still a little blurry, but you could see Flame Reaver's brows furrowing down as he sat next to you.

"I- thank you," he whispered. "I was too lost in thought that I didn't even notice the gryphon. I'm sure I would have been a goner if you hadn't been there."

You shook your head and passed the flask back to him. "Don't mention it."

"No, I- I'm really grateful. I don't know what you were doing here, but I don't think I would have gotten out safe if you didn't push me away. Though I am a little worried. The gryphon didn't touch you, but you still passed out after you pushed me away. Do you have a fever, or…"

He raised his hand. For a brief moment, you saw it again. The way his eyes looked like he didn't see you as anything human. Before he could touch you, you scooted backwards, arm ready to swat his away just in case.

He paused, but immediately lowered his hand. "Sorry, I just thought I should check you in case you had a fever or something. Or if the gryphon managed to hurt you and… it didn't get you, right?"

"I'm fine," you replied, albeit too quickly for your liking. "I'm fine. I'm alright. It's just fatigue and hunger. I haven't been eating or sleeping properly lately."

"I do remember that you were already working when I came to your shop for the first time, even if it sounded like you hadn't eaten yet."

You already knew where this was going.

"Do you want to join me for lunch?" he asked, and you weren't surprised. "I'd treat you as payment for saving my life, but you can pay your own if you want. It's just that, well, you're obviously hungry. I don't think it would be right if you skipped another meal."

It truly seemed like your paranoia would be your downfall. If you had just brushed everything aside, you wouldn't have stayed up the entire night worrying if you would find yourself at the stake, and you wouldn't have passed out near him. There was also the possibility that he knew you would act like this. Knew that, if he scared you enough, you would eventually find yourself in this type of situation. And he would act like a caring and concerned hero, only to lure you into his trap.

You wanted to decline again. But both your stomach and head were starting to ache in a way that you could no longer ignore.

"I don't think I have a choice on that matter," you said with a sigh. "Besides, I was already on my way to the Marmoreal Diner. Having company shouldn't be too bad."

If the company was anyone but a witch hunter, then sure. You would have believed that thought, even if it was just a little.

He smiled, and his eyes lit up for a moment. Their blue hue didn't suit the warm autumn leaves behind him. "Do you want to hold on to me? I don't want you accidentally falling again."

"I'm fine. I can walk."

If he had any protests, he didn't say them. Instead, he just nodded. "At the very least, let's take it slow. You shouldn't overexert yourself."

He helped you up to your feet and returned to Okhema. By the time you reached your cottage again, you could feel the faint hum of Aglaea's threads once more. But you held your sigh of relief. Flame Reaver stiffened a little. He must have sensed the sudden presence of magic as well. Fortunately, with how spread out it was in the city, it would be difficult to pin it to Aglaea herself. She was safe right now.

You didn't notice that you had arrived at Marmoreal Diner until the smell of food reached your nose. And as if to remind you of your unfortunate predicament, your stomach growled. When was the last time you ate? You knew you skipped dinner last night, but did you even eat at all yesterday? Or the day before that?

It was a futile thing to hope for, especially since it always seemed like she knew what was going on in the city, but you hoped Aglaea didn't wouldn't find out that you had collapsed somewhere in the forest and a Black Tide creature almost got to you. You remembered the exhaustion in her eyes. Adding to the fact that the barrier faltered for a moment earlier, she must be extremely tired and stressed with protecting Okhema. The last thing she needed was to add you to her list of worries.

Someone took your order, and it was only a few minutes before they arrived with it. The food in the Marmoreal Diner was always appetizing. Whether it was something like your favorite mutton chops, or the grilled fish that Flame Reaver ordered for himself, you always found yourself craving for their food. You remembered eating here with Aglaea when you were younger, and she had drag you out after having eating because you still wanted to eat despite the fact that you were full.

But right now, despite passing out from hunger and fatigue, you didn't know if you could eat.

Still, you took a bite out of the meat. The familiar sweet and savory flavor hit your tongue, and your stomach growled even louder. If you were feeling a little better, perhaps you would have eaten with delight. But you couldn't even tell if you were shaking from hunger or anxiety, so it was difficult to enjoy your meal.

"Hey."

It was as if he read your thoughts. When you lifted your head, Flame Reaver was looking at you, brows furrowed down in concern, before his lips slowly curled into a small smile. You interacted with him only twice or thrice. And when you did see him, his expression was always serious or pensive. But somehow, that smile on his face seemed more like his natural expression.

"Listen, I know we started off on the wrong foot, but I was hoping if you could be less tense around me?"

You blinked. "Less tense?"

"I notice it, you know. Whenever you're near me, you always look so nervous. I know that witch hunters don't have the most pleasant reputation, and I'm aware that there have been cases where people have been wrongfully accused—not to mention I must have been very disrespectful in your own teacher's home that day—but I want you to know that you have nothing to be afraid of. Not with me, at least."

Oh. So you were more obvious than you thought. If he noticed your entire demeanor changing around him, then what else did he notice?

You didn't intend to, but a scoff left your lips. "Let me guess… I have nothing to fear if I have nothing to hide? I've heard the Council of Elders say that so many times already."

"Would you believe me if I say that I don't believe that?"

"I apologize, but no."

"Well, I truly don't." He shook his head. "Right now, everyone has every reason to feel afraid. The Black Tide getting worse, the rising number of witches being discovered, the Council of Elders being stricter with their regulations—even a normal person would be afraid from just the tensions alone. I don't blame you for being afraid, which is why I'm letting you know that you've nothing to fear from me. You can trust me."

If he wasn't a witch hunter, you would have almost believed his words. Aside from Aglaea and Professor Anaxa, you didn't have anyone to confide in. They had told you that, even if someone was a witch, you shouldn't feel to comfortable around them because if the Council were to discover them, then they might tell the truth if they were tortured long enough. And even if you just wanted to befriend the average citizen, people wouldn't look at you without a suspicious glance. You didn't have a lot of people to trust in.

While you wouldn't have been able to tell him the truth, perhaps he might have been a breath of fresh air. If he wasn't a witch hunter, perhaps that smile of his could have convinced you that maybe, maybe this could be the first person that would treat you like a human. But he wasn't that person. He was a witch hunter, and you were a witch. There was no circumstance where you could feel comfortable around him.

It was a curious thing, however. If he had those beliefs, then why did he become a witch hunter? He was just contributing to that very fear he was talking about, but he was still in this job. His words were obviously meant to soothe you, but they did the complete opposite. Let's not forget the fact that he's supposedly the best one the Council has. Nothing about him was comforting.

But if he was truly like that, then why was he here, spending lunch with you, instead of dragging you to the Marmoreal Temple?

Your head was hurting. Maybe you shouldn't think too much on it. Regardless of what he was like as a person, he saw you as lesser than human when he thought you were a witch. You couldn't find yourself trusting a person who saw you like that.

After lunch, your stomach felt full. A sigh of relief left your lips as you leaned back on the chair. Food definitely eased your mind a bit, and you could slowly feel your energy and magic returning. Who would have known that the answer to hunger was food? What was next, the answer to fatigue was sleep?

"I feel better now," you said. "Thank you for accompanying me to lunch, Flame Reaver."

"No problem. And please, like I said before, just Phainon is alright. It's very unfair that I'm calling you without any formalities, but you're referring to me with my title."

As if. But his answer was still interesting. "I thought witch hunters would have wanted the prestige that came along with the job."

"Not all of us." And there it was again. A laugh, followed by a small smile. "I'm glad the meal helped you feel better. And what I said before, too. I meant it. I don't want you to feel like you're walking on eggshells around me. I'm not here to hurt you, after all."

It was either a lie, or naiveté. You couldn't tell which one was worse.

"If you say so. See you around, Phainon."

It felt strange saying his name. Your tongue burned a little, as if it was punishing you somehow. Your mother had told you before that names had power, even if one wasn't a witch. Perhaps the power of his name was to punish witches who would say it out loud. But you didn't linger on that thought for long. You took your leave as soon as you were out of the diner. You didn't know where he was going nor did you care. You weren't going to let his kindness—a witch hunter's kindness—deceive you.

When you reached it, Aglaea's shop and house still provided you with the same comfort it always did. You felt bad intruding her when she was resting and eating a platter of meat, crackers, and cheese. But still, you had to tell her about the fact that the barrier faltered earlier. She had to know, or else neither of you would be able to fix it before it got worse.

After you recounted the events of today, she sighed and looked down. "I see. That was… negligence on my part. I didn't even realize that it had happened. Has the barrier returned to normal?"

You nodded. "When I returned with Flame Reaver, I noticed it was up again. I think he did, too."

"I'm not too worried about him in that regard. And I think you need to lessen your fears about him, too. It's not healthy for you."

You sighed as you grabbed some crackers and cheese. "Easy for you to say. I feel like I'm going insane every time we bump into each other. He must really just be naive to let me get away if this isn't his way of waiting for me to take the bait."

"This is a development. Weren't you the one who told me that he's not as good as a witch hunter as the Council claims to be?"

"I did, but that was before I saw him." You placed your cup of ambrosia down and pushed your knees to your chest. "You should have seen him that night. I've been so restless these days because I don't know if I've been so reckless with my decisions that I'm worried he'll figure me out sooner or later. I- I know I'm being paranoid, but…"

"While it's good to be wary, especially of witch hunters, you'll only exhaust yourself by worrying. Eventually, that will be the thing that gives you away." She scooted closer to you and held your hand. "I'm not saying to completely trust him, but it also wouldn't do you good if you think he's hiding in every shadow in the corner. Especially if it's come to a point where even he has noticed it."

You sighed again. "You're stating the obvious again…"

"You say it's obvious, and yet you don't seem to notice that."

"Oh, be quiet." Despite your words, you still found yourself laughing. Her warning was obvious, and you had repeated it to yourself several times already, but it still helped. Perhaps because it was coming from her.

At least you still had a place where you didn't feel alone. At least you still had Aglaea.

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teyvat-inks · 4 days ago

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🥀﹐some ikevil matching pfps ①．﹗﹑

—— ( ① ╱ ② )

PLEASE READ: all images used here belong to cybird; i have only edited them and cropped them into icons. please be aware some images used here have not been released to en yet (though they are cropped for icon purposes). a like or reblog is heavily appreciated if you save or use any of them!

WILLIAM REX 𖦹₊ ⊹ 🌹

LIAM EVANS 𖦹₊ ⊹ 🐈

ALFONS SYLVATICA 𖦹₊ ⊹ 🪞

ELBERT GREETIA 𖦹₊ ⊹ 🍎

ELLIS TWILIGHT 𖦹₊ ⊹ ⛓️

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teyvat-inks · 4 days ago

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oblivion gang

- mod kibby

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teyvat-inks · 20 days ago

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Oh, to actually be his kitten 🥺

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teyvat-inks · 2 months ago

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Broken hero

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teyvat-inks · 2 months ago

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The brightest lights cast the deepest shadows. Only when darkness falls can the crown truly shine.

— ⟢ PHAINON —✧— CORONAL RADIANCE ⟣ —

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teyvat-inks · 2 months ago

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art credit @zephyrine-gate on X ! all credit to the artist!

divider credit to @cafekitsune ! all credit to the original creator of the divider!

a soul divided | mydeimos

born to be a spy in castrum kremnos’ ranks, your heart quickly learns that war and love are too severely entangled to extricate yourself from mydei in any way that matters. (28k words) (yeah idk either i went crazy)

content/content warnings: before you start reading this take my hand…. did you take it… okay good…. now promise not to spit in my face bc i know only the barest of details about amphoreus lore bc i’ve been skipping through the game like crazy ever since v3.0……….. Yeah…….. anyways i tried to read up as much as possible and some of the plot is inspired by mydei fanfics i’ve read Go Easy On Me yall pls, PLS, i’m sorry. okay now, also if mydei feels too ooc for you you’re legally obligated to stab me through the tenth thoratic vertebra, reader’s faith and city-state ladon is reminiscent of the tale of the garden of the hesperides, hesperia the goddess is inspired by the dragon ladon who guards the golden apples, ladon and hesperia is implied to be athens/athena-adjacent so it mirrors castrum kremnos ares-/spartan-adjacent lore (enemies to lovers am i right) (i think homer just turned in his grave), arranged marriage situation (mydei has become part of eurypon’s court to kill and usurp him), reader doesn’t know mydei is a chrysos heir or that he’s immortal, forced proximity, allusion to sex and some descriptives but no actual sex scene, murder attempt, reader is stabbed (no major character death), Idk . i’ll update this as i go LMAO

Hesperia guide you, because you have no idea how to kindle her light when your life is so completely enveloped by the threat of darkness.

You can still hear the growl inside your mother’s voice as they had broached the plan in the council meeting for the first time, the unusual anger that had tainted the usual decadence of it. It was a beautiful voice, clear and strong, strengthened by her faith in the goddess your home worshipped. It was said that Hesperia’s calls herself had been so loud it had shaken the earth and the seas, which is why the shallow sandbanks around Ladon stretch for miles before they deepen into the ocean. The only easy access one gained was through the terratic way to the north, symbolic for how Hesperia had to fly with the north’s winds to return home after fighting in the war against the looming darkness.

This is how they try to comfort you as they tell you about your duty to the country you call home: you’ll only be taking after the goddess, Hesperia, after all. And isn’t that the greatest blessing one could ever experience as a mortal being, to walk the path of gods?

Even as a child, you could taste the lie in the sweetened words. It was as clear in the water as the fish in the sea, the many eels you used to catch with your friends for entertainment in the lazy afternoon sun. And even if you hadn’t realized it, your mother’s angry disposition cleared up the situation at hand pretty quickly.

This was not an honor. This was the Golden Council throwing you the wolves, before they scented the blood and wounds the city of Ladon was already nursing.

It’s an easy lie, embedded in the fact that Ladon bleeds at the edges of this planet’s universe. Commerce and trade came often, but didn’t stay long, not interested in the wisdom of the city, and the luscious mountains did not provide any specialties that you couldn’t find anywhere else. There was a particular interest by the city-state of Okhema in the pearls the Ladonians harvested from its’ sea, due to its mythological connection to Hesperia as a daughter of light, a cousin to the Dawn Device’s creator. But aside from that, the fact remained that it was a ripe city, lush for the taking, and for Castrum Kremnos, whose existence depended on the import of life-saving goods, even a simple flourishing agricultural situation as Ladon’s was enough for them to covet Hesperia’s pearlescent city.

The water way is irrelevant when the terrain in the north is perfect for a march on the safe haven of Ladon.

They are here on the Golden Council’s cowardly invitation, of course. This conflict has been spanning on for even longer than you remember, older even than the crown forged for your mother as she ascended to the throne beside your father. You are not truly Ladonian, at least not in the Golden Council’s eyes, because your mother is only a “borrowed bride” from the shores of the wealthy city of Pyria. They do not recognize your mother’s authority, nor your claim on the throne. So when the time comes to work out a solution against old King Eurypon’s threat, they quickly suggest a marriage as “succesful as King Atlaion’s with the queen mother”.

Translated, they want you to go and become what they always feared from your foreign mother. A snake in the Castrum Kremnoan’s gardens. A dagger at the only prince’s throat.

If Atlaion had still been alive, the council would have been turning on a spit for the fire to roast as soon as the afternoon sun would have set on Ladon. You remember your father in the few times where you let yourself, when the memory doesn’t hurt. A melodious voice, a roughened palm that seemed as protective as your own skin. Your father hard always been praised for his big heart, too gentle for a throne. But also too weak for it. The council had verbally torn him to shreds for his decision in marriage, always claiming he’d been tricked by Pyria, always arguing that Aeolia was the true hand behind the throne. A fact that did not sit easy with a council as vying as this one. And a fact that had made them point their blaming fingers at the queen mother’s family, the one they accused to be hungry for Ladonian treasure.

Pyria had long been swallowed by the black tide then, but that wasn’t anything they wanted to discuss.

And anyways, your father is gone, and his assassins are still free. There is no universe for you except this one, where you bend your head to the borrowed authority of a council that refuses to crown any head but your future’s son’s, still hiding in your womb. Metaphorically, of course. If you hadn’t been unmarried, unwidowed and unchanged, they would never have been able to broker this pact with the mad king of Castrum Kremnos.

Eurypon had wanted an excuse to leash his son, and the Golden Council had wanted an excuse to press you for an heir. And if you threw in a few Kremnoan secrets that would help free Ladon of the title of a vassal state, well, that was only good and fair. So they raise you to be a sword, ready to cut anything down: to sneak. To spy. To steal.

Slyfooting is not part of a queen’s education, but it becomes a part of yours. You become a royal deceiver, a living lie. The Golden Council files your venom-containing teeth and puts its hands together for a prayer, a prayer for a future where Ladon becomes an empire again, reborn in the dawn of light. They dream of holding the Dragon banner high, to devour their enemies whole.

You, on the other hand, dream of a quick death.

As you walk the causeways of Ladon’s only defense ring to the north, you can see the detachment of soldiers come nearer and nearer. It restricts the air in your chest, strangling you to the bone. An entire decade ago, this had been the sight you glimpsed from your apartments as Castrum Kremnos first drew closer to beat Ladon into submission. Eurypon himself had headed that army then, eager for a fight against the noble Atlaion, of whom he’d only heard about his golden-coated words and his shying back from a warrior’s valor. He had wanted a fight, and had almost burned the city to the ground when he thought Atlaion would rather hide than face him. A good king would go to his death willingly, if only to uphold his city’s honor and the people’s pride. Little did anyone know that good, old, noble Atlaion had been murdered in his throne room, the beheaded corpse still seated on the throne. He’d been readying himself for peace talks. The banners of surrender had already been prepared to be flown. The surviving soldiers of the Kremnoan invasion instead found the banners stuffed into the mouths of the murdered royal guard, drenched in blood. A fitting image for a situation so totally beyond salvation.

You, however, had to live with the sight of your father’s beheaded corpse forever. They found you shaking the body, crying for him to wake up and face you, your own face streaked in tears and blood. You didn’t see the face of the assailant, but you had found the weapon. Despite the extensive investigation, no culprit had ever been found, and the dagger was to be locked away and sealed forever. In case the murderer would ever be found. In case anyone woule be ever able to identify the owner of the weapon.

In the end, King Eurypon had made your mother sign away the future of Ladon. This, too, became a weapon the Golden Council brandished against her. Here sat this foreigner, who’s only been crowned queen because she seduced a soft-hearted king. And she dares to hand away Ladon’s future just like that. You hadn’t been present then, confined to a prison that was supposed to serve as a hiding place. Not that Eurypon was unaware of you. But the hope was still there that he wouldn’t take notice of you. His own queen had made him a widow, and no one knew what the king would do. All morality had seemed to have fled him in the days after the loss of both of his son and queen. After long-breathed peace talks which had felt like a particularly calm siege, King Eurypon and his army had finally withdrawn, one city-state richer.

Back in the present, you stare at the advancing army and think of the commander leading its charge. You wonder how you are supposed to marry a man whose only inheritance was blood and violence, when you had been supped on wisdom and gentility.

Hesperia herself had been a strategic queen, a clever woman. The faith of the Hesperian gardens practices patience, meditation, self-reflection. This city alone had been born out of Hesperia’s wish to reunite with her family, her song rising steadily in volume until all her sisters had come rushing home. The seas had dried and opened a way for her sisters to place their feet upon, so they could rush to Hesperia’s waiting arms. In their reunion, they had planted a golden-leaved tree bearing fruit of the same color, forever a symbol of their love, community and perseverance. Nowhere in that picture does the Kremnoan urge for patricide and warmongering fit.

And yet here he marches, Mydeimos of the noble blood of Gorgo. Ready to become part of that picture, against his will or not.

The winds carry the salty scent of spilled blood, though you can’t be sure if that’s actually true or just a product of your fearful imagination. But it also carries something else: a spiced perfume that settles in your chest, like a cozy blanket thrown over your shoulder. You turn and see Queen Aeolia approach, a heavy-mantled cloak she must have stolen from your father’s closet hastily thrown over her shoulder. She must have seen you climb the causeways and went to join you. “I knew I’d find you here,” she says when she has drawn near enough, although the wind swallows some of her words eagerly, as if it too cannot contain the yearning for her wisdom in the same manner as your father had. “Though I do wish you wouldn’t have come. I wished to spare you this sight.”

To that, you can only answer with a sigh. “Mother, I’m supposed to marry him. It’s not like I can avoid this army forever. I’ll be marching with them to my new home, after all.”

“It won’t be your home.” Your mother’s voice is steady, firm. She’s always been your bedrock, the foundation of your life. Silently supporting you always. Helping you stand steady. “No matter what that blasphemous council says, your home is here with me.”

“What, you don’t believe they speak with the voice of Hesperia?” you ask sarcastically. It should have come off as a quip, a joke with which you had intended to ease the tensions. All it sounds like though is bitterness. This is your mother, whom you do not have to hide anything from. So you cannot find it in yourself to pretend to be alright. “I don’t really care whether the gods are with them or not. The Golden Council means nothing to me. But I don’t want to turn my back on father and all he’s done for this country, and I cannot deny that an alliance with Castrum Kremnos, no matter how it came to fruition, is something that could benefit the people. We’d never have to worry about an invasion again.”

Your mother musters you warily. It’s the look you give someone when you know they aren’t being quite honest with themselves, but you cannot deny them, either. So she says, “And I love you for that. But do not forget that an heir to the Ladonian throne is only a forefront. What those vipers truly yearn for is a Castrum Kremnos they’d be able to control.”

You roll your shoulders, still focussed on the troops as they transform from indistinguishable dots to the silhouettes of real, blooded men. The distance is closing steadily. It feels like they might be running to you, and the panic, which had nestled itself on your tongue in the past few days, has finally travelled into your blood and is beginning to seep into your bones. It will live with you there, forever perhaps, or until your golden-soled boots crushes Castrum Kremnos in the name of Ladon. Neither solution seems realistic. “I will bear it,” you say, and then, as if to convince yourself, “I can do it. Hesperia is with me.”

Your mother’s hand goes to your head, brushing over the elaborate hairdo. The hairpins you have studded inside the coiffure are wrought in the image of Hesperia’s dragon appearance, an image of bravery from which you are trying to draw strength from. “The light of Hesperia be with you, daughter,” your mother sighs in turn. Then she straightens up, for both her sake and yours. The time to mourn and grieve is over. The battle has just begun. “Now come with me and get changed into that other gown. I’ve heard this prince favors the color pink.”

You think in truth your mother might be trying to distract you from what you perceive as your impending doom (really now, what Kremnoan prince would like the color pink? or perhaps that just pertains to the lovers he is attracted to? Maybe he likes it when they wear pink?). But you grasp at the opportunity to be a daughter again, just one last time. For now, you are still princess of Ladon, daughter to the Sunlit Throne. And you are safe in your childhood chambers, laughing with your mother, unworried abut anything. You are present. You are here. And you are loved.

In the glint of the jewelry your mother holds up to your ears, you briefly wonder what her marriage was like. You’re not familiar with Pyrian marriage customs, had only been schooled on what a proposal to you might look like. Not even this marriage to the Kremnoan prince was usual. His own traditions outlined different approaches, and the arrangement itself was unusual for their royal house. As far as you were aware, the proposed to partner was carried away under the cover of night, with the proposed to partner giving consent ahead of time. In fact, it lies in the will of the proposed-to party to set the meeting and location, being fully in control of everything up until the marriage bed. There, a Kremnoan marriage served but a single duty for the rest of its duration: the production of an heir.

Your mother had paled in reaction when she had first heard the terms. After a long-battled discussion, both royal families had finally come to the agreement that Prince Mydeimos was allowed to carry you off, but he had to come and do it in the light of sun, where Hesperia could see. And you had to be allowed to say goodbye to your loved ones, to fulfill the celebrations on the shore of your old home. After this marriage, your home would be Castrum Kremnos. Only time would tell how that would work out.

They find you just as the sun reaches its zenith in the sky, the young noon bathing you in its stinging heat as the lady’s maid that will accompany you knocks at the door. “Your Majesty, Your Highness,” she speaks, her voice tentative. Perhaps she fears for her own future, as well. “The prince is here.”

The prince.

You gather your skirts and rise, feeling deceptively light. Maybe that’s because you are about to be cut free. This had been your childhood kingdom, but also a gilded cage in the claw-fingered hands of the Golden Council. You knew next to nothing about Prince Mydeimos: not about his behaviors, not about his personality. He is said to be the most skilled warrior alive, more walking death than man. His enemies scream in terror at the mere mention of his name. His blood-soaked shadow has been said to swallow entire battlefields whole; in fact, his armies always prepare for celebrations ahead of the battle because of the surefire certainty they have in him. He may not be accepted by his father, but he is his people’s pride. You try to be comforted by this, but all you can think of is blood and violence and murder.

Mydeimos. Prince Mydeimos. You roll the name around your tongue in silence as your mother walks you to the throne room.

Yet when you see him, you can’t make heads or tails of him.

Prince Mydeimos of the Castrum Kremnoan dynasty is a tall, impressive man, of a muscular and broad stature that seems to tower above his peers and the emissaries of the Golden Council who have come to welcome him. He is painted in the colors of his home; honey-dew hair, pomegranate eyes, bloody whorls on his chest and arms which you cannot decipher. It’s nothing you’ve read about in the history books which were supposed to lecture you about your groom’s city. You suppose he might the very picture of a Kremnoan ideal. On another woman, that might have made a lasting impression: he’s attractive, after all, and you are not blind. But his appearance only turns the syllables of his name to ash in your mouth, a fresh batch of anger welling up inside you. If he had never accepted his father’s terms and asked for your hand, you might have been free from this fate. When Prince Mydeimos eyes’ finally find yours, they look as if they know exactly at what you might be thinking.

“Prince Mydeimos,” comes your mother’s loud address, cutting in over a particularly nasty councillor who had once compared your mother to a slow-working poison. The sneer that presents itself on his face only seems to imbue your mother with more strength, as if his envy only spurs her on more. She approaches Mydeimos with a polite smile, leaving you to remain where you stand. Indicating with her hand towards you, she says, “My prince, I am pleased to introduce you to this humble island’s only princess. This is my daughter and your bride.”

Mydeimos respectfully inclines his head at your mother. The motion makes your mother’s eyes flash with surprise, an emotion she cannot hide as quickly away as she usually does; Ladon was but another colony in Castrum Kremnos’ repertoire, smaller than most of the treasures King Eurypon had acquired. Eurypon had never bowed his head, nor made any over effort to grace your mother with any kind of respect that would befit her station. “Queen Aeolia, I thank you for welcoming us so graciously in your home,” he speaks then, and his voice is a lion’s roar. Not because it sounds threatening, or because he speaks particularly asserting. It’s in him, you realize, that natural inclination to command authority. No wonder his troops seem to adore him. “You will forgive me for joining you so late. As I am not old enough, I still sleep in the barracks with the men who serve me. We intended to settle in quickly so I could meet your daughter as soon as possible.”

“Of course.” Your mother has reasserted her own grip on her politics. She is quick that way, more skillful than you are. You are going to have to mimic her when you are married. Mydeimos’ odd decision to bunk with his barrack mates has already been reported long before he set sail for Ladon, a matter your mother privately worried about. Kremnoan women do not live with their husbands for the entirety of their military service, and she fears in your future lonely days and even lonelier nights. In truth, you could not care less. This was a marriage for duty, not for love. “If there is anything you or your men might ask for, do not hesitate in doing so. The city is yours, my prince.”

“Yes,” he quietly affirms. “That I know. But I thank you for your hospitality.” It’s an arrogant comment, a statement that sets your blood to a boil even though he doesn’t mean it with any bad intent. His eyes are devoid of his father’s hostility, but they are still his father’s eyes: war-driven and impulsive. When they find yours again, you have carefully built up a wall in the same manner as your mother has done, steeling yourself against this lion-born nightmare. Mydeimos thus passes by your mother and approaches you, and the room grows quiet at that. You warily watch as Mydeimos comes to a halt before you, wondering if he will approach you like this when he discovers your true intentions before he murders you for your crimes. He upturns his palms, each finger ensconced by his gauntles. He hasn’t even bothered to disarm himself as he proposes to you. The thought settles in your already upset brain as Mydeimos asks, “Chosen princess of Hesperia, in the eyes of the golden-eyed dragon and the sunset mountains, I ask for your heart and your faith. Will you accept me as your groom?”

You stare up at him, stunned.

These are not the words your advisors have prepared you for. They are your words: your traditions as you had reminisced about just an hour earlier. Kremnoan marriages do not seem to glorify the process, keeping to a very simple ‘marry me’ and a ‘yes, I do’ to bring it to a close. There aren’t even any priests to preside over the wedding that will be held, and so you hadn’t had any hopes for this proposal, either. It was all dictated upon, anyway, your hand practically already given away.

You do not know what to make of this. You do not like the fact that these words are coming out of his mouth, and yet, a small corner inside your heart breathes out a sigh of relief since you aren’t abandoning your father’s ways entirely. Unsure about Mydeimos, and still in awe at the reunion with a part of your culture before you are torn away from it, you answer, placing your hands in his, “In the spirit of Hesperia’s faith and devotion, I accept you as my groom, Prince of Castrum Kremnos. In the eyes of the golden-eyed dragon and the sunset mountain, I vow to become your wife.”

There are no rings, no other significant symbols of the engagement. But as you look into this prince’s eyes, you feel that vow wash over you as dizzily as the future does - forceful and unstoppable. The metaphorical lock has clicked into place. The gleaming metal of his armor is sun-warmed and smooth. It feels like touching a human heart. Mydeimos presses your fingers and releases them.

You are a captive of Castrum Kremnos now.

Mydeimos is still staring at you as you hesitantly put your hands into another, fumbling with your fingers nervously. You cannot tell what he’s thinking; he seems to be more statue than man, and he strikes the same fear in your heart as he does in his enemies. You are glad that you never have to face him in earnest on a battlefield, but then remember your duty, and you lower your eyes. This makes Mydeimos clear his throat, and the moment passes. He turns towards your mother again, leaving you to your inner turmoil. “If not to your offense, I would like to retire with my men now. The days have been long, and our exhaustion has made us weary. We are quite eager to partake in the celebrations you have prepared for this evening.”

The councillor at your mother’s side, who apparently has had enough of your mother’s spotlight, speaks up almost immediately. “Understandably so, Your Highness!” he rushes to assure Mydeimos. “But perhaps you’d like to attend this evening’s assembly before you attend the revelries? You still have not told us when you would like to leave, and when the marriage is supposed to be held.”

“That will be at my bride’s discretion.” Mydeimos nods once at the councillor, the only sign displaying that he seems to have listened to the puny man, then directly addresses your mother again. “Queen Aeolia, if you’ll excuse me. I will withdraw now.”

And so he flaunts his cape behind him, leaving the throne in his wake.

The councillor, in the face of naked disrespect, stares after the Kremnoan prince in what seems to be open indignation. Over his shoulder, your mother’s lips break into an uncharacteristic grin, an expression she so rarely employs. You tentatively smile back at her, your relief making you sag back into a more comfortable stance. You still don’t know what kind of man Mydeimos is, but he’s at least proven to possess a better set of manners than his father does. Although this is his vassal state, and his army is large enough to destroy the city without breaking a sweat, he went out of his way to to treat your mother with the respect a queen mother of the prospective bride should be treated with. If anything else, it bespeaks diplomacy.

You watch that lion’s back be swallowed up among his men, disappearing in the throng of human bodies. Of course he’s diplomatic, you think to yourself, the magic of the situation disappearing in the same moment as your tiredness returns. He’s going to steal you away from here and keep you like a particularly special treasure. You do not rattle a toy beyond repair without ever having played with it first.

You’re only moments away of becoming a bride in earnest, and yet you already shrink back from the responsibilities that await you. As you inspect your fingers, you realize Mydeimos’ gauntlets have already drawn first blood. This is how it starts.

(Back in the comfort of your chambers, as your mother watches your personal attendants slip you into another dress of your choosing, she falls trap to mistaking what this entire farce is about. She says, “He might not be such a cruel husband as I thought. Well, I don’t know. He might also just be trying to put on a good face here so I’ll let you go without a fuss, but it did feel like he’s was trying to make an effort to be different than his father. You don’t earnestly look into someone’s eyes like that. I really do hope he would make a good husband to you, if only politically.”

“Oh, mother.” You had raised your arms higher as the maid tried to feed you through the dress’ opening, feeling as though you were prostrating yourself in front of a weapon that was coming to swing down. “It doesn’t matter if he’s a good husband. I’m not there to actually be his wife.”

She doesn’t say anything after that.)

Hesperia’s embrace begins to bathe Ladon city in the feverish warm light of the dusk while you hide out in a hallway right before the Great Hall. The festivites are already in full swing, an entire group of musicians having travelled here to sing your father’s childhood songs and reminisce about a life on Ladon. The homesickness grips your chest like a sickness, like you might keel over and begin to vomit everywhere. It’s a confusing feeling. You are standing inside the bones of your father’s home, surrounded by the only buildings you’ve been raised in. And yet you already feel so, so far away. The thought saddens you.

“Not feeling festive enough to join the proclivities?”

Your head snaps up, alarmed. You are a pacifist’s daughter, unused to the ways of war. That doesn’t mean you’re entirely stupid, though. Most times, sneaking up on you is not the easiest feat - the sounds of a servant’s steps, of wandering councillors searching for an excuse to eavesdrop, have become a steady rhythm you were attuned to so that you could maintain your privacy. Amidst all these instincts you’ve honed, Mydeimos has managed to surprise you.

He’s found a chink in your armor.

In what seems to be a lazy manner, he begins to lean on the side of the wall you had been turning your back to. You straighten up, your royal tutelage not allowing you to make him see past that careful face you maintain in the schemes of politics. “Oh, no, nothing of the sort,” you tell him, the lie tasting disgusting already. However were you going to do this, when you’re married and shipped off? “I was just thinking about my father. I have always been told, by my mother and old friends of his alike, that he had a particular knack for dancing during Ladonian celebrations. It seems that talent has evaded me. I was just thinking about what sort of excuse I might dish up in case you were wanting to take to the dancefoor.”

At the mention of fathers, a dark shadow passes of Mydeimos’ eyes. You do not know what to make of that. You know of the rumors surrounding his mother’s death and the own fate he seemed to have suffered in the loss of his homeland, but you know not what is rumor and what is truth. You do not want to poke at a lion before you ever step into the lion’s den. Mydeimos himself does not address it, instead pouncing on the ‘dancing’ part of the sentence. “I assure you, no lie is necessary,” he says, gesticulating with his arms at the parade of his own company as they stream into the grand hall. “If you do not wish to dance, I will not make you. I myself have not felt the urge to. We Kremnoans are raised to the dance of swords, not the dance of partners.”

We Kremnoans. Rather soon, that will include you. The thought makes you twist the rings adorning your fingers rather nervously. Mydeimos’ eyes pick up on it, then watch as you still your fingers as to not reveal your fear. “I’m sure my prince jests,” you try to joke, but you have none of your mother’s grace. The joke, like your tone, falls flat. “I’m sure there are some dances you partake in. After a successful battle, perhaps.”

“You ought to call me Mydei.”

You stare at him, mystified. “Your pardon?”

Mydeimos draws himself up, staring at you with an indifferent gaze which reveals nothing. He is the mask of a human, as part of the masquerade as you are, even though he does not know what your actual endeavors for this marriage are. “Mydei,” he repeats, this time a little louder. “Mydeimos is the name the subjects of the crown or strangers use. But we are to be husband and wife, and I tire of formalities rather easily. Call me Mydei. It does not have to imply any intimacy between us.”

You grip your rings again. This time, you don’t twist them, but the bite of the cold metal keeps you steady as you look at him. Use this chance, a voice whispers in your mind, the personification of the Golden Council digging through your brain, sifting it with a sieve until all your thoughts become hateful. Get close to him, and then carve out his heart. “Mydei,” you echo with a faint voice. He reaffirms the action with an approving nod. “I will do that. But, my lord, I cannot so easily slip off the bonds of my house’s teachings. I will try to be less formal, but please understand when I slip back into these habits, because even in their restriction they offer a kind of comfort.”

The words settle into the air as Mydei takes them in. “I understand, my lady. Then I do suppose I might have to insist on a single dance with my bride, for formality’s sake.”

Which is how you end up on the most powerful man of all Amphoreus’ arm, led in under the gawking gaze of a gossiping, scavenging court. For all his talk about not knowing the rules of dance, Mydeimos - Mydei - leads you into the center of the room and then faithfully takes up his position. As you face each other, Mydei raises his hands to mirror your own, and thus you begin to twirl around each other, beginning the dance.

It’s not comfortable, or relaxing. But it does loosen up some of the tension that’s been holding you prisoner, and you let yourself fall back into the familiar rhythm of the circling partner dance your mother taught you in your father’s stead. One, two, three, four; one, two, three, four. Mydei’s eyes, still steeled over to hide the truth below them, never once leave your face as you dance, though you try not to be intimidated by it. In the artificial light of both Kephale’s devices and the more natural one as the flickering candlelight, his image does not frighten you into visions of a doomed future as they had this noon. You decide to break the silence then. “I am quite sure this makes you the liar after all, Mydei, and not me. It seems like you dance as though you’ve been born to it. I have encountered more unfortunate men who kept falling out of the rhythm, or stumbling into me without meaning to.”

His golden eyes seem darker than earlier. The shadow hasn’t quite left them yet. “It was my mother who taught me,” he answers, turning in time to evade a stray couple which proves your earlier point of the common fail-at-dance attitude at your court. Your chest feels tight at the mention of Queen Gorgo; you hadn’t meant to steer the direction of the conversation there, but now that he’s speaking about her, the interest does begin to spark up. You wonder what of that woman’s traces have remained in Mydei. He seems to have become the epitome of his father’s Kremnoan ideology. “She was always of the opinion that dancing and fighting are not so different. I did not share that opinion, but given the nature of how my father and her came to be married, I suppose she might have been more right than I previously assumed.”

You remember the tale, of how lion-braving Gorgo almost managed to best Eurypon himself. In turn, he married her. Just as violence was the key to the throne, it seemed it was also the key to stealing a Kremnoan’s heart. “I see,” is all you manage to voice. This isn’t what you wanted. You hadn’t wanted to be perceptive enough to recognize how this man was talented enough to reveal no weakness, and yet his tone had significantly gentled. How he must have cared for his mother. You will betray him. You are going to eradicate his dynasty. There is no time for niceties. “My lord,” you say, making his honeydew eyes flick towards you again, and your voice feels very far away as you speak your next words. You are making yourself walk onto that path you can never return again from, afraid that the longer you seek to suspend the moment, the more it will hurt when the sword finally swings down. “This was celebration enough for an engagement, and for my taste. If it does not bother you, I would wait for a full week so that your army’s strength might be restored, and then leave for Castrum Kremnos so we might be married.”

Although Mydei has looked passively polite the entire day, his face now visibly puzzles up in confusion. Your actions and behaviors aren’t matching up; you’re sure that your lackluster face hadn’t been able to support the forced enthusiasm of the words you had spoken. It’s no matter. You cannot seem to rip yourself free of that assembly inside your mind, how they had poured poison into your ears, equipped with you so many lies. It will be so easy to charm him, don’t worry about it. All you have to do is write a few letters. You might naturally even be inclined to tell us, after all. They are so terrible, it won’t even raise suspicion for you to report about it.

And if you can kill him, then do it swiftly enough that we can still extract you.

You swallow the memory, and Mydei’s eyes follow the motion. “It will be done,” he concedes, but his voice has lost the melody it had taken on earlier, the way he had spoken about his mother. You thought it had made him seem more human.

(You forge your first lie that day, in the same manner as a sword-smith completes his very first order to prove his efficiency and skills. When your mother asks what exactly made you want to quit the shores of Ladon so quickly, you find yourself forming the words, without thinking about them too much: “I can’t lie properly if I’m still surrounded by the home in which I always could be my most true self. I need to leave, or I’ll never able to.”

That exact statement helps you understand why the best lies contain a kernel of truth. You see that kernel hit your mother straight into the heart, the way her lips turn down to form that heartbreaking expression you as her daughter cannot bear. But she needs to hear it, now, before her seeds of betrayal bear fruit and result in an altercation with the Golden Council. “Strength and wisdom, my daughter,” she only answers, the ancient words a promise. She wishes for Hesperia to be with you, but where you are going, that goddess cannot possibly follow you to. You nod and accept the blessing graciously, because the alternative would be to break down crying and tarnish that very first good lie you taught yourself to speak.)

Your soon-to-be husband, apparently, does possess a sense of humor. It’s just so dry that you cannot make sense of it.

When he passed by the guard who was supposed to feed you into the chariot so he could help you himself, you almost snapped at him out of reflex (you don’t have to do that, this is an arranged marriage, don’t pretend to care about me). Then the anguish made you pliant (don’t make this any harder for me). You took his hand without words, letting him handle you inside, the gauntlets as startling on your skin as the day he met you. It felt like he was reaching right through the chiton, below even the flesh of your human body and right into your traitorous heart, weeding out the lies before you could even get started tossing them at him. You look into his eyes to reassure yourself he can’t actually do that, and find him already looking at you. Mydei truly is quite unsettling. You cannot even imagine the sight of those righteous-fury eyes through the visors of his war helmet. “You should get comfortable,” he advises you. “The roads to Castrum Kremnos are as unforgiving and winding as the descent into Tartarus. It might take us an actual month to reach it.”

You gape at him, feeling the startledness resonate in your mind like a scream into the void. “Truly?” you sputter out, feeling your entire perception of time shift. How would you survive out of a chariot for an entire month…? “I …had not known. I promise to be a courteous and patient traveller.”

Mydei stares at you for a very long time … quite so long that you feel awkward beneath his gaze, like an insect inspected through the scope of a magnifying glass. And then, as wondrous as the first flashes of brilliant light in the morning dawn, the corners of his lips jump. Barely there. Not even enough movement to call it a twitch. But you recognize it for what it is: the ghost of a smile. “What a faithful bride they have given me,” he says, slipping back into his tonedead diction, something you begin to recognize he employs to guard his true feelings. “She hangs on to my every word. In fact, I give you my word I will not use it for my own personal entertainment.”

“Oh,” comes your embarrassed reaction. And then, because you cannot bear the shame and your lady’s maid of all people begins to chuckle, you place your head on the heavily armored shoulder of his intimidating back and turn him away. This oak tree of a man, whose reputation makes him out to be an unstoppable force, turns at the lightest of your touches. Mydei actually lets himself be pushed away. “I suggest you leave before I hit you with my fan for the deception.”

“I do think that would be entertaining still, my lady,” Mydei retorts. “But I accept your command. You are, after all, my bride.”

Your hands fall from his shoulder as he begins to skirt away, returning to the position he has been given as the commander of this company. You hastily clamber into your seat, not wanting to see him go. Not wanting to see him in general. You clench your hands into fists.

When they first told you about how you were going to be a bride to a foreign king, you had tried to conjure up an image, to try to fit yourself into that equation. It was all smoke and mirrors, anyways, the attempt like sifting through sand to find a treasure that has long ago disappeared. But from what you’ve known about Kremnoan culture, about the tales that had proclaimed Mydei to be a god-killer, how his father’s cruel blood ran in his veins, you had expected something more monstrous. Something akin to honorable Nikador, succumbing to baseless violence and madness, losing grip on His divinity. You meant no disrespect to Nikador, as you had been raised to respect all the gods in equal measure, but you certainly were no Mnestia. You couldn’t think of yourself as a noble lover, sacrificing everything to try to steer Nikador back into his true place at your side. That wasn’t the nature of this arrangement, anyways. Even without Eurypon’s and the Golden Council’s scheming, this marriage would still only serve the survival of the Kremnoan line. Marriage is for reproduction. It had no room for love, at least not in the traditional sense that you were raised into. Perhaps you would have been able to come to accept Mydei as an amicable business partner, but that, too, would only survive so long as any son of yours would grow into maturity. That future is as invisible to you as the one that you are actually walking towards. But something about the shape of the smoke has changed distinctly.

You hadn’t expected Mydei to view his father through the same critical eyes the rest of the world seemed to look at him with.

Here he is, walking with common men, accepting their hands. He nods in the same rhythm as their laughter; although he can’t share their bellows and jests, he makes an effort to be present, to acknowledge their camaraderie. He doesn’t cull their cheers, only heeding them to stay in formation, and everyone does so without complaint. At one point, they break out into a coordinated yell, startling your lady’s maid from the careful slumber she’s been nursing while at the same time trying to remain upright at your side. “The son of Gorgo will be crowned in blood!” they chant. “May his sword always strike true and his back reflect the illumination of our future! Long live the prince!”

You are at a loss for words. You recognize the words in passing, of course; the clever dichotomy of them. Gorgo, his noble ancestor, shares a name with the mother who has given birth to him. They are honored both in that chant, whether consciously or unconsciously. But they didn’t say “long may he reign”, the usual phrasing for a prospective monarch such as Mydei. They wished for him to live. And you see the effect it has on him: Mydei straightens up, becoming the shield and mirror they wish for him to be. The sun sparks across his shoulders like stars, making him seem more mythical, a prophecy having become flesh and bone.

They love him. You cannot find a better fitting verb that would encompass their culture more accurately, so you scramble to your own terms. This is what Atlaion had always dreamed of. Mydei is a king already in their eyes; they have given him their loyalty.

The thought rains a dangerous shower of goosebumps down your back. No wonder his father wants him dead.

The truth of Mydei’s joke (if that can be actually called a joke…) reveals itself after a steady, continous trek that stretched out for three nights and four days in total. On the afternoon of the fourth day, the glorious city of Castrum Kremnos has begun to claim the entire horizon as you stare at it. You hadn’t realized how pompously giant it was. Ladon is an ant in comparison to its size. The soldiers have begun to yowl in relief as they recognize the walls of their home, and this time Mydei doesn’t scold them. In fact, he’s headed straight for your chariot, and without waiting for it to stop, he jumps inside, with the same slinking grace as a predator going for the killing strike. Ignoring your lady’s maid quickly-smothered squeak in reaction, he settles into his seat as if nothing out of sort has happened. “As you can see, my lady, we will reach Castrum Kremnos shortly. I have sent a rider ahead to inform them of our coming, which is why I am here to warn you of what greetings will await us when we pass the city’s borders.”

(You find yourself forced back into the memory of the day you had left Ladon. Those customs, as shrewd as they were, had seemed to you more like a funny tale than an actual literal activity to be done. But Mydei, without even blinking or shying away from it, had lifted you up as one might pick up a doll; with the clinical neutrality of a healer, his hands had found the hollows of your knees and the space in-between your shoulder blades to lift you up. Your head had fallen at his chest, and the sound of his heartbeat had surprised you into wordless compliance. As though you had become part of his army, when he told you to hold on to him, you had obeyed and wrapped your free arm around his shoulder as best as possible (he was impossibly broad…), then used the free hand to wave goodbye to the people gathered. Mydei’s pulse had over-toned even your mother’s laughter, which in retrospect almost seems sad because of how rare it was for her to laugh in earnest. Your father’s death had eaten at her in a way that made her untouchable to most, even to you. You couldn’t help it: the sound of Mydei’s steady heart had soothed you, because in the end, he was a human being just like you.)

You take in the words, thinking about them. Will there be a riotous celebration for the prince’s return, then? Or do they condemn the crown’s choice in their bride, and have come to proclaim that rejection? You sure hope his deadly literacy will not make you carry you inside the city, then, because you would need your hands free to be able to defend yourself. “I see,” you say. Today, your nervous fingers are hidden beneath the swathes of your chiton. You specifically chose this one for its ruffles, intending to look as polished as a prospective bride, but also wanting to don some kind of armor of your own. Mydei, however, looks down at your hidden hands as if he can tell exactly what you’re doing. During the celebrations at home - Ladon, you chide yourself, that place is no longer your home, not for a long time - you had already taken note of how perceptive he was. You needed to kill your habits now, or you’d never live to be called a spy (you have to actually spy on something to be considered one, don’t you?). “So what will our day look like?”

“Your hands,” Mydei says though, immediately throwing you off course again. Does he always ignore questions so impolitely if he doesn’t want to answer them? But you’re too distracted to take offense. You feel shocked that he’s decided to call out the weakness himself. “I think that if you fold them together and then hide them in your lap, it would make you seem more like a blushing bride. Then you’d have the comfort of holding on to something, but also not having the danger of someone sniffing out your fear. Try it.”

You don’t know whether to laugh or sob. Here this man sits, the object of all your future sins, teaching you how to betray him. But only an idiot would reject advice from the most talented commander in all of history. You intertwine your fingers, then lay the conjoined hands into your lap. They still seem to twitch, something you cannot identify whether it’s actually happening or is just an illusion of your overworking mind, but Mydei nods in approval. You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” you say, not knowing how to handle the situation. Everything is already going so much differently than what the council had outlined. “Was it so obvious?”

He cocks his head at you. You try to find any sign in his eyes, of mockery or contempt or bemusement. You find nothing. “Not to the unlearned eye,” Mydei tells you then, and you can’t decide if he’s saying it to soothe your nerves or whether that’s actually true. Your own people had never taken any notice. Or maybe they just hadn’t bothered to tell you. “I would think that leaving the only country you’ve ever known, especially for marriage, would be daunting to anyone. And you are handling this in your own way. You’ve never once complained, or anything. I did not mean to offend you or your manners.”

“No, do not worry. You didn’t.” You press your fingers together. “I am not afraid of marriage. Or at least that’s what I think. I mean, the Sunlit Throne cannot be sat on by a queen alone, so I’ve always known that I would need an heir whom I could crown for the future of Ladon. And that entails a political marriage. I am just not … I mean… Ladon is not exactly similar to Castrum Kremnos.”

“No,” Mydei agrees. “You will quickly realize that. When we get home, they’ll fit you with a weapon of your choice for the wedding. At dawn, the wedding will be held in front of a few witnesses, including my father.”

“A weapon? Of my choice?”

Now there actually is a tint of amusement inside his sunny eyes. The color, although just a regular golden, seems to melt and rearrange itself depending on his mood. Quite disorienting. “I trust you know what a dagger is? Didn’t Queen Hesperia fight with one?”

“I know what a sword is, thank you,” you interrupt him impatiently. The insult, although harmless, paints your cheeks in an unwilling blush. His gaze zeroes in on it, and you try not to squirm under his gaze. For all his complacency, he still doesn’t have the courtesy not to disrespect your home and upbringing. Just because your father was a pacifist, it does not mean he raised you to be an idiot. “I just don’t know what relevance it possesses in correlation with our wedding. I was told there would be a simple procession, where no priest is necessary to reside over the rites, and we will be sharing a cup of wine that is supposed to represent our union. Your emissaries have specifically asked for a barrel of the finest Ladonian wine we had so they could mix it with the type that is produced here in Castrum Kremnos.”

“Quite right you are. What your teachers have neglected to foretell though, is that we have to cut our palms to bleed into the cup and sweeten it this way. The Kremnoans of old have always advised to consume blood, so it strengthens us in battle.”

You blink at him, all finely court manners forgotten. You’re sure that even your lady’s maid mouth has dropped open. “You drink blood?”

Mydei leans back against the chariot’s seat, spreading his legs to sit more comfortably. You ignore it. “No, of course not,” he says. “Do you think us brutes? We enjoy pomegranate wine, though I prefer to take mine mixed with a good cup of goat’s milk.”

“Goat’s milk?” you squawk. It doesn’t make any sense at all. His lips twitch, in that aggrevating almost smile that makes you want to stomp your feet. Heavens above. This man is a test from Hesperia herself. So annoying! Every answer he gives creates a thousand more questions, clarifying nothing!

Your lady’s maid carefully taps your hands. “My lady,” she cautions. When you look down, you’ve realized your careful arrangement has reasserted itself into clenched fists. You quickly loosen them, abandoning your hands for now. You’ll try to work on that habit later. “Alright,” you huff then. “I’ll just follow your lead, my lord. I’m sure it will work out.”

“Certainly,” Mydei answers. “They’ve given me a queen that is as wise as her father herself. You’ll do fine.”

He doesn’t sound sarcastic. In fact, this is the most earnest he’s sounded during the entirety of the conversation. You want to ask what he means, to have him clear up the confusing clouds looming above your head, but Mydei has already vaulted himself back over the chariot again. It seems like you will brave the citizens of Castrum Kremnos alone.

When the gates of the city swallow you up and spit you back out onto a long passageway leading into the inner walls of the urban life, you’re not sure what to expect. But the people’s faces are smiling, if not singing. These are songs you don’t recognize, songs of return and bravery and honor. Their hands stretch out to touch the soldier’s shoulders, and you hear a passerby applaud the guard near your own chariot for not returning on his shield, although you don’t understand what he means. The guard knocks her shoulders against the passerby’s, laughing and joking about how if she couldn’t return from a simple retrieval of a bride unharmed, than she did not deserve to be part of the royal household’s infantry. “Honor to Castrum Kremnos!” he tells the guard in answer, and that’s that. You continue walking, leaving the man behind.

From your vantage point, you can only see the tops of Mydei’s shoulders and his head. His own hands are situated firmly at his sides, and no one reaches to touch him, but they honor him in his own way. The jubilant chant belonging to the Son of Gorgo follows him into the endless maze of his city, and before long, the castle bids you welcome as you leave the cheerful masses behind.

As before, Mydei himself waits below the chariot to help you down. You cast a quizzical look at him, one that he doesn’t catch. Why bother? you think, and then, as always, Don’t make it any harder for me. Stop being courteous. Stop. But you give him your hand. His metal-cold fingers carefully wrap around the wrist he could easily break before it writes down any tales about the Kremnoan court. The architecture outside of the palace had involved a lot of humongously large pillars, stretching so far that even the craning of your neck did nothing to erase the intimidation they had evoked, and an intricate connection of block-like facades incorporated into siege-surviving walls. But the inside was as familiar to you as the passageway to the Ladonian castle, a sight that took hold of your frail heart and made you want to collapse with grief. You already missed your home. Despite your aversion to the young prince, you find yourself grateful for the support of his hand, feeling as unsteady as the reeds in the wind. “I had not expected such a warm welcome,” you admitted to Mydei. Somehow you knew you wouldn’t have been this honest towards him if you weren’t so shaken by the loss of Ladon. “They were all so happy. I assume that is because they saw you rather than me, but it was still a relief. The city of Ladon historically has been a thorn in Castrum Kremnos’ eye, so I was preparing myself for the worst.”

Mydei guides your hands toward his bicep. The emissary who was supposed to be your chaperone steps away and melts back into the shadows instead of taking offense. Even at his father’s court, where he is supposed to be surrounded by enemies at all sides, they defer to him as naturally as one might require air. The Golden Council would never. They never squandered any opportunity to flaunt their disrespect into your mother’s face. Mydei feels unnaturally hot beneath you, and your fear-cold fingers curve around his muscles on instinct so that they might warm up. If that bothers him, he doesn’t address it. Courteous as always. Perhaps it’s not so wild to believe that he might be his father’s doppelgänger, but it is his mother’s nature which guides him. She had been a warrior, too. A more welcoming concept of a warrior to your Hesperian beliefs than Eurypon is. “I will not lie to you. There might still be some folk which cling to their old hatred of the Ladonian revolt. But Kremnoans take pride in their values: strength, glory, victory. Castrum Kremnos has already called Ladon to heel, and you’ve been a loyal subject ever since then. No one likes to grovel over past grievances when there is victory in other places still to be secured.”

You nod, although the logic doesn’t appear that sound. You’re in no inclination to pick apart his arguments. Instead, the ruby-red halls of Castrum Kremnos begin to busy all your senses; there hangs the scent of their favored pomegranate wine, there the loud clang of soldiers being led through a series of drills by their drillmaster. Hanging around the stairs to a courtyard with a pond embedded in the middle of it you even spot a gaggle of children, busying themselves with flicking stones across the pond’s surface. The children look as trained to the bone as their soldiers do, but as you search their faces, not one looks dissatisfied. Their grins are as familiar to you as the expressions of the children at home; youthful, mischievous and happy.

After a long series of stairs (which tire you, while Mydei seems to remain unbothered, darn athlete) you come to a stop before a with wood carvings adorned door. “This is to be our sleeping quarters,” he informs you, gesticulating for you to open the door. You remain where you are, wiping a drop of sweat from your forehead. “I thought you were sleeping in the barracks,” you reply, forgetting your manners.

Mydei raises his eyebrows at you. “Did you think Kremnoans stayed celibate until marriage?”

Oh. Well, of course that settles it. It doesn’t matter if he slips into your chambers to … produce an heir, as long as he returns to his own bunk in the barracks by the end of the night. Prude of you to consider otherwise. Foolish of you to think that the elders of the Golden Council were actually right in claiming that being his bride would require no effort at all. You think of blood soaking a blanket, seed taking root. “Your pardon,” you hear yourself say. You wish you could let go of his arm.

The silence stretches on for a long time. When you look up, wondering what the matter is, Mydei’s eyes look at you in what seems to be his attempt at smothering pity. “Listen,” he says, sounding awkward. He even has to clear his throat before continuing. “I won’t be … consummating the marriage. But we have to keep up appearances, which is why I will sometimes come and sit with you. You won’t be bothered by me, I assure you. I’ll sit on the bedroom bench and read.”

“Why would you do that?” You don’t understand this man. He was acting all pliant to his father’s wishes, so intent on the marriage. For crying out loud, he’s been carrying out every custom to the exact letter. Does he not … maybe he doesn’t desire women? You are at a loss for words. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to consummate a loveless marriage? Maybe he thinks this won’t hold, and he’ll be free to take a partner he loves when he ascends the throne?

Mydei disentangles your fingers from where they were holding on to him, but it doesn’t feel like an insult or rejection. He respects my boundaries, you think, the realization like a lightning strike. He’s only been following what he thinks is proper in the sense of this arrangement. It makes you uncomfortable. He’s going to make this as hard for me as possible. He’s making sure that any betrayal on my side will hurt. “If you wish to consummate the marriage, I will,” he clarifies, although that makes your stomach twist in disgust. “But I do not feel comfortable with the thought of forcing that upon you. I may appear thick-headed to some, but I am well aware that this is a marriage of convenience. My father has told me if I do not marry, the Council of Elders will strike me off the line of inheritance. I need an heir. But I won’t be breeding at their every wish and whim. I am my own person, and their future king.” At those words, his face tightens in what you interpret as anger. For making himself seem so calm in front of you the entire time, you feel like his true fury makes him less scary than his faux-peacefulness earlier. This is what you were expecting at least.

Well, how good for him. Mydei’s already proven himself to be your better. Where you had bent your head like a shameful commoner, Mydei has found a way to assert himself in front of an over-reaching council. Perhaps it’s better you wouldn’t be able to ascend the Sunlit Throne. It feels bitter to admit to. “Thank you,” you murmur. “I don’t … I mean no disrespect, but I don’t feel comfortable with immediately consummating the marriage either. I will find a way to entertain you during your visits to our chambers.” At his quiet chuckle, you find yourself blushing again, and this time, instead of pushing down the instinct as you did in the chariot, you actually stomp. “You know what I mean, Mydei. I just meant that we’ll find some board games or something to pass the time. I’m quite mean at chess.”

“I will be quite pleased to crush you decisively in chess, then,” he answers, dropping your hand. Mydei opens the door to your bedroom for you, ushering you inside and watching you go. You turn to look at him standing on the threshold of the door. “I am a strategist after all. And quite competitive. But I look forward to seeing you try.”

He actually looks like he means it.

As he nods at you in a simple goodbye and makes sure to acknowledge your answering wave, the door then clicks decisively in its lock. You immediately find your way to the bed and crawl beneath its covers, feeling both in and outside your body. So many liberties, so many cages. The image of your marriage undergoes constant metamorphosis. It’s better if you stop expecting things to happen, in the same way as when you told Mydei in reference to the Kremnoan welcome you wouldn’t, and just start letting them happen of their own accord. It seems like you process things better that way.

Now that you’ve come to know the heir of Nikador’s strife a little better, you try to adjust the way you think about him. You are still bothered by his arrogance, although he’s given you no reason to - it’s kind of infuriating how he just exudes it, because of the Kremnoan attitude of how victory and glory are always certain. Defeated warriors have no place in their society: they are fed to Nikador’s wrath as appeasement, stricken from their country’s historical records. Aside from that, he’s made every effort to become the amicable business partner your mother had tried to envision for you. You don’t know what to think about that. It would have been easier if he could have made you hate him. Perhaps he will give you reason to when you are actually married.

But at the moment, you just don’t know how to go behind this man’s back without the guilt crushing you in his fists’ stead. You are aware of the Kremnoan attitudes to enemies who strike a Kremnoan’s back to defeat him; they are deemed honorless, and unworthy. You crawl deeper below the covers, hoping the shame will swallow you whole.

Your mother would have never wavered like you did. You are a disappointment to all.

This is how you remain as the sun steadily climbs the sky. You watch her travels from the little window that opens up the sight to the clouds above, training your eye at the passage of time. Perhaps you should have freshened up or something. Or maybe Kremnoans find honor in endurance like this. Whatever the case, not one of the attendants comments on your state of being when they come to knock on your door. You let them in with a sigh. As they come to surround you, you scan their faces with a wary glance, but don’t bother taking note of possible foes or allies. Inside this castle, every person is your enemy.

Your lady’s maid Hemera joins you a little while later, out of breath from the household inspection. She’s supposed to be in charge of you, as you take charge of Mydei’s household as his wife, your only task in this marriage. Aside from that, you will be freer than any Kremnoan woman to walk this city, not even mentioning the helots it employs. That is the single aspect you focus on as Hemera makes an effort to catch you up with her newfound knowledge. “My lady, I’ve already informed the kitchens to draw you and Mydei up a dinner after the wedding. They don’t exactly have our golden apples, but dire times demand dire solutions, so we’re just gonna have to make do with regular red Kremnoan ones. Do you think His Highness might be averse to them? The cook has told me he’s not allergic, but maybe he doesn’t like them? He couldn’t exactly tell me a lot of His Highness’s preferences.”

“Hemera,” you patiently interlope. The lady’s maid seems to be more fraught with nerves than even you are. Strangely, that helps you come to terms with your own anxieties. No wonder your mother liked to surround herself with attendants when she herself was dealing with an unquiet mind. “We’re not in Ladon anymore. I appreciate your attempt at trying to bring me comfort in a strange land, but this is a Kremnoan wedding, not a Ladonian one.”

“But my lady.” Hemera sounds strangely sad. “You are Ladonian. It would only be fair to at least share both your countries’ traditions, would it not? I apologize for my indiscretion, but I do believe His Majesty, your father, would have liked for you to feel like a Ladonian bride.”

Your throat constricts. (Don’t think about father, don’t think about him right now.) Hemera has always been the gentlest of all your maids. Her fellow attendants had scorned her when your mother decreed for her to become your lady’s maid, feeling as though she didn’t put in enough effort to actually deserve the task. But Hemera has always, unswervingly and faithfully, served you well. Your mother had gifted you with an anchor that would steady you as you braved the Kremnoan court. “No apology necessary,” you rush to tell her, and she smiles in relief at that. “And I’m sure you’re right. My father has always told me to take pride in my Ladonian ancestry. We should not disregard his wish just because I am marrying a man of a different dynasty. I trust you’ve told the cook to serve the apples with the freshest cream he could find?”

Hemera’s smile is down-right radiant. In another life, perhaps she would have been the princess you would have been doting on. “Yes, my lady.”

That radiance warms you to the very core of your existence as she guides you into the palace gardens. True to the fibers patterning Castrum Kremnos’ banners, the sky has been streaked blood-red with the last shoots of dawn’s light, reflecting back in the armor across Mydei’s chest. It’s different than the one he usually tends to wear, adorned in designs that are identical the ones embedded into the garment of your own wedding garb. The garden itself has been readied for the occasion, and your heart rejoices in the fact that although beauty is not celebrated here, at least they have incorporated it into the venue. Decorational bows and flowers line the greenery, and the witnesses are holding rice to be thrown when the wedding vows have been exchanged. You can’t discern the colors of your surroundings due to your own choice of dress; the red veil which has hidden your face has tinted your sight. It is lifted by King Eurypon himself, and his hand feels much coarser than his son’s as he hands you off like a trinket to be gifted.

Under the watchful gaze of Nikador’s sky, you turn to face Mydei as a fiancée one last time. With your hands free at last, you accept the weapon you were supposed to prepare ahead of the ceremony from the attendant who carried it for you. She places it on your palms, with the guard of the weapon removed already. At the choice of your jeweled dagger, the only ornate one out of the collection of weapons to be presented, Mydei’s eyes flash with mirth. Perhaps he’d wagered you’d choose that one, favoring beauty of practicality. The pommel of the dagger was decorated with the depiction of a lion, but its choice of diamonds and glittering rubies had evoked the light of Hesperia in your eyes. “Mydeimos,” you speak, and then revel in the shock that your voice had come out unwavering. You’d have expected to stutter with all the faux-pas you’ve been stumbling into today. “I take you as my husband, now and forever more.”

Simple and succinct. This is what your councillors had drilled into you for when Mydei came to ask for your hand.

You draw the sharp blade over your unscarred palm, not being able to hide the wince that flashes across your features. You’ve never been wounded in a serious manner, not touched by a weapon except for those which had been strictly decorational. Although Mydei continues to do the exact opposite of what you assume, it still surprises you when his warrior hands come to steady your own, hiding the tremor of pain from the sight of the witnesses. Though your entire body remembers that this is a man you have been raised to recognize as an enemy, it inadvertently relaxes under his touch, taking comfort in it. His eyes never stray from your face as you raise your hand, taking his with it, and then obediently bleed into the presented cup in Eurypon’s hands.

The king looks like he wants to guffaw at the spectacle. Given he’s the only one aware of the full truth, you don’t think he’s taking this seriously. Mydei, though, with all the somberness of a priest, deftly changes the positions of your fingers so that now your hand cradles his own as he moves to cut his own palm. It feels oddly intimate, but you don’t draw your hands away. You recognize the act for what it is. Just as he supports and boosts his troops’ morale, Mydei has tried to uplift you. “Bride of Hesperia,” Mydei says, using the polite form of addressing you, “I take you as my wife, now and forever more.” You watch as the blood wells from the clean cut he has made, the blood pearling like a clam’s treasures. It drips as assuredly into the cup as your own.

“Children of Kremnos!” Eurypon bellows then. In comparison to his son, he has nothing to hide. The schadenfreue in his eyes is as easy to discern as the stars in the nightsky. “Take the cup and be united, in both body and soul. May your marriage be timeless and eternal.” When Mydei accepts the cup and turns away from the sight of his father, Eurypon grins at you. It looks like a monster flashing his teeth at the prey he’s caught. You shudder and turns towards Mydei.

Mydei himself looks unbothered by his father’s antics. You press your hands above his own as they carry the cup, smaller than his, but as certain as his own in their grip. You are going to do this: you are determined. It almost seems like Mydei’s headstrongness has permeated through his skin and infected you. For better or for worse, you are partners in crime now.

He keeps watching you as you take the first, strong swallow. It tastes like salt and corruption.

Your own fingers help tip the cup towards his mouth as Mydei makes his own gulp. The witnesses have begun to cheer as soon as the goblet touched Mydei’s lips. He truly is beautiful; every feature, precise an artist’s rendition, contorts as he drinks, but it does not lessen his beauty. If the mixture tastes strange to him, he certainly doesn’t comment on it. Eurypon leads the applause as you begin to trade the cup back and forth, like nursing a cup of nettle tea when you have fallen sick, and then the king leaves you to your drink to meld back into the masses. His voice booms over all else, louder even than the encouraging smack he gives an advisor, who in turn flinches.

“Eyes on me, my lady,” Mydei breaks you out of your thoughts. He hands you back the cup so you can take the last swallow, and you scrunch up your nose as you look at the last lap of liquid at the bottom of the goblet. “Nothing to turn your nose up at. The last swallow is the easiest.”

“Easy for you, perhaps,” you throw back, intending for it to sound teasing. You want to let yourself be wrapped up in the cheerful atmosphere before you turn into the scheming bride. The witnesses have already begun to mingle and laugh amongst each other. “I don’t really enjoy the thickness of blood enough to swallow this without complaint.”

Mydei raises his hands. One hand - he’s not wearing gauntlets, you think with a note of appeasement you can’t crush - he places just below your jaw, the fingers there guiding you into position. It doesn’t feel forceful. Instead, like the instinct you had given into when he had carried you off from Ladon, you let your head be tipped back, steadied by that powerful hand. You hope he doesn’t see the way your nervous swallow grips your throat. His touch doesn’t feel that revolting. In fact, it leaves a shiver of sparks in its wake. The other hand cradles the cup as he takes it from you, then lifts it to your lips. “Come now, wife,” he says, and you feel like he’s laughing at you, but not because he’s being demeaning. More like two companions, in on a shared inside joke. It makes you smile. “One more toast to your health.”

You open your mouth to receive the last of the bloody liquid, then lick your lips when the goblet is put away. You don’t miss the way Mydei’s lips curl into an actual smirk. Cocky bastard, you think. The thought lacks its usual heat. You are too busy trying to ignore the flips in your abdomen at seeing the expression. “Alright, enough of the jokes at my expense,” you announce. “I think I’d like a tour of the gardens now.”

“A tour of the gardens?” Mydei snorts.

You blink at him, slipping into the role of naivety. Tomorrow, you’ll don the mask of deception. But today, you are a bride as any other. If nothing else, then at least this will be a joy for you. Perhaps there are still small acts of rebellions you can live out against the Golden Council, small victories of your own. Honor and glory, as the Kremnoans proclaim. “Yes, exactly.”

Mydei shrugs, offering you his arm again. As if you’ve done this a thousand times before, you hold on to it. “As my wife desires,” he says, and for now, it doesn’t sound like an insult.

It almost sounds like a term of endearment.

The small garden was a place of retreat for Queen Gorgo. Her handiwork is reflected in the patterning of flowers embedded in the earth. A particular exotic flower whose name you don’t recognize was brought here after her marriage to Eurypon, in recognition of her valor. It was imported from Styxia, and is said to grow from the blood of fallen enemies. The meaning is gruesome to you, but you find comfort in the fact that it was an attempt of honoring her. Even your own mother Aeolia had sung Gorgo’s praises, comparing the queen to Hesperia, who had been a queen in her own right. You may not agree with the Kremnoan way of battle, but both your cultures recognize the necessity of warriors. The flower thus cheers you. When you ask whether you would be permitted to pluck one, Mydei goes ahead and pulls the stem from the earth, putting the flower in its entirety into your hand. With Mydei in one, and the flower in the other, you continue to weave in and out of the crowd. Here he explains the relevance of a particular statue, and here he shows you a Kremnoan inscription on the steps that lead into the garden. They are said to be magicked to light the path to victory. Concerning your inquiry into whether that’s actually true or just make-believe, Mydei shrugs and says, “Well, it did bring you here so I could become your husband”. You hurry to switch the topic, and Mydei lets you.

The night continues in that manner. Eurypon himself interjects your tour only once to shake your hand once more. This is your actual partner in crime, one you’ve made against your own will. His secretive little laughs only serve to irritate Mydei further, and when Eurypon states, “I do believe you shouldn’t tire yourself out with a stroll already, you’ve got the entire night still in front of you!”, the prince clenches his fist. As his father throws his head back to laugh, you notice that he misses Mydei’s unwilling reaction. You move to cover his hand with your own, intertwining your fingers before Eurypon can see. “You’re quite right, Your Majesty,” you tell him, not looking Mydei in the eyes. “I do believe it is time for us to retire.”

“I’m sure it is!” Eurypon guffaws. He just cannot help himself from delighting in his son’s humiliation. The court itself rearranges themselves to look away from the sight. Perhaps they don’t share their king’s taste for degradation, but they also don’t do anything to stop it. You bow and take your leave when Eurypon gives the permission, stopping you only once to remind Mydei to return to his barracks after “he’s finished” (that is underlined with His Majesty’s mocking laughter, too). You try not to let your own shame soften your spine, instead remaining rigidly upright as you lead Mydei away. This time, it’s him who turns pliant, only taking charge when you find you do not recognize the way and need him to guide you back to your apartments.

The hallways seem much spookier at night. The moonlight, like cobwebs, bathe the rooms in a mysterious aura. “I apologize,” Mydei finally speaks after a long time of walking. He hasn’t let go of your hand yet. “I’m afraid my father delights in cruelties like these. I did not mean for you to have to bear them.”

You wave the concerns away, concentrating not to stumble over the length of your gown as you begin to climb the stairs. “No need to worry over me,” you state. “I’ve had my fair share of bothersome councillors. Meaning no disrespect towards your father, my lord. I just meant to imply that this isn’t the first time I’ve been the subject of these kinds of jokes. They may be harmless, or not. It does not mean anything to me. If you were wondering, I was actually already busy conspiring a strategy to beat you with on the chessboard.”

You can’t see his face, but you’d like to imagine his lips are turned up in that almost-smile that he can’t bring himself to finish. Maybe it’s been too long for him, in the same manner as it had been for your mother. Some lose the ability to experience joy in the face of so severe grief. But his shoulders roll back, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Although I am asking myself how that can be possible without us having moved a single piece on the board, it remains irrelevant,” he shoots back, in his voice the lazy undertone of his usual arrogance. “I will deal with you as swiftly as with any enemy of Castrum Kremnos.”

You ignore the spark of fear inside your abdomen. You will learn how to live with it inside your bones, nibbling at your marrow. “Most certainly not. Prepare to be utterly crushed, Prince Mydei, because I will be the one teaching you humility.”

“Hah!” Having arrived at the door of your chambers, he quickly opens it and beckons you inside. As you finally glimpse at his face, you’ve realized that he’s looking at you with pure bemusement, none of the explosive anger he’d been carrying inside at his father’s words. You sink back down on the bedroom bench, disoriented. You hadn’t realized how important it was to you that he wouldn’t remain angry. It was your wedding night, for crying out loud. “I’d like to see you try.”

(You spend the night not only eating the prepared apple slices, their relevance explained to Mydei and accepted quickly when he had realized what it meant to you, but also your words. Sitting in that maddeningly stance that he’d been employing in the chariot, muscled legs spread wide open and arms crossed over his chest as he stared at you in triumph over the board, you had allowed yourself to cuss in front of him in the same manner as you would in front of any other friend. You’ve actually thrown a rook at him the third time he put you in check, not wanting him to speak the checkmate out loud. For a man who’s been hit in the shoulder with a chesspiece, he had only declared with the graciousness of a victorious leader that you’d lost fair and square, so he’d like some recompense for your lies now. When you pointed out that he had lied first on the dancefloor, you were rewarded with a returning throw of a bishop of his own, which had made you burst into laughter. Mydei, mystified by the sound, only stared at you, so you hastened to challenge him again.

You lost twice more. When you rose to rain your fists on his back because you were a sore loser, he had only taken your hands into his and said with a deadpan expression that your attempt at violence was pathetic. If you wanted to actually learn how to inflict pain, he promised to take you to the courtyard to drill you properly in the ways of war. You, distracted by the way how fascinating the muscles in his back had felt like, had hurried to shake your head before he could get any more ideas. Hesperia forbid if you ever picked up a weapon in earnest.)

That is how you continue to spend the remainder of the next few nights. Although you don’t beat him once, you at least get better in chess. Your mother had been evenly matched with you, so sparring across the chessboard had most times just resulted in friendly draws. With Mydei, not only is your patience heavily tested, but your nerves are, as well. It seems to amuse him to no end how quickly you are roused to anger, or to embarrassment for that manner. When he had suggested guiding your hands since you couldn’t be trusted to play accurate strategies on your own, he’d earned himself another chess-piece to the face. Your attendants have come to the stupefied realization that Mydei has begun to duck in preparation when you pick something up, and Hemera secretly asks you if you’re being violent with your husband.

“Me?” you echo, incredulous. “No, of course not. Does he look scared to you, Hemera? The man is the embodiment of blood and death.”

“Well, no, Your Highness, but it does seem puzzling, to say the least, to see him hurrying to avoid your throws … perhaps you’d like to adjust the way you treat him.”

The next night, Mydei asks you if you’ve swallowed a frog or something since you’re so quiet and reserved. You resume with throwing chess pieces.

That’s the crux of it, really. Your mother’s wish, intended to be harmless, has turned into a curse upon your existence. It’s just too friendly with Mydei. You bicker like children about the littlest of things - his hubris concerning all things in life, his pokes at your home life in Ladon, his stupid winning streak. You’ve even forgotten to keep up appearances because of how smoothly your interactions go, and you are shocked when Hemera makes the absentminded comment that your sheets don’t contain the slightest splatter of blood, so perhaps the prince is being particularly gentle with you? You hurry to tell her yes, of course he is, you are quite happy with him. You are glad when Mydei announces that same night that at least for now, the game of charades is over, as he is expected to leave for another skirmish at the Kremnoan borders in a fortnight.

You blink at him, unsure of how to respond. “Don’t return on your shield,” you say. You remember hearing them in passing, when the passerby who recognized your guard on the march to Castrum Kremnos had spoken them. You thought they were meant as a blessing, in the same manner as the people in Ladon told one another “may the light of Hesperia be with you”. Mydei, however, in response begins to sputter. You belatedly realize that he’s actually trying not to laugh.

“Do you even know the meaning of what you just said?”

You glare at him, crossing your arms in front of your chest in a protective manner. Guarding your heart. “No,” you deadpan. “Forgive me for trying to be a supportive bride who only wishes the best for you. Why yes, I would personally light the beacons of hope inside Nikador’s temples for you if you let me. Of course I don’t know! I was making an effort here.”

Mydei puts a hand to his mouth, the mirth in his eyes coloring them in the image of honey today. They are soft and warm, an expression so unusual for someone who usually has the same charm as a stone. “The proverb goes ‘either with it or on it’”, he clarifies, his tone gentling in the same manner as it did when he had told you of Gorgo. You wished you wouldn’t know him well enough to recognize it happening. You wished he wouldn’t turn that gentle tone on you. “It means that as a Kremnoan, you are either expected to return victorious or carried home as a corpse on your shield. If you’ve been defeated, you do not return to grace the city with your shame. Return victoriously with the shield, or dead on it, so you can at least be buried with dignity since you tried to return victorious.”

“Oh.” What a crude belief. There was no shame in a retreat. It could be quite tactical, really. Ladon itself was known to survive on sieges, the soldiers fleeing towards the comfort of the inner city’s walls as it steeled itself against the outside world. You feel like it would be disrespectful to voice these thoughts, though, since Mydei is still the prince of the city, and these are the values he’s been brought up with. “Then I do hope you return with your shield. I’d make an awful widow, but a beautiful one. I think I look quite nice in black.”

“I’m sure you do.” He doesn’t sound flirtative; instead, it sounds like he’s stating a fact. Distracted by what sounds like an earnest compliment, you don’t notice the way he unsheathes his dagger until he’s grabbed your hands and placed the weapon inside. As you stare at him with a quizzical look, he clarifies, “You may be a beautiful widow, but I won’t be. And I’m not sure I’ll find another bride whose anger rivals my own. So make sure you won’t make me a widower.”

The implication is clear. Mydei is wary and suspicious. Maybe not of his own men, but very clearly of those who are loyal to his scheming, brutal father. You enclose your fingers over the weapon, certain you will never be able to wield it, but taking it all the same. Perhaps it gives Mydei some kind of peace of mind if he at least knows you’re in possession of a weapon. “Hide it inside the sleeves of your chiton,” he tells you, and you do. Listening to his commands as always. Another habit you should break. “And don’t cut yourself on it. Seeing as to how self-destructive you are on the chessboard, I shudder to think what you could achieve with this.”

You make sure to stomp on his boot as hard as you can. Fully knowing that violence to him is like a kiss given, as seen in the way his mother had fought her way into his father’s heart, you turn your face away with a pout when the only response you earn is a grim smile. You have become husband and wife in earnest.

Watching his enormous frame grow smaller and smaller as he disappears, you ponder what to make of Mydei. You hadn’t expected for married to life be so … well, unbothered. It almost feels like cohabitation. You are two animals to be experimented on by your respective courts, interacting with one another like two variables. But no matter how friendly he is, you cannot let yourself forget what you are truly here for.

Under the cover of darkness, the first dove containing your first report of intelligence is let loose. You try not to think about what will happen if your spywork were to be discovered. You won’t even get the quick death you were hoping for.

You wonder if Mydei himself would become the torturer.

When Mydei returns from his campaign (victorious, of course, what did you even expect), you find yourself greeted by an entirely different sight than the one you were provided with the day you arrived here to become a bride. After having loosened another dove under the pretense of wanting to message your mother, but not meeting anyone who would dare question your decisions, you had decided to walk through the palace to at least maintain the charade of appearing busy. Like wildfire, word had quickly spread that the army had returned, and you made your way to the place where you would expect them to be. Standing still at the railing so you can have a better vantage point of the courtyard that opens up into the palace, you peer down to watch Mydei about to be crowned with a laurel signifying his success by a gaggle of children who have surrounded him. Unbecoming of his station, he bends his head as low as his seated position on the ground allows, and their tiny hands struggle to place the wreath of leaves atop his sandy-colored hair. The blond in his curls looks molten in the sunlight, framing his face like a saint in a mural.

And he’s smiling. In a way he’s never been able to with you, or anyone else for that matter, his lips are turned into a fond expression as he interacts with the children, accepting their curious hands as they pat his shoulders and flood him with a torrent of questions. The rest of the world seems to have stolen away, and Mydei’s face looks like he’s entirely swept up in their conversation, answering earnestly and promptly. The children clap in satisfaction when the answer is to their liking. When it isn’t, they hurl another torrent of questions at him. Anyone else would have lost their head at this rapid-fire way of interviewing a person, but Mydei isn’t deterred, seemingly taking the time to answer every single one properly.

You are lost in thought. This is supposed to be the warrior who turns into a beast on the battlefield, eating the hearts of men for sport. All you can think of is whether perhaps he’d delight in having children of his own, how perhaps he’d avoid his father’s methods of raising a child like a pig to slaughter. The consideration of that hurts. It actually manages to tear at your heart, when all you’ve been doing this entire time is try to guard it against Mydei’s influence.

You think of the way you eavesdropped on the Council of Elders, how quickly you had penned that treacherous letter before you could think better of it.

“Excuse me,” you call to a passing female attendant, carrying a heavy box of scrolls. She rushes to attend you almost immediately, and you wince, thinking of the weight of that box. “I apologize for disrupting your work. I was just wondering whether this was a common occurence.” And you point down at the spectacle.

The woman follows the line of sight your finger points out, then erupts into polite laughter. “Oh, yes, the prince is popular with the children of the city,” she proclaims, her voice tinged with pride. Beloved Mydeimos, you think. “He often takes some time in the week to train and spar with them. When they do exceptionally well, he rewards them appropriately, and they love to be taught by him. He’s quite patient, much like noble Krateros, who was his mentor before. And he does have quite the hand with children, doesn’t he?” She drops a wink at you, her gaze only briefly flickering to the stomach guarding your womb.

Almost like an afterthought, you move to cradle your stomach. Right, you’re supposed to be expecting soon. Or at least try to be. “He does,” you confer, your voice soft. Your eyes drift back to where Mydei still sits with the children, their childhood-softened voices detailling something to as him as he listens attentively. The attendant snickers and leaves you to it, probably busy with delivering whatever that box contained. If you’d been a cleverer spy, you would have used the opportunity to steal one of those letters, perhaps feign interest in them and see what she would reveal. But your eyes remain glued on Mydei.

When you finally descend to join the throng, the children quickly disperse to make way for you. Mydei’s eyes flicker up to meet yours, then return to rest on the children. “This is my wife,” he introduces you to them, sweeping with his gauntled hands towards you. There’s a chorus of “oohs” and “aahs” that makes you smile. “Be kind, or there won’t be any water balloon fight come next morning anymore.”

“No!” comes the indignant response from one of the children, a boy that looks to be the oldest out of the three of them. “Of course we’ll be nice. My name is Antonus, but you can call me Toni!”

“And my name is Lydia! Please remember it! I like the way your hair looks!”

“Lydia!” The third child sounds horrified at Lydia’s extroverted compliment. “You can’t just go around giving people compliments about their hair! It could be rude! I apologize, Your Highness. My name is Lycaon, and I’m Lydia’s older brother.”

“Oh, that’s quite alright, Lycaon,” you assure him, voice purposefully gentle as to not startle them. You lower yourself to the ground so you are on the same eye level as them, which puts you below Mydei. He stares at you with an indecipherable look in his eyes, but you’re busy shaking each tiny hand as somberly as you can, and they giggle at being treated like political officials. “I thought it was quite nice to be complimented. And I was just going to compliment Lydia’s braids. They’re beautifully done. Did you braid them yourself?”

“Yes!” The girl beams, pleased at having her efforts recognized. Her hands go to her braids as if to reassure herself that they’re still there, then pluck up the bundle of hairs so she can show you the intricacies of it. “It wasn’t difficult, you see! It’s very easy once you get the hang of it. My mother told me this was called a fishtail braid, and they’re quite fond of it in Okhema, so I begged her to teach me and she showed me. I like popular things!”

“It looks extraordinary.” You nod earnestly. “You must teach me some other time.”

“I will!”

“Alright.” Mydei offers you his hand, and you allow yourself to be pulled up. The children surround you again as you stand, their upturned faces reminding you of puppies scrambling for attention. You almost laugh. “That’s enough attempts at stealing my wife, you rascals. I’ll see you tomorrow, without her.”

“But we’ve barely gotten to talk to her! Lydia was hogging up the entire conversation.”

The girl in question nods, quite satisfied. You move to stifle your laughter with your hand, not wanting the boys to feel mocked. “I promise I’ll come talk to you another time,” you vow, which makes their eyes light up in happiness. At Mydei’s annoyed expression, you snicker and add, “with my husband’s permission, of course. If you can convince him.”

“We will!”

“Shoo, you,” comes Mydei’s response. “We’ll see about that tomorrow.” He turns to watch them go, his gaze soft. You like that look on him. You don’t like that you like that look on him. When he faces you again, you bite your lip in an attempt to smother the well of emotions that has poured up in you. You feel like your insides might be on fire. “What, did you enjoy watching me squirm like that?” he questions you, sounding gruff.

He might actually be pouting.

You dig your teeth into your lower lip so you don’t actually laugh at him. His eyes, matching his armor, harden over as they trace the way you release the lip to put on a polite smile, the kind you use to entertain ambassadors of foreign courts. “Well, of course I do. It’s not often I get to see my mighty husband crumble at the whim of children.”

“No one’s crumbling. You might be projecting.”

“Oh, truly? Then perhaps I also imagined the conversation with the maid I had just now, where we commented upon how truly lovely your smile looked when you interacted with the children? That would be quite odd. Perhaps you ought to fetch me a doctor to help with these mental ailments.”

Mydei crosses his arms, unimpressed. He does not blush as easily as you do, nor is he perturbed by the mention of the chink in his armor you’ve found now. A well-seasoned warrior who’s trained to reveal nothing, even as he suffers. “What was that about a lovely smile?”

Ah, well, he’s got you there. Slip of the tongue.

You lean back as Mydei begins to tower menacingly over you. And it truly takes no effort. The man is a living statue, perfectly sculpted in the images of the gods, every muscle cording into the other in a flawless pattern. You can even see the veins that rise above his skin from the countless hours of training he endures. Your frame merges with his shadow, becoming part of him. You’ve never met a man as well-endowed as Mydei. “I’m sure you’ve misheard,” you tell him. A meager attempt at evasion. “In the same manner as I must have misheard you talking with the children. What an odd day of auditory and visual hallucinations.”

“I assure you I’m quite sane. Do elaborate on the judgement you’ve passed on my smile, dear wife.”

“Ah,” you breathe out shakily, stepping back. Your heart has begun to race now, steadily climbing in speed. It wishes to escape your chest and run, although this isn’t true fear. More intimidation. And maybe anticipation. Only a liar or a blind person could close their eyes to the truth; seeing as you were the former but quite inept at it, you were forced to face the fact that Mydei was the most attractive man you’ve ever laid eyes on, and that was not an exaggeration. Seeing him care for children so tenderly only seemed to accentuate that. “Oh, then, maybe it’s me who’s delirious. You must excuse me, husband, so I can lie down and recover from this tenuous ailment. I am losing all grip on sense and meaning, it seems, and my words evade me…”

“You seem to be talking just fine.” And for the first time since the night you were married to Mydei, he consciously reaches out to touch you. His hands, wrapped in the gauntlets you’ve been steadily cursing from preventing a skin-to-skin touch, come to rest on your waist, pulling you closer like an anchor rushes to meet the seaground. You fall against him without any fight. For the first time, the feeling of the sharp metal threatening to rip your skin does not feel disrespectful, but rather… enticing. You look up into a heated gaze that gives you a dizzy spell, melting down like actual gold as you become trapped in the yellow of Mydei’s eyes. “My smile, wife. What did you call it?”

“Lovely,” you exhale with great exertion. Mydei seems to delight in it.

“And you liked seeing me with the children?”

“Perhaps.”

His fingers, each tip of the gauntlet sharpened to resemble the claw of a wild animal, dig in. Not enough to hurt you. Just enough to caution. It feels exhilarating. “That’s not an answer.”

“Yes,” you hiss at him, the anger finally catching up with you now. If only you had a chesspiece … but the closing distance between you feels so achingly nice, and this is the first real human contact you’ve had since leaving Ladon. You hadn’t realized that though he looks like a beast from the distance, being in his proximity felt like residing in a safe haven. Your hands curl into fists on his chest so you don’t actually grab him out of desperation. “Yes, I liked seeing you with these children. It pleased me to see you interacting so gently and carefully with them. Does that please you?” You had meant it as a jab, to return the insult. He’s the one whose put you into this humiliating situation, after all.

His answer is as blunt as his expression. “Yes, of course it does,” he tells you, cutting to the quick. Straight and direct. You blink at him, shocked. “What man doesn’t delight in pleasing his wife?”

Oh. You are going to explode after all. Your fingers, your ever-betraying fingers, twitch inside their prison, and you clench your fists harder. You can’t seem to look away from Mydei. He, in turn, looks at you as though you are behaving stupidly for ever thinking otherwise. But this is a marriage of convenience, you think, grasping for the safety ring of that excuse. I am going to sneak and spy and deceive you. I might even kill you. This doesn’t matter to me. Your senses, immune to the logic inside your thoughts, are thrumming with desire. You are hungry for any kind of intimacy, any scrap you can get.

You stand up on the tips of your toes, slowly approaching Mydei’s face with your own. His eyes screw shut as you place your lips to his cheekbone, kissing him there. The kiss lingers as you press yourself against him, and his fingers are on your spine, and your nerves are alight with sensation. As you lean back again, his eyes have taken in the color of the burning sun. “There, that’s how much I liked it,” you tell him. You’re actually shaking, vibrating in his hold like a twitching instrument. “I am pleased. Your wife is pleased.”

Now you’re both blushing.

That night, neither of you speak as you play chess. No chess-pieces are thrown. You are staring at the board, never at each other, but the heavy erotic implication of your fixation on the other’s fingers looms above you. Something has changed within the nature of your relationship, loosened the boundaries. All the armor you’ve clung to is beginning to fall from you in a steady rhythm, and you are afraid that when you are finally as exposed as you can be, naked as the day you were born, it will divide you forever as you overturn the kingdom Mydei has fought and bled and struggled for. So you continue staring at his fingers, never once saying anything, and Mydei doesn’t say anything either.

He loses for the first time, though even you realize that this was entirely the fault of your distracting kiss in the afternoon rather than a rise in skill on your side. He hands you his king, palm up, and you try to focus on the outstretched hand as you move to take it. His fingers wrap around yours the moment you try to grab it. Startled, you let the chesspiece fall. Instead of leaving with a courteous bow as he always does, Mydei’s head drops to your hand as he kisses the fingers there, his lips somehow feeling as sharp as his gauntlet’s claws even though you knew that was just your mind playing tricks on you, and your heart expands in your chest. “For a win well-earned,” he says, relinquishing your hand. You cradle it to your chest, as if it were wounded, and he says nothing more as he stands up and leaves the room.

You are unravelling, coming undone. Hours later, the scent of his perfume still hanging in the air, you drag the palms of your hands against your eyes so you can stop thinking of the way he looked, his eyes darkening like pooling blood, his fingers possessive and strong. The bed feels hot and uncomfortable. You twist and turn until exhaustion claims you, and even then, you do not go easy; your hands tear at the memory of Mydei, dragging him into your dreams. He is all-encompassing, warm, firm against you.

Perhaps he’ll be the death of you, instead of the other way around.

(In your dreams, he tastes rather sweet than salty. Still drunk on his kisses, you never realize when the dagger comes stabbing down.)

Mydei begins to visit you more often then, as if the lure of another kiss beckons him. That was something you hadn’t once considered; that as soon as you kissed someone in earnest, the possibility of it happening again lingered over every interaction. It remains at the forefront of your thoughts, making you nervous around Mydei, and making Mydei restless in turn.

He finds you in Gorgo’s garden, enraptured in your weaving. The festival of Hyacinthia is closely approaching, a celebration that was considered to be among the most important of the Kremnoans. It was tradition to prepare a chiton as an offering to the hero who has been lost, his name swallowed by the erosion of history. The memory of his identity is long forgotten, but his honor and glory remain. To keep at least that in tact, the celebration, representational for all efforts of victory, centers around communal prayer, drinking, sharing meals, and giving offerings. As wife to the youngest prince, it would not do if you didn’t partake in it as well.

Most importantly, though, the rite of weaving a chiton feels reminiscent to you. In Ladon, too, the people offered clothing and the like to Hesperia, although for a different reason. Since Hesperia had yearned for a home to protect, and a home is where a family feeds, clothes and nurtures you, the men prepare a meal to feast entire armies for days, while the women work on preparing clothing for Hesperia to wear. Another common denominator that binds you a little tighter to Castrum Kremnos. You glide your hands over the expensive material the servants brought you, touching the stitches. You had used the familiar traditions to write another letter, this one encoded. There were men gathering under the light of moon, whispering, conspiring. You hadn’t been able to discern exactly what they were speaking about, but it bespoke dissent, dissatisfaction with the king. You imagined the Golden Council would be ravenous for a piece of information like that, scenting weakness like a shark scented blood in the water.

“I wasn’t aware you were quite this talented in weaving.”

You set the weaving fork down. The light of the morning sun is too bright already, and you are feeling tired from your menses, which is why you only shrug in response. When Mydei sits down beside you, his knee leaning against yours, you finally muster up the energy to formulate an appropriate answer. “It’s not truly a talent, but it’s better than doing nothing. And I don’t quite have the strength for anything else today. I have my menses, so you’ll sadly have to inform the Council of Elders that I do not carry an heir yet.”

“I don’t imagine that’s any of their business.” Mydei takes up the weaving fork, twirling it around his fingers. It looks beautiful to behold, the quick trick of making the wood disappear and appear again. Maybe you’ve just grown too entranced by Mydei. Now that you know what these fingers feel like on your skin, you cannot trust your sanity anymore. Or your judgement. When he looks up, his face looks entirely open, almost vulnerable. “Are you in a lot of pain? I’m not too familiar with the bodily processes during the menses, at least not in a satisfactory way. I’ve been taught what it is like and what it does, but I have no knowledge of personal experience. I’ve not grown up encountering it.”

You tuck your hands under your butt, sitting on them. You don’t trust your restraint when it comes to Mydei. You almost cradled his face just for his adorable expression for inquiring about your wellbeing. You’re a snake in his bosom, you scold yourself, but it sounds ridiculous. You’re an evil spy. Get it together. “Yes, it hurts,” you tell him. “Sometimes it hurts so badly I cannot even leave the bed without collapsing or passing out. Sometimes it’s barely noticeable. It’s different for me every month, but also different for every woman.”

Mydei stares at your hands. “How cruel of the gods, then, to test you so strenuously. But I admire with which strength you braven these trials and try to face the day. It is an admirable feat.”

That makes you stare. You don’t need any reassurance from a man, mind you, especially not concerning such a matter as this. But the way he says it, devoid of any tone and delivered completely earnest, offsets you. “Thank you. It means a lot.” You gift him a rare smile, the kind you used to reward your mother with if she made a particularly funny joke.

The way Mydei stares at that smile hits you right in the chest. As if stripped from all his usual masks and reserves, his eyes contain only fondness. He’s letting you see beneath his usual calm and collected demeanor, deeper than you’ve ever dared to peek behind his facade. Your heart is racing.

“Prince Mydeimos! Your father is asking for you.”

Mydei’s head snaps back, breaking apart the connection. You breathe out in relief, although you don’t understand why. It felt like his gaze had kept you captive, but you hadn’t been an unwilling prisoner. More so a willing participant. There was an active decision there your unconscious had madefor you. The wish to look further. To see more. To want more. As Mydei looks back at you, you carefully try to school your features in a way that doesn’t reveal those wishes of your heart. “I’m afraid I’ll have to go now,” he says, as if you hadn’t heard the servant yourself. Either way, you nod. You understand the scramble for a return to formality. The safety aspect of it. “But I’d like to see the chiton when it’s finished. It truly does look beautiful.” With this, he leans forward and drops a kiss on your cheek. More careful, less lingering than yours had been. But still decisive. Like he wanted you to feel the kiss down to the marrow inside your bones, to recognize it by his name.

You raise your hand to your cheek, watching him go. You are playing with fire, and mistaking the warmth of the flame with a safe kindling, when the reality of it is threatening to swallow you whole.

(You’re not able to join the celebrations after all, which is why you ask Hemera to bring the chiton to the marketplace, where they have decided to hold celebrations, and offer it there in your stead. She returns with the cheeky news that Mydei has cut into several conversations to point out the magnificent gown his wife had made, and to give a closer look to the intricate details in-laid in the weaving work. You complain to Hemera how that man has no sense of propriety and humility at all, but secretly, you want to explode in happiness. Of all the things Mydei can take pride in, he decides to do so in you. His weaving wife.)

(The night passes with you dozing in and out of sleep, the soft sounds of laughter and singing waking you every few hours. It’s a relaxed rhythm of consciousness and unconsciousness. Floating gently on the clouds of dreams, you notice too late that someone has come and gone out of the room. You reach for the carefully folded letter you find tucked under the plate where a slice of chocolate cake has carefully been arranged around an array of golden-sliced apples. Ladonian apples. You rub your sleep-blurred eyes, then rub them again for good measure as you come to understand what is written. Your heart feels as light as a feather.

Eat up. I asked around on what food the women in the household like to eat when they have their menses, and I have been told that chocolate is not only a craving, but also beneficial for one’s health. I made this myself, so I hope it is to your taste.

Mydei.)

A warrior, a cook, a drillmaster, a caretaker, a husband.

So many roles that you begin to associate with Mydei.

In the discovery of those roles, you come to know his favorite colors, the types of activities he favors. You even find out he has a habit of sleeping like a felled bear, after a particularly long night of learning more about the other person. With wildy pointing hands and as many adjectives as you could, you had tried to explain what living in Ladon felt like, how the waves were just the right temperature to bathe in, but still refreshing enough to cool you after a warm summer’s day. How you had learnt how to ride in the sweeping hills to the north where his campaign had led him towards the city and back to Castrum Kremnos. Tales of the father you knew, not those you’ve been told about after his death. And Mydei, in turn, rewards you with a gift of his own: his soft but demanding voice as he tries to make you understand what it had tasted like to cook a proper dish on his own, how it felt like making magic despite it being the most normal of human activities. The thrill of battle, even though its ugliness continues to scar you long after the blood has been shed and the enemy in front of you has fallen. What his mother had smelled like in his earliest memory, a disorienting perfume of earth and wood and flowers, as spicy as cinnamon. You read each other like books, flipping open pages you want to know more about, re-reading passages just to make sure what you have heard was correct. He asks you about the Ladonian summers, and you ask him about Kremnoan pomegranate wine. When he asks about the athletic games you hold every winter, you in turn want to know everything about the race they hold in Nikador’s honor, a marathon where they pass the flame of Nikador’s strife from one hand to the other until the last runner reaches the walls of Castrum Kremnos again. Neither of you tires of questions. Neither of you tires of the other’s company.

The days turn into weeks, stretching into months. You barely notice the time pass by. Twice more, the city holds celebrations, once for the summer solstice, a second time to honor Nikador’s homecoming. It’s supposed to be like his birthday, you suppose, but in actuality the Kremnoans celebrate the day they think Nikador descended from heaven to defend the city against the cruel enemy tearing down the gates. This marks the birth of both the Titan and the empire. Thrice more, Mydei goes to war.

The third time, he returns with Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.

Mydei has told you about the knight long before you came to know him, claiming him to be a ‘good-natured idiot’. Seeing as you would describe Mydei in a very similar way, you had only cocked your head at him and took him at his word. If it were otherwise, then you’d learn about it soon enough. Now the opportunity has risen for you to discover yourself what Mydei’s friend is like, and Phainon in turn is very enthusiastic about you.

“It is so good to finally meet you!” Phainon proclaims as he takes your hand and tucks it into the crook of his arm. You see the flash of annoyance in Mydei’s eyes come and go, a sight that makes you want to raise your eyebrows in curiosity. He has a very short temper, and often times can be described as quite hot-headed, but this is still a first. Perhaps because Phainon is such a close companion? “I’ve heard so much about you, friend, so it feels like I know you already. You must know how often I have complained to Mydei about the fact that he’s hidden you away like some jealous dragon guarding a treasure. Or perhaps it’s you that’s the dragon in question? I hear you are Ladonian.”

You grin at him, happy at the mention of your country. Aside from Hemera, your grip on the memories of your home continue to slip away from you. Slowly but surely, Mydei has started to replace them with Castrum Kremnos: accompanying you to the temple, showing you the city, taking you out for boat rides and street markets and food festivals. He’s even let you watch him drill the children now, although he still scolds them for trying to steal his wife away from him. You, uncertain about your relationship, have stopped interjecting a long time ago. “Why yes, Phainon, I am. But I am a dragon in a very well-kept cage, and it’s not often I get to meet Mydei’s friends. How did you manage to change his mind?”

“It was easy. Seeing as it’s his birthday soon, I simply had to come attend the celebrations. It’s the least I could do after he fought with me, even though he’s taken out a lot less monsters than I have.”

“Rubbish.” Mydei scoffs, then sidesteps around Phainon. In a quick motion, he’s tugged your arm out of the confines of Phainon’s and instead wraps it around his own, his familiar bicep fitting around your fingers like a wedding ring. The strength of his grip doesn’t elude you; if you didn’t know any better, you’d assume he was acting possesive. Phainon drops a knowing wink at you, then turns back to Mydei as he speaks again. “I am the better fighter out of the two of us. The proof lies in the countless bets you’ve already lost against me.”

“Well, but you rigged those competitions.”

“Are you a sore loser?”

“No, but I’m guessing you are. Do you not like admitting defeat when it’s necessary?”

“Ironic, since you’re the one who’s doing that right now!”

You watch them bicker back and forth like a particularly angry debate in the city hall, the sight of it curling a smile around your lips. It makes you happy to witness, but also sad. With every day that passes, the reminder that although you are learning more about Mydei, the fact that you continue to deceive him with your every breath becomes more unbearable. Hemera herself isn’t even aware of all the details. How you broke into the royal treasury to secure a report. How you listened in on assembly after assembly after assembly. The many doves you’ve had to intercept just to see who Eurypon was contacting, your fingers covered in the wounds procured in the fight against the dove’s claws. You are wracked with guilt, weighed down by the existential dread when you will be figured out.

For Mydei’s birthday, all matters of planning and organizing had fallen to you. You were in charge of his household, after all, the matron of the house, and even though there were no heirs running around yet, the servants deferred to you in the same manner as Mydei. A mother of the Kremnoans, with or without a womb carrying the newest monarch. You’ve been faithfully speeding around the palace, amusing even Mydei, who’s started to grace you with the same smiles he gives his own children, the students of battle he entertains on Sundays where is not off to make war in Eurypon’s name. The necessary nobles have been invited, the decorations prepared, and even the kitchen has started to dance to your tunes. Although you are quickly shoved out of it due to Mydei’s own hobbies being cooking and baking, you manage to fire off a series of commands concerning the rest of the cooking staff, and they fall in line immediately. Only Mydei, who thinks you’re making a big fuss out of nothing, refuses to listen to your requests, so you’ve had to make him.

(At one point, letting his stubbornness get the better of him, Mydei flipped you over his shoulder like one might carry a sack of potatoes and carried you away from the market. You’d been telling him to point at anything he would like, since his obstinacy made him insist in you not getting any gift for him at all, and Mydei, who was always of the opinion that actions spoke louder than words, had put an end to it. You remember the way you had to claw at the small of his back in an effort to stabilize yourself, and his only response had been to not excite him further before he decided he’d want you as a gift.

In an effort to turn the tide on him, you had asked whether he was actually able to handle a gift like you. You were a dragon, after all, capable of eating lions. Mydei had laughed so loud that even the people on the street had turned to watch the prince walk by as he carried his wife home. As if this were just a regular occurrence during his daily schedule. He never laughed, and not this genuinely.

“Sweetheart,” he’d said. “I was born to handle you. Otherwise I should not be permitted to call myself your husband. You’ll regret asking me that.”)

You are torn back to reality by someone’s careful fingers in your hair. They gently tug at the root of the strand to gain your attention, but also take care that it does not actually hurt you. Your gaze goes to Mydei automatically. His features are schooled into an expression of puzzlement, a singular arched eyebrow raised in question at the lack of the attention you seemed to display to their show-off. “Where did your mind wander off to? I was beginning to worry.”

“What, does my prince have to bask in my attention all the time?”

“He does.” The answer comes to him as natural as breathing, delivered with the straightest face one could imagine. Phainon, much more expressive than Mydei, gives a dramatic gasp and places his hand above his heart, then grins at you over the top of Mydei’s shoulder. That makes you laugh.

“My apologies, Your Highness. I promise you have my undivided attention. My mind was just occupied with the memories of my home, since Phainon brought up their recollection, but I promise I am here now. A flash of nostalgia, that was all.”

“My apologies,” Phainon cuts in. His face, suddenly somber, seems to reflect the exact same melancholy yours does at the thought of the sunny shores of Ladon. Perhaps he too has a home that he yearns for, but cannot return to. Mydei’s eyes too have softened at your demeanor, although more imperceptibly than Phainon’s obvious expressional change. “I did not mean to upset you, my lady. Does it ache to think of Ladon?”

You lean your head on Mydei’s shoulder. As the time has progressed, you and him have come to an understanding that seems to satisfy both your needs for intimacy. You still haven’t shared a marriage bed, but small affections like these don’t seem to matter. A kiss goodbye, a press of the fingers. Even now, as you lean your head on the strong shoulder that has become a home akin to Ladon to you, his gauntled fingers go to brush over the strands of your hair that have tumbled loose from your chignon. A slight touch, barely there. But enough for your heart to recognize that he is appreciative of your trust. “No, it is my mistake for phrasing it that way. Against all odds, my husband has made Castrum Kremnos a home for me. It feels odd to me now not to wake up in the baked sun and breathe in the dry air.” Your lips curl into a mischievous smile at your slight nudge at the climate of Castrum Kremnos, but Mydei only rolls his eyes. Not taking the bait. “But it does make one reminisce about the place of childhood. I sometimes think I miss the memory of Ladon more than I actually miss the place itself.”

You will sneak, spy, and steal everything that kingdom has to offer. And when the time is ripe, you will either cut his throat, or make way for us to do so.

As Hesperia returns home to her family, so shall you return to us with the crown prince’s head.

Phainon hastens to reassure you that he understands completely, but your strength for niceties and politeness has left you. Mydei, recognizing your mood, brings the conversation to a stop and then informs Phainon that he’ll accompany you to your chambers, then rendezvous with him at the training grounds. While the white-haired knight nods at you in understanding and continues to wave goodbye as you leave, you try to your best to reciprocate the earnest goodbye. You will see him this evening anyways, when the festivities for Mydei’s birthday are scheduled to happen. “I apologize for clouding your birthday, Mydei,” you tell the prince in question, still waving as he makes you turn the corner to begin climbing the stairs towards the wing of the palace that contains your chambers. “I am not truly upset. Just distracted. I think I’m nervous you’re not gonna like the celebration.”

Mydei, whose hand had been positioned on your lower back to propel you forward, moves to take your hand. Although he cannot intertwine his fingers with you with the heavy armor scaling his skin, the touch still makes a rush of blood quicken your pulse. He truly has a considerate heart. Not many see it, due to the way he carries himself: his Kremnoan pride, his gunpowder temperament, his prowess in battle. In part, it is exactly because Mydei wills it so that he is perceived so scarily and menacingly. But on the other hand, the truth is as clear as the Ladonian sea. He cannot hide his Gorgon heart. “You are truly senseless if you think your mood is less important to me than some celebration I hadn’t even expected. At any other time, the day would have gone by unceremoniously. It is you who has made it special.”

That makes you stop in the middle of the stairs. Mydei, who had been focussed on the long train of your garment so you wouldn’t trip and hurt yourself, stops immediately after, as attuned to you as the songbirds to the sunset. My Mydei, you think to yourself, and that is perhaps the worst lie out of every single one you’ve ever told. He will never be yours, not truly. “But it is a special day,” you insist. “And you are special to me. As much as I wanted to find a gift that will enrapture your heart, it is you who has become a true gift to me. Your attentiveness, your caring attitude even though you loathe to address it. You know, in the Hesperian faith, one can only hope to ever share even the slightest of steps Hesperia has taken. But you have given me her entire path. You have given me belonging.”

The words burst out of you before you can take them back. After all the poison your lies have inflicted on you, it feels freeing to tell the truth for once, to rid yourself of their nasty influence. Mydei’s eyes, which you have learned to interpret as surely as the signs of the gods, for once are wide open in surprise and reveal nothing. Your heart beats too quickly in your chest, and a sweat has broken out on your skin, one you are certain has nothing to do with the actual heat and everything with the way Mydei is staring at you right now. “I’m sor…” you hasten to apologize, but then you are actually falling, once again tumbling against that familiar chest. Like you’ve done so many times before.

This time, Mydei’s fingers angle your face up towards the sun, and then he’s kissing you so deeply you think you can feel it in every cell of your being.

Your very soul melts in the constraint of its vessel. You throw your arms around his neck, molding your shape to the curve of his sinful body as he bends to kiss you. He dedicates himself to the act like a devotee faithfully, rigorously throws himself into prayer: his lips, fervent and passionate, perfectly fit into your own, a heart that’s been divided slotting together to create a full. You feel so complete that you find yourself sighing into the kiss, lips parting as you do, and then your long-lost dream finally becomes true as you taste Mydei’s tongue for the very first time.

He tastes simply divine.

It seems your roles have reversed. It is you who becomes the ever-devouring beast, your blunt nails creating crescent moons on the naked skin of Mydei’s defined back. They seek purchase as his tongue learns to dance with your own, the action as unfamiliar to him as it is to you, but you are chasing after an instinct that has born under your skin and there are no lessons necessary. As surely as Nikador and Mnestia had been fated to be together, your tongue embraces Mydei’s as he explores your mouth, butterflies exploding on the tip of your tongue from the sensation. Where your fingers seek refuge from the pleasure, his own touch gentles: the hands cradling your face as he kisses you turns reverent, the fingertips of the gauntlets becoming more and more careful as he traces the shape of your jaw, your cheeks, the curve of the back of your head. You melt against Mydei as he tucks you closer, intending to close the distance as much as possible.

If you could crack your chest open and let him inside, you would.

When your lungs feel like they are going to burst and the need for air in your lungs makes you release Mydei’s lips with a shuddering gasp, his own lips continue to chase you, feathering across the skin of your face. “You idiot,” he tells you, but from his mouth, the insult feels like the most beautiful compliment you have ever received. Like a lion teasing its cub, he bites into the curve of your throat, not breaking the skin. Just nudging you, teasing you for a reaction. You squeak and angle yourself away, cocking your head to hide the skin his teeth had been grazing. There’s a lazy smile on his face that feels reminiscent of the grimaces he sports when he is trying to get under your skin, but this one is so radiant with genuine, explosive joy that you can’t help yourself but smile in return. You’ve never been this blissful, not once in your life. “Did you really think you were the only one who felt that way? Why exactly do you think I was being so pig-headed about not needing a gift from you? I’ve got everything I need already.”

“You mean me?” Your eyes are wide, hanging on to every word.

“Of course I mean you, you foolish woman.” The words are as tender as his kiss, so languid it makes your insides want to rearrange themselves in exultation. Everything, including you and your body, wants to jump in joy. Even his gauntlets seem dear to you now, the shape of them as familiar to you as the features of his face. They glide around the curve of your waist, protectively, possessively. You definitely weren’t imagining that tang of jealousy that had hung over your conversation with Phainon, and the realization makes you want to laugh. But you are still intently focussed on every word his heavenly mouth speaks. “Aren’t you a blessing from Hesperia herself? My entire life, I thought I had to build myself up like a castle, to guard the inside of it from anything and everything that could penetrate it. There was only dust, and sorrow, and darkness, and I thought it would remain that way for the rest of my life. There was dimmed candlelight, and flashes of lightning, from the single moments in my life that brought me joy… and then you came, endowed with the power of Hesperia herself, and you broke open the gates so that each and every facet of myself could feel the warmth of the sun again. You have broken me open. You have made me vulnerable.” The words feel like an accusation, but they are spoken like a caress, like his hands in your hair, on your skin, on your heart. “And I want it that way. There’s nothing you can do to change that, now or ever.”

You are brimming with emotion, shaking apart. “Wow,” you can only say. “That is the longest assortment of words you’ve ever spoken to me.”

Again, Mydei rolls his eyes, but this time there’s a curving smile underlining the sting of his actions. “There you go ruining the moment again, my lady,” he grumbles, pulling you in for another kiss. You giggle against him, then lean your head over his as he hides his face in the crook of your throat. “Does that mean you don’t like my words?”

“Oh, I like them alright. But I have something I think you’ll like even more.” He goes still in your arms. Preparing himself for the worst. You grin and place your lips to his ear, lips brushing over the sensitive cartilage. “Prince Mydeimos, son of Gorgo, I have given you my heart. I love you.”

(Do you remember his claim of him being born to handle you? Yeah, me too.)

…

(He never does make it back to meet Phainon for sparring before the celebration. You, however, learn exactly how Mydei feels like under all that armor, and for ruining his romantic speech, you learn to appreciate every single wag of his tongue, for better or for worse. You don’t think you’ve ever wept that much from simple bodily pleasure; how your soul seemed to separate from your body and comes apart on his tongue as Mydei feasted on his birthday present early. You also find out the exact reason why he always has to spread his legs so far to sit comfortably: you are spread open for that exact same reason, split open by it. You never knew how much the borders of agony and pleasure could seem to blur, and even though you cannot walk for a while right after, you don’t regret a single thing. Mydei, lounging on your marriage bed, his face cradled by his own hand as he rests his head on it, seems bemused by your attempt to stand, and you end up falling into his arms again pretty soon.

You do it all over again. And again. And again.

Turns out you two like the consummation part of a marriage much more than you would have thought.)

(Phainon, of course, spends the afternoon gossiping with an attendant he always visits in the kitchens when he visits the Kremnoan palace. He snickers at the attendant’s shocked expression as he recounts the gloomy look on Mydei’s face when Phainon had tried to make him jealous on purpose. He’s gotten sick of Mydei’s endless pining after you during campaigns, and his ears have started bleeding from it, so he was determined to make that visit to Castrum Kremnos count. This marriage was going to become real, damn it, or he would never be able to call himself ‘Phainon, the talented matchmaker’ again.)

Hours later, the attendants are invited in and treated to the sight of you guys still naked in bed. They have the common decency to avert their eyes, a feat that Mydei hasn’t been blessed with. With his arms behind his head, leaning back against the headboard with his entire chest exposed down to the muscled curve that is feathered with a happy trail you’ve found a happy ending to, he watches shamelessly as Hemera detaches from the group of attendants to help you up. You are naked still, your throat covered in the evidence of your coupling, some bruises on your thighs leaving remnants of the clawed hands that had kept you open until you had positively crushed Mydei’s head between them. “Good evening, Hemera,” he says then, voice as dry as the desert.

Your poor lady’s maid nervously turns her head to the ceiling as she robes you, fully intent on not breaking any rules of propriety. “Good evening, Your Highness.”

“Don’t mind him, Hemera. He has no manners.”

“I thought that was the part you most liked about me. It certainly sounded like it just an hour ago.”

“Mydei!”

He remains as he is while the servants surround you and prepare you for the birthday celebrations. When you look like a fully polished jewel, sparkling enough that you could be in-laid in the Kremnoan queen’s crown, you dismiss everyone but Hemera and sit down next to Mydei as you plead for her to prepare your hair. Mydei, sitting up, careful to keep himself covered for the most part, reaches for your hands and presses them to his lips. “Are you excited?” he asks, meaning the party.

You shrug minutely, careful not to disrupt Hemera’s ministrations behind you as she weaves the comb through your hair. Mydei hands her a strand of hair dangling in front of your eyes, and she quickly incorporates it in the braid she’s begun. “I guess I am. It’s the first birthday I’ve ever celebrated with you,” you answer, grinning at him. He returns the smile, tentative but real.

In truth, there’s been a cold spot inside your stomach that you’ve been nursing for almost a month now.

When they asked you for Mydei’s head, you had ripped the letter to shreds before you could think otherwise about it. They hadn’t even bothered sending a coded letter through your mother: this missive came straight from the Golden Council itself, the scrawls so angrily imprinted onto the letter that it tore through the creamy paper in some spots. You had expected a reaction like this when your intelligence grew scarcer and scarcer. Eurypon was not your king, so you hadn’t cared about spying on him. But the longer you remained in Castrum Kremnos, the more you realized that he was not even the people’s king. There was a deep-reaching unhappiness etched into the souls of the people here, dividing them in their soul and loyalty. When they turned their souls towards Mydei, that unhappiness turned into hope. You couldn’t find it in yourself to crush that hope, remaining Atlaion’s daughter whether you wanted to or not - so you tore your metaphoric spy’s teeth out, the ones the Golden Council had been filing for more than a decade, and turned quiet as the grave. What little information slipped from your fingers was always in dismissal of Eurypon, never Mydei himself.

But the Golden Council had never wanted Eurypon. They wanted Castrum Kremnos.

All your life, they had been a roaring group of fools pretending to be dragons, exerting their influence over both you and your mother. Now they had grown silent. It scared you more than anything you’ve ever endured in your life, because your thoughts keep circling back to your mother, the way her letters told you not to back down from your courage, to not regret anything. How those letters had ceased. How they’d been replaced by that one, unforgiving order.

“Will you teach me how to pin her hair up, Hemera?”

You look up just in time to see Hemera hand Mydei the hairpins, the ends of the pins adorned with both lions and dragons, an effort to incorporate both the cultures that have moved and changed you. Glittering red and golden, she gently lifts up your hair and tucks it in place in mock fashion of how Mydei will have to do it, and your heart lurches at the concentration in his eyes, the determination to do this right. His fingers are light in your hair, lighter even than your feather heart, and when your hair has been affixed, his fingers remain. Hemera quickly stands up and leaves the room, and Mydei bends towards you to kiss you one last time, hot and slow and mind-curdling. Speaking the words directly against your lips, straight into the very core of your existence where his name has begun to imprint itself over the shape of your soul, he whispers, “You are more beautiful than anything this world has to offer.”

And because he doesn’t want to ruin your prepared, polished appearance, he lets himself be pushed down to be ruined just one last time before he has to go get ready himself.

The memory of the bedroom haziness still hangs over you as you make your way to the ballroom, but there’s a certain sweetness, as well, a pep in your step and a giggle in your mouth. Mydei pinches at your waist and cheeks, but he can’t find himself to be bothered by your quiet happiness, not when this is the prettiest birthday celebration he’s ever had, not went you went out of your way to prepare his favorite dessert even though you never knew how to cook. The honey-cakes are slightly too doughy, and the cream a little bit too sugary, but he scarves it down like it’s his last meal before the expected execution. Just to see that prideful look in your eyes, to reward your efforts in the only way he can.

You watch him socialize with military officials you don’t recognize, the expression of joy permanently etched into your face now. You just can’t get rid of it. Phainon, whose decided to glue himself to your side while the crown princes mingles with potential enemies and rubs shoulders with potential allies, raises a glass for you to clink yours to. “Seems like you two finally got down and dirty. Thank god. I was getting real sick of his lovelorn puppy behavior.”

“Oh, shut up.” The pearling laughter his joke illicits from your mouth makes Mydei turn and look for just a second, his own mouth twitching into that almost-smile you had to grow accustomed to at the beginning of your marriage and now only have grown fond of. “I know you since, like, yesterday. I feel like there has to be a certain passage of time before you get to comment on my sex life.”

“Yesterday? My dear, I feel as though we’re best friends already. He’s only been talking my ear off all summer long about you!”

“You exaggerate, I’m sure. Mydei? Talking?”

Phainon crosses his arms, pouting at your disbelief. “Like you wouldn’t believe. But it was always this angry kind of groveling, like he wanted to talk about you and didn’t at the same time because he never talks this much. I barely got in a word myself. And I love talking!”

“I can tell.” You knock your shoulder against his, grinning at him like you would at a brother. Perhaps in another life, he would have been. In a life where the black tide didn’t threaten families and countries whole, swallowing them without leaving a trace. But in this one, you make sure to make him feel as at home as Mydei did, even though he disliked admitting that he did. Your eyes go back to your husband in question, having lost sight of him during your chatter with Phainon. Not seeing him anymore, you scan the crowd for his pretty face.

And then lose grip of your glass.

You can barely hear the sound of Phainon’s complaint, the way it transforms into worried inquiries. The whole world has fallen away. If you listen closely, it even sounds like your heart has stopped in its chest, like a clock winding down, dying, freezing time. They’d stopped all the clocks in the palace when they found Atlaion dead: stabbed by the same dagger you were staring at right now.

You’d recognize that dagger ANYWHERE.

You break into a sprint. At your shoulder, without you having noticed, Phainon has pressed a worried hand to try and break your trance. You shake the hand off, its touch feeling as intangible as dream, swallowed whole by the nightmare in front of you. You dig your way through the crowd, losing sight of the dagger, not once, but twice. And then you see Mydei’s back - the wide, strong back that only his soldiers saw as he protected them and guided them towards victory, the back that was lined in the illumination of the future of Castrum Kremnos.

The same back a fellow Kremnoan would never stab, taught as they were that a backstabber is a coward, never a true warrior.

You should scream, direct Mydei’s attention towards you, but the fear keeps your tongue captive. Some animal instinct clawing its way out of your brain tells you that you need to guard that back, the wide expanse of it specifically, you NEED TO. You push through a mass of bodies, reuniting with the sight of that dagger, all breath in your lungs evaporating like the dew in the morning sun.

You think you see the dragon guarding the apple tree open its mouth wide, ready to incinerate you for your sins. You’ll be too late. You won’t reach him. You won’t.

(Mydeimos, my Mydeimos - I always knew I was going to die for you. I just didn’t realize how relieving it would feel. Better me than you. Better me.)

You slam against the one person in your life you can never betray, that strong body that’s been holding you up this entire time without complaint while you were struggling not to drown. The dagger goes in, scarily deep in, blighting your nerves. You think you’ve been struck by lightning, the way the agony sears your nervous system alive. Perhaps it actually was Hesperia herself coming to burn you for your treason. It tears and tears, cutting you free like a puppet on strings, and then you finally lose all grip on reality, returning to the darkness.

You wonder if this is how your father had felt.

Gentle Atlaion, dragon-born Atlaion, soft as the golden dragon’s wings. Unfit for the throne. Unfit for the Sunlit Garden.

You are not in the throne room, but somewhere else entirely. This is not your ocean. But as your feet sink into the surf, you’re not sure whether it matters. Like a tree, your roots reach deeper than the earth, deeper even than anything you’ve ever been taught.

And your father is here.

Atlaion of the House Hesperia looks much younger than the father you came to knew. His face is not yet burdened by worry lines, his spine more straight than ever. This Atlaion hasn’t learned how to bend yet. This Atlaion wasn’t aware what it meant to balance himself on a throne.

He is blissfully, unworriedly, completely happy.

“They came for her, you know,” he tells you. He never turns his face from Aeolia, not once. She is all he sees. Her laughter is louder even than the waves itself, and as you cock your head to take in the sight, you begin to realize what she looks like. Like Hesperia herself has come to level the earth again. Love personified. “I’ve always known my council consisted of traitors. But this was my father’s throne, and his father’s before him, and I thought that as long as we remained in Hesperia’s light, we would be able to vanquish the threat together. Aeolia supported me, and guided me, and protected me. She wasn’t a queen consort. She was my queen. That’s why I ruled together with her, instead of over her. I thought it would please Hesperia, too, if she knew why I had done it. I thought I could keep them in line.”

“Papa,” you whisper, the word like sand in the wind. Drifting apart without ever taking shape. Weightless in the echoes of time. He smiles at the sound, mellow and bittersweet, like the word pleases him.

“That, too, I thought would still their hands. I was too foolish to realize that their hatred was not for the throne itself, but for the competent women that would replace them atop it. That council may have called itself as golden as Hesperia’s apple itself, but the inside of it was rotten to the core, failing at its function long before consumption. Do you understand, daughter? It’s not your fault.”

“But they tried to kill him, Papa.” Your voice cracks. After all this time of wishing you’d be able to open your chest like a closet so the entire world could see the truth, the key in its lock turns to reveal your heart whole. It’s scabrous and poison-riddled and dead, but it beats despite it all, beats for the lion-haired prince with the lamb heart. “If I had recognized your assassin, if I had done away with the council, they’d never have supped themselves on an authority that was never theirs to begin with.”

“My dear daughter.” Although unwillingly, Atlaion’s eyes leave Aeolia to her dance in the ocean. You cannot bring yourself to face your father, instead concentrating on the graceful figure sweeping in the water, cutting through the sea. The dances of her childhood she never got to teach you. “We may wish to become Hesperia’s image, but we should not allow ourselves to become blasphemous in our wishes. Do you truly think you could become as omniscient as a god? Do you think that is the purpose of humanity? Why have them create humanity in the first place, then?”

Your lips crack into an unwilling smile, the begrudging kind he always used to laugh at when your father had still been your teacher and guide. Clever Atlaion, caring Atlaion. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me. You always knew better, father.”

When he laughs, he sounds as if he never died in the first place. The sound is sweet and clear as a bell, like the first bite of a Hesperian apple, comforting and nurturing both. The wind rises, blurring the sight of both your parents, like the gently fading edges of a photograph. You wish to brush your fingers over it just once, before the memory drifts away and leaves you behind. Father, father. “My sweet daughter,” he says. “Of all the things I’ve taught you, I’d have imagined this was the one your mother and I imparted the best. Fate has brought you to the one your heart calls home, after all. Does it matter how that has happened, or what obstacles it will bring? Isn’t it the nature of humanity that has sustained you all this time?”

On the third day of Mydei’s vigil at your bedside, the guards at the gate of the palace bring him new tidings. If he’d been a tyrant like his father, he’d have sent them away with a head lesser. Murder now, ask later. But Eurypon is rotting in an unmarked grave, and Mydei is not his father, so he tells them to come in and keep their distance from your comatose body.

“If it’s another emissary from any country, send them away. I haven’t decided on Castrum Kremnos’ fate yet. If it’s a Chrysos Heir, then have them sit in the reception room in the east wing and tell them I’ll join them shortly.”

“Your Majesty,” the left guard, who looks less nervous than his compatriot, speaks up. His voice is more betraying than his face. Though he looks more composed, his words are shaky. “You don’t understand. It’s the queen’s mother.”

He stares at both guards, hard. They stare back. When no one laughs or slaps their knee, and Mydei does not get the excuse to beat them for their lies, he presses your hand one last time before he rises to stand. “Have Hemera come and sit with the queen in my absence,” he orders the soldier that’s been standing guard in the room. The man nods and silently slips outside to search for the lady’s maid in question. Then, with a sigh, Mydei turns back to the gate guards. “Alright. Have her brought to the reception room.”

To leave you feels as painful as to watch you be stabbed again. He can’t erase the image, no matter how hard he tries. It’s burned on the back of his eyelids, tattooed on every fold of his brain. The way the blood had drained your face immediately, a surefire sign of deadly blood loss. Your immediate collapse to the ground, the coldness of your limbs as he caught you before your head could crush against the unforgiving marble stone. For one scarily long minute that might have been the worst minute of his life, you had ceased breathing, your pulse giving way to silence. With the help of the healer, he’d been able to resuscitate you, but then the panic was clouding his brain and he’d begun yelling and punching the wall, stabbing the next pillow he came across. He’d never been this afraid in his life, not once, not even when the cold waters of the river of souls had closed over him. At least then, the spirits’ soothing whispers had told him he wasn’t alone, and though they were dead and gone, they still had been able to guide him to safety.

As he looks at your pinched, deathly pale face, he fears to be alone for the rest of his life. The loss of you will be the one thing he will never be able to overcome.

He feels the distance growing between the two of you like an invisible string drawn taut. It doesn’t hurt as much as watching you rescued from the brink of death did, but it hurts nonetheless. At least he’d have some good news if you woke up. When you woke up. His traitorous word choice in thoughts has him gasping for air, clenching at his chest, and he momentarily stops in the hallway to try to remember how to breathe.

When you wake up. When you wake up. When you wake up.

Your mother looks just as destroyed as he does. At least here now sits someone who shares his mental state, who looks as half-crazed as the image in the mirror. Her emerald-green eyes, which had sparked with mirth and intelligence when she first introduced him to you, have grown dead, their light diminished. “I assume it’s King Mydeimos now,” is all she says in greeting. Although it would be considered disrespectful in any other setting, she remains seated. Mydei, who couldn’t give less of a shit about formalities at the moment, remembering the way they used to give you comfort, settles in the chair. “Do I offer congratulations?”

“I suppose you should. Your Golden Council’s spying and scheming presented the golden opportunity for me to finally rise up against my father and take my place on the throne.”

Mydei watches as the words wash over her and result in nothing. Not a single muscle in her face twitched at the knowledge that he was aware of her country’s treason, and what it might mean for her that she delivered herself right into the Kremnoan justice’s hands. “So you knew what she was,” your mother croaks, the only sign of her fear. For you. Not even for her. “And you married her all the same? Why?”

“My hands were bound. I understood that this was my father’s way of leashing me, and it worked.”

“But she would have been fair game the second you knew about her spywork. You could have exposed him in front of the Council of Elders. The marriage would have been nullified then. And I knew you did not consummate it; she told me. So I ask you, son of Gorgo… Why?”

Yes, why?

He remembers your small, fear-stricken face when he had come to ask for your hand. The many times he’d left the barracks to come visit you and then stopped in front of your door due to the sound of heartbreakingly grief-stricken sobs, imagining the way you were falling apart and building yourself up every night. The letters he’d intercepted, the crude refusal you’d dished out to your mother, the woman you might worship more than even Hesperia herself. I love him. I choose him.

He thinks of the happiness you’ve returned to his life with just a simple joke, a small gift, an affectionate action here and there. The way you listened and listened and listened. Never judging. Always curious for more. The way you told stories, hands sweeping and eyes alight. Your habit of knocking into doors and objects when you try to sneak up on him.

Your face, as bright as the sun in the sky.

“You know,” Mydei finds himself speaking. “I don’t really care if you believe this. If you’ve even heard about the Chrysos Heirs. But the gods, in their mercy as my father turned me over to the depths of the river of souls, have made me immortal. I can die, of course, but every time I do, I find myself back on the shores of Styxia, the river of spirits at my back, the safe haven of the land in front of me. I’ve braved that river so many times, I could dig my way out of it eyes closed. And I was always searching for something. In the beginning, I think it was for Castrum Kremnos. When my mother died, I prayed for a reunion, always hoping to see her face at least once as I died. But something changed. While I was drowning, I began to hear your daughter’s voice on the shore. Singing so unbelievably loud, you’d never believe those tiny lungs were even capable of breathing those kinds of melodies. The spirits sighed and quietened, and the waves themselves seemed to gather a path, guiding me back home. To her. Always to her. I stopped looking for the light guiding me towards Styxia and have started chasing after the sound of her songs. She is my home. I love her.”

Your mother gapes at him, painted in the colors of disbelief. In a slightly comical way, her mouth has even dropped open. “Hesperia’s light,” she whispers, the closest thing to cussing she possesses. “So she chose you. And you chose her.”

“I’d choose her in every life time,” Mydei shoots back. It sounds like a vow, but it feels more significant to him. You are the manifest of his existence. “It doesn’t matter to me what she did. She stayed. She saved my life. I wasn’t in any real danger, of course, but she didn’t know that. For that, I’d die a thousand times over.”

In the end, Mydei does not pass any judgement at all. His father is dead, the country is his, and his people are waiting for his call. He doesn’t even know if they will be able to remain here, not if the black tide continues to rise. It has already swallowed Ladon whole, the city immortalized in your memory now forever. And Aeolia is his mother-in-law. After having lost a mother already, he does not want to lose the chance to connect with another. Nor does he want to be responsible for taking away yours.

At the moment, her hand is intertwined with yours, her gaze fixed on your sleeping face. The dream of recovery. The illusion of return. She fears, just as much as him, that the river of souls will claim you. But then Aeolia raises her hand to place it on his arm, the touch so motherly that he allows himself, for a brief moment, to feel like a son again. “You are a good man, Mydeimos,” she says, sounding like her daughter. In the echoes of her tone, he can only find you. “My daughter has proven that to me now. And it is the pride of any mother to have her child follow in a goddess’ footsteps.”

Mydei swallows his tears. “She is the only faith in my life.”

In the past, your father guards Ladon as steadfastly as he guards you, his gentle smile watching as you grow into your throne. In the future, a prophecy in Okhema is about to be fulfilled as you and Mydei try to protect your Kremnoan people, the only children you will ever have.

But in the present, the sun has risen, the wind is cool on your skin, and Mydei is here.

Breathing in too deeply hurts. Breathing in too shallowly hurts, as well. Everything hurts. But what hurts the most is how Mydei’s hot tears splash over your hand, searing into the skin there. For years after this, long after the threat of the titans has been vanquished and you are the only one holding on to the hope that your husband will return home, you will remember what this feels like. Swear that those tears will actually have brand-marked you. Point out the shape of the drops as they scattered over your skin, like pearls skimming over the ocean’s surface.

You smile, tired from the pain, tired from all the lying. “I’m guessing I’m in trouble?”

“So much trouble.” His voice comes out a growl.

You want to laugh, but the sound dies in your chest, transforming into a cry. Mydei moves too steady you, but then shrinks back trom it; the fear in his eyes hurts, too, so you make yourself go still, not wanting him to worry anymore. “Sorry,” you whisper. “I’m fine. Where were we?”

“I was going to kill you for scaring me that badly, actually.”

“Wouldn’t that be counterproductive, after I just took a knife to the back for you?”

Mydei glowers at you. The anger in his eyes is stifling, murderous and real. But it’s not directed at you, not really. All he has for you inside his eyes is love. It looks the same as that dream you had of your father, his gaze on Aeolia, the one you cannot tell whether it was a vision or a memory or something else entirely. “You’re awful,” he says. “An awful spy and awful bride and awful person. I thought I was going to lose you forever. The thought was so crushing I thought I was going to die right alongside you in that bed.”

“But you love me?” you try. The joke, like always, doesn’t fly. It seems to whoosh right over Mydei’s head.

But then his hand is in your hair, gently disentangling the knots. He looks as if he is holding the most precious treasure. “Yes,” Mydei confirms. “I love you. Titans help me, I love you more than anything.”

“Even more than your wish to kill me?”

“Even more than that.”

“Enough to give me a healing kiss?”

“Don’t get too over-hasty.”

That makes you laugh, and this time, you cannot hold it back. It resounds in your chest, a multi-melodied symphony of pain, and sorrow, and endurance, and joy, and love. It almost makes the gentle scolding he gives you worth it as your husband leans over to kiss your forehead, each kiss separated by another warning of how you were never going to do that again, the next kiss on your nose bespeaking how he’s going to tie you up and sit on you so that you’ll stop running head-first into danger, and then his lips are on your mouth and no one’s saying anything at all because your soul has never felt this whole and it’s singing to Mydei’s in enough words for the both of you.

The future may divide you, but this moment is entirely yours.

Hesperia sings, lighting the way home. Your love, the lighthouse on the sea, continues to glow, now and forever, even when the black tide rises against Okhema.

But that is a tale for another day.

#library.sia #starrail.section #AAAAAAAAAAHHHHH #IT’S SO GOOD!!#i don’t think i can ever recover from this one... well and beautifully written #I LOVE IT SO MUCH #sia.txt

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teyvat-inks · 6 months ago

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🍎 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ikaw lang

— synopsis: caleb is back, but he's different. he looks the same, talks the same—but something about him feels just out of reach, like a melody you can’t quite remember. the boy who used to piggyback you home, who cut apples for you without complaint, who always found a way to annoy and protect you in equal measure—he's not here anymore. and yet, as you watch him silently peel an apple, his hands steady and sure, you realize something. you still want him. even if he’s changed. even if he's not the same. because no matter what, he’s never leaving you again. — note/s: first post on tumblr im a bit intimidated HAHA wrote this while listening to ikaw lang by nobita and also realized i NEED filo caleb. save me filo caleb save me I NEED TO WRITE A FILO COLLEGE/HS AU OF HIM SO BAD

cross-posted on ao3! ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡

caleb has changed, you realize grimly.

he sounds the same, looks the same, talks the same—

but he's not your caleb.

he's not the same caleb who used to piggyback you home after school, he's not the same caleb who would use you as his fake girlfriend to ward off his fangirls, he's not the same caleb who would slice apples for you because you would always complain about being lazy... no.

when you look at this man's—this stranger's—face, you do not see your caleb. you see fleet colonel caleb of the farspace fleet, you see a soldier hardened by war, a man who has seen too much and lost even more.

"—pipsqueak? pipsqueakk— earth to pipsqueak? oh, there she is! hello, what has gotten you so out of it? you're staring, y'know."

caleb raises an eyebrow, leaning back against the kitchen counter like he belongs there. like this is normal. like you haven’t been standing here, silently cataloging every little thing that’s different about him.

"am i?" you blink, tilting your head, feigning ignorance. "you sure it’s not you just being self-conscious?"

"as if," he scoffs, and there—there it is. a glimpse of him, of the boy you knew, the boy who used to flick your forehead whenever you got too smug.

but then it’s gone, swallowed up by something older, something colder.

his fingers tap against the counter, a steady rhythm. you used to recognize all his nervous habits. the way he’d scratch the back of his neck when lying, the way his nose scrunched when he was about to say something stupid. this? this tapping? you don’t know this one.

"well?" he prompts. "you gonna tell me why you’re looking at me like i grew a second head?"

"you’d be lucky if that happened. then you’d have twice the brain cells," you retort automatically. safe. easy. the kind of banter you used to have.

it works. he rolls his eyes, lips twitching like he wants to smirk. "real original. you workshopping that one while zoning out?"

you shrug, moving to the fridge. "maybe."

his eyes follow you. you feel them, just like you feel the weight of his presence in this space that suddenly feels too small. he was gone for so long, and now he’s here, standing in your kitchen like nothing’s changed.

like everything hasn’t.

"you still eat those awful store-bought apple slices?" he asks, nodding toward the fridge.

"mm. got tired of cutting them myself."

he exhales sharply—something between a laugh and a sigh. "figures. lazy as ever."

you expect him to leave it at that, but then, before you can process it, he’s reaching for the fruit bowl on the counter. a knife glints in his hand, and for a second, your breath catches. not because you’re afraid—no, never of him—but because of how he holds it.

not with the careless ease of someone cutting fruit. but with the precise grip of a soldier trained to kill.

a second too late, he seems to realize it too. his fingers shift, adjusting to something more casual, more familiar.

"still want them peeled?" he asks, tone too light.

you force yourself to breathe. "obviously."

he hums. starts peeling. his movements are too smooth, too calculated, but for a moment, if you squint, you can almost pretend.

almost.

he hands you a slice without looking up. you take it.

it tastes the same.

you chew slowly, watching him, waiting for something—anything—that feels real.

his gaze flickers to yours, unreadable. then, softer, quieter—

"good?"

the apple sits heavy on your tongue.

you swallow.

"yeah."

you chew, swallow, and place the half-eaten slice on the counter. caleb watches, waiting for something—maybe for you to complain about how the pieces aren��t cut evenly like you used to. but you don’t. you just stare at him, this version of him, and you realize something.

you still want him.

not just the boy he used to be—the one who would throw you over his shoulder just to prove he could, the one who’d grumble about being your fake boyfriend but always played the part too well. no, you want this caleb, too. the one who stands before you now, heavier with the weight of things unsaid, carrying shadows you don’t recognize.

your fingers twitch, and before you can overthink it, you reach out. you expect him to flinch when you press your palm against his wrist—his grip tightens just slightly around the knife, but he doesn’t pull away.

"caleb." you say his name like an answer to a question neither of you have asked.

his jaw tightens. he sets the knife down, slow and deliberate. when he finally looks at you, his eyes are searching, guarded—but underneath it, there’s something raw. something afraid.

"i know," he says. and it’s barely a whisper, but you hear everything. the guilt, the exhaustion, the hesitation.

you exhale. "i never said anything."

"you don’t have to." his lips press into a thin line. "i can tell."

you consider denying it, telling him he’s being dramatic, but you’re tired of pretending. so instead, you squeeze his wrist, grounding him.

"it’s okay," you say quietly. "if you’re no longer the same caleb I knew."

his breath hitches. you feel it more than you hear it.

"because either way—" you tighten your grip, firm, unwavering, "you’re never leaving me again."

his body stills. like he’s waiting for the catch, for the conditions, for something that makes this feel less like a promise and more like a fleeting moment he can let slip through his fingers.

but you don’t take it back.

caleb swallows. his free hand twitches at his side, like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed to.

"say it again," he murmurs, voice barely above a breath.

you step closer. "you’re never leaving me again. i won't let you."

this time, he exhales shakily, as if he’s been holding his breath for years. and then—finally—he rests his forehead against yours.

neither of you move.

the apples sit forgotten on the counter.

(caleb drops a bag onto the counter with a dull thud.

you glance at it, then at him. “what’s this?”

“apples,” he says, already rolling up his sleeves.

you blink. “they’re not pre-cut.”

“no shit,” he snorts, pulling out a knife. "figured you were overdue for the real thing.”

you watch as he starts peeling—smooth, practiced movements, no hesitation. he still holds the knife like a soldier, but his hands are steady, deliberate. for you.

a slice appears in front of your face. you take it without a word. it tastes fresher, sweeter.

he smirks. “better than that store-bought crap?”

you chew, swallowing down something thick in your throat, replacing it with something lighter in your chest.

“…yeah.”)

#library.sia #lads.section #FUCK IT WE BA(W)LL(ING)#CALEEEEEEEEB MY BBY #u will always be loved and cherished and held dear #i hope u can rest easy at times :(#fuck im so attached to his character 😭#sia.txt

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teyvat-inks · 7 months ago

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“To be loved is to be known”

Summary: When you call Aventurine by his true name, Kakavasha, with love and affection, it shatters the walls he’s built around himself. As he breaks down, overwhelmed by his past trauma and survivor’s guilt, you help him heal and discover the possibility of being truly loved. Through patience and support, Kakavasha learns to love and be loved in return, though the journey is filled with emotional struggles and slow-burning trust.

Tags: @bunni-v1(thank you for feeding the Aventurine fandom🙏💛💚), Aventurine x Reader, Angst, Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Healing, Survivor’s Guilt, Manipulation/Control, Love & Vulnerability, First Love/Relationship, Patience, Angst with a Happy Ending.

Warnings: Emotional Trauma, References to Past Abuse and Slavery, Mental Health Struggles (survivor's guilt, emotional breakdown), Explicit mentions of Grief and Loss, Heavy Themes of Self-worth and Identity.

A/N: this was much better in my head... 🧍‍♀️

[Inspired by]

The dim light of Aventurine's private quarters cast an amber glow over the room, reflecting off the myriad of trinkets and luxurious odds and ends that adorned the shelves. He lounged in his chair as always, legs crossed, head tilted, a half-empty glass of brandy in his hand. The smile that graced his lips was one you knew well—practiced, confident, and sharp. A mask.

“You’ve been unusually quiet tonight, darling,” he said, his voice lilting with feigned amusement. “Planning something, or is the weight of my brilliance just too much to handle?”

You folded your arms, standing in the center of the room. “Kakavasha.”

The sound of his real name stopped him mid-sip. The glass hovered inches from his lips, his eyes narrowing like a predator caught off guard. The room seemed to still, the silence so heavy it was deafening.

“What did you just say?” he asked, his tone sharper now, defensive.

“Kakavasha,” you repeated, softer this time, stepping closer to him. “Your name. Not Aventurine. Not the persona you wear for the world. I’m speaking to you—the person behind all of this.”

His smile wavered, a crack forming in the facade. For a moment, he looked at you as if you’d struck him, as though hearing that name from your lips was a wound he hadn’t prepared to guard against.

“Don’t,” he whispered, setting his glass down with a trembling hand. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like it means something,” he hissed, standing abruptly. His movements were quick, defensive, his hands curling into fists. “That name—that name belongs to someone who should’ve died years ago.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t step back. Instead, you moved closer, your hands reaching out to gently touch his face. He recoiled slightly at first, but you persisted, cupping his cheeks with a tenderness that shattered whatever defenses he had left.

“Kakavasha,” you said again, and this time, it broke him.

A sob tore through him before he could stop it, raw and guttural. He sank to his knees, his arms wrapping around your waist as if holding on for dear life. His head pressed against your stomach, and his body shook with the force of his crying.

“I—I can’t,” he choked out, the words barely audible between sobs. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.”

You knelt down, your hands cradling his face as you forced him to look at you. Tears streaked down his cheeks, and his eyes were wide, glassy, and vulnerable in a way you’d never seen before.

“Listen to me,” you said firmly, though your voice was laced with emotion. “You are Kakavasha. You are not the sum of your mistakes, and you are not the monster you think you are. You’re a person—a person who has been through hell and back, but you are not unworthy of love.”

He shook his head, more tears spilling over. “I don’t know how to—”

“You don’t have to know,” you interrupted, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “You just have to let me love you. That’s all.”

His sobs quieted as your words sank in, his breathing ragged but slowing. You kissed his cheeks, his nose, his lips, each kiss gentle and patient, as though you were mending the broken pieces of him with your touch.

For a long while, he simply stayed there, his head resting against your chest as you held him. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.

“I didn’t think… I didn’t think it was possible to feel like this.”

You smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “You deserve this, Kakavasha. You deserve to be happy.”

The name lingered in the air, not as a weight but as a promise. Kakavasha—the man who had survived the desert, the betrayals, and the crushing loneliness—was still here. And for the first time, he allowed himself to believe that he could be loved.

The road to healing wasn’t easy. Aventurine—no, Kakavasha—was a man accustomed to wearing masks, to hiding behind his sharp wit and dazzling charisma. There were nights when his fears got the better of him, when he pulled away, scared of the vulnerability that came with being loved.

But you were patient.

You were there to steady him when he stumbled, to remind him that he didn’t have to face his demons alone. Slowly, he began to open up, sharing pieces of himself that he had long buried. His laughter became more genuine, his smiles less calculated.

And one day, as he watched you reading on the couch, bathed in the golden glow of the evening light, he realized that he no longer feared losing you. Instead, he felt a quiet determination—a promise to himself that he would protect this love with everything he had.

Because for the first time in his life, Kakavasha understood what it meant to be truly alive.

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teyvat-inks · 7 months ago

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teyvat-inks · 9 months ago

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖’𝐒 𝐏𝐋𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑.

⟢ sylus x fem!reader.

𝐀𝐁𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 night of your engagement ceremony, you suddenly find yourself as the infamous captain sylus’s bargaining chip toward getting back some valued possession of his from your own father. it doesn’t help he’s one maddeningly attractive pirate king, and you’re more than eager to escape from an unwanted marriage. you can only make the most of things on this boat, surrounded by pirates, in the middle of the ocean, and it doesn’t prove too hard with him around.

⟢ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 ⨾ slow burn, fluff, humour, rom-com, fantasy + pirate au, 16+.

⟢ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 ⨾ 23.7k.

⟢ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ⨾ it's here!!! the full pirate sylus fic has arrived!! before we start, though, just a few things: one (1) brief scene of sexual harassment (not by sylus) but sylus is there so you are fine, a lot of pirate slang like wow, (attempts at) humour, i really tried to make this funny because this is to recover from the agony sylus's myth was, reader is kind of an idiot (for sylus) but who isn't, i can't believe i kept this under 30k words & got it out in under a week. anyways, enough yapping, enjoy!!

ao3 ⟢ original drabble here.

You’re not quite sure how you got here.

The bag over your head is moth-eaten, so only the odd sliver of light makes its way through the rough cloth, and it hardly helps you get any more of a grip on your bearings than you already have. Which is very little. And it doesn��t take rocket science to work out what this is.

I am being abducted. Your hands are tied, the person behind you grips the rope binding your wrists as they nudge you forward, and you’re cold. The breeze bites. It’s a bit stifling under this bag, but, mercifully, it doesn’t smell bad. Just a bit dusty. It’s getting harder not to sneeze.

You flinch a little when someone speaks. “Sure this is the one?”

“Yeah,” the person behind you affirms. They sound pretty cheery for a henchman currently kidnapping the innocent daughter of a not-so-innocent nobleman. Perhaps the guy enjoys this kind of thing. “Bit strange, though. She’s not kicking up a fuss.”

You can’t hold it back anymore. Your nose twitches, you gasp in a deep breath, and you sneeze. Loudly.

It’s silent. You’re no longer being nudged forward to keep walking. Despite the less-than-ideal circumstances, you feel terribly embarrassed. It doesn’t help that your sneeze echoes.

“Sorry,” you apologise, politely.

No one says another word for a few more awkward beats, before you’re being prodded forward again. The dude behind you goes, “See? She’s awfully docile. I don’t get it.”

“Oh, well, makes things easier for everyone, I guess,” his companion replies. You feel like asking them to stop so you can take off these damn heels, but you doubt they’d let you. You kind of wish these two abducted you when you were in a less dolled-up state. They nabbed you just as you were stepping out of the main hall for some fresh air, away from all those gossiping nobles, a refilled flute of champagne in hand—which was subsequently knocked out of your hand upon the bag being shoved over your head. Pretty timely, you idly think. You were sick of that ball. Especially considering what it was celebrating. You’re still smarting over your lost glass of champagne, however.

“The Captain will be pleased if she continues to behave.” You pick up on the subtle warning. “Won’t have to turn her into fish food. Way less mess to clean up.”

Why, thank you, good sir. At least you know now that they don’t really want to kill you, so you suppose your life isn’t in danger at present. Or, yet.

Remaining silent and cooperative and calm isn’t something you chose to do. In any other scenario, you’d probably be kicking and screaming to be let free—and then they’d really have a reason to turn you into fish food—but, right now, you can’t really be bothered trying to run. All the self-defence you know how to do is poking an eye out and sending a heeled foot up into a man’s family jewels, and you doubt it’d work here, now. As far as you can tell, there’s two of them. The other would be on you in a blink, and your hands are also tied. So, all you can really do now is just go with it.

You gulp down the lump in your throat and say, “Um, may I ask where we’re going, gentlemen?”

“Wow, she is terribly calm,” the other guy remarks. “Calm enough to be polite, even!”

The guy behind you shifts and nudges you to turn. That’s when you realise, with an involuntary shiver from the cold, that you’re at the port right now. It’s the night chill of the sea breeze. And there’s a strong odor of fish. Yeah. Had an idea it was pirates.

That’s great. That’s wonderful. Just peachy. Fear is starting to settle in now. You, a woman, defenceless and clad in a stuffy ball gown, about to be trapped alone and helpless on a boat at sea, with only men around for company? Pirates, no less? You press your lips together and try not to think about an incident that spread like wildfire of some poor girl being assaulted and drowned at this very port the year prior. Those responsible were pirates. Are these guys the same crowd?

It’s a little harder to breathe and remain rational. You need to sneeze again. A drop of sweat, despite the cold, trickles down the back of your neck. Oh, gods. What do I do?

“Well, milady, you are presently being escorted by two very fine fellows for the voyage of your lifetime!” The man behind you still sounds pretty merry. “But we can’t tell you what boat, though, no! It’s a surprise.”

“Luke, stop being an idiot,” the other sighs. “It’s not a surprise. Don’t listen to him, miss. My brother’s kinda stupid.”

“I am not!” his brother, Luke, it would seem, exclaims in protest. “What’s wrong with making this a little more exciting for the young lady?” “I wouldn’t exactly call this exciting,” you quip from beneath the bag, more to yourself than anyone else, and you wince at the tell-tale signs of a blister forming on your heel. The Luke fellow huffs. “This is very exciting, actually. Captain hasn’t let us do anything so thrilling in so long!”

“That’s because you accidentally set a match to his warehouse of gunpowder back at the archipelago.”

“How many times do I have to explain myself? I thought it was that Corsair band’s stock!”

“At least it was a cool explosion.”

“Yeah. Looked like fireworks.”

“Excuse me, I still don’t know where we’re going,” you hesitantly interrupt, giving an awkward laugh. “I’d, um, like to know the identity of my kidnapper, at least.”

“You’ll find out soon enough, milady,” Luke says mysteriously. “It’s a surpri—”

“Shut up, Luke. We are taking you to the Onychinus, my lady.”

If you could freeze in your tracks, you would. Your urge to sneeze has now been replaced with the urge to scream. “Uh…Onychinus…?”

“The very one, milady.” Luke sounds subdued, but no less humorous. “Cool, right? The greatest privateers of the Seven Seas, abducting you! Huge honour!”

Yeah, massive. Two more droplets of sweat trail down your back. Just my luck. You must’ve deeply offended your ancestors at some point, to the point where they have been out for your blood since day one. Day one being the day you were betrothed to that grubby old duke some provinces over last year, but you digress.

Since ten minutes ago, you had much preferred this little debacle over the prospect of your impending doom (marriage) to some fat noble you met only three hours ago. And since two minutes ago, you have greatly entertained the thought of being diced up into neat little fish food cubes for said fish and dumped into an underwater sea trench somewhere, miles away. At least, then, you wouldn’t have to deal with either dreaded fates before you right now.

“Don’t scare her, Luke. Everyone knows that being abducted by Onychinus isn’t exactly exciting news.”

Thank you. It seems Luke’s brother is the only one with a brain out of the two. But, despite his apparently understanding nature, you still feel awfully apprehensive. What on earth could the Captain of the Onychinus Fleet have to do with me?

Yes, you are a marquess’ daughter, and he isn’t the most agreeable fellow on earth—but you would never have expected him to have potentially incited the attention of the greatest, most notorious, most infamous and most violent armada of pirates in the world. Onychinus, at that. Which meant him, the nefarious Captain Sylus.

Great. Amazing. An impromptu vacation with a couple of bloodthirsty privateers who will probably slit my throat by sunrise is all I’ve ever wanted! Forget your ancestors, it’s probably the gods who have been after you now!

“Does, um, my father have…unresolved business with your Captain, perchance?”

“You will have to ask the Captain himself that question, I’m afraid, milady.” Well, that’s a fat load of help. You feel so assured. Just splendid. I know next to nothing about my father’s internal and industrial affairs! Due to this, the Captain would soon deem you ineffective toward his presumed objectives involving father dearest and, thus, a burden onboard. Then he’d probably make you walk the plank. It feels like you already are.

“Oh, well, alright.” Best remain calm, as you have been so far, for now. You’re not exactly thrilled by the idea of a watery grave, but you suppose your fate’s already sealed. You are helpless against its oncoming whims now.

You are most assuredly at the port, for the hem of your dress has grown damp from the puddles scattered about beneath your feet. It’s getting progressively uncomfortable to continue walking in these heels, too, and you can only hope you can sit down soon. Perhaps even request just one final flute of champagne before Captain Sylus feeds you to his pet sharks or something.

“Alrighty, milady, time to take this old bag off you now!” And with a tug, you can breathe again. You glance over and spot the other boy you didn’t catch the name of. Is that…a crow mask? You blink. Well, it’s fitting, you suppose. Onychinus’ logo is a raven. I guess rumours that the Captain has a pet crow, instead of a parrot, is true.

However, you have only about two-or-so seconds to enjoy the cool, fresh sea air filling your lungs and curiously study the kid before your frame is wracked with another sneeze. You shudder from the cold, and you can already feel a chill coming on. Good grief. Can things get any worse?

You look up and ahead after gathering yourself. You’re being elbowed forward again. But the moon and stars are blotted out by one thing: this utter monstrosity of a ship looming above you, casting a wide shadow across the entire concrete dock it is anchored before.

“Woah,” you breathe, and the kid behind you hums in pleased agreement. “I know, right? Absolutely colossal! Spectacular! Captain Sylus is so cool.”

“Uh-huh,” you absently concur. That is one mammoth of a ship.

The flagship, it would appear. You swallow. No wonder everyone’s always going on about how much of a force he and his crew are to be reckoned with. And it’s also no wonder the emperor’s men have, no matter how hard they’ve tried, never been able to tear the fleet of Onychinus apart. Not once has Captain Sylus been defeated.

He rules the seas, the people murmur about the streets. He is the uncrowned king of the briny deep.

If he hasn’t already, he will go down in history for centuries. Become a legendary figure: the privateer who commanded most maritime trade with an iron fist. Already, bards strum songs of a fearsome marauder sailing the blue horizon with a crow emblazoned upon a blood-red flag. A flag that flaps strongly in the wind, distinct and eye-catching from miles away, striking fear into the hearts of any lesser bands of buccaneers, and even the imperial navy itself.

If this was one of his methods of intimidation, then it was a damn good one. A ship of this size, painted black, the main sail a scarlet so deep, it’s like he splashed the canvass with blood? You gulped. I can only imagine what the man himself is like.

“This way, milady,” Luke guides, gesturing to the gangway of the boat. “Watch your step.”

You’ve heard rumours of his appearance, and it always varies, despite the handsome man the wanted posters, that are plastered everywhere, depict. They say those who cross paths with Captain Sylus are rarely seen again, and hardly anyone has lived to tell the tale of his ‘true’ features. Some profess he is a horror, with a bulbous nose, double chin and a tattered eye patch. He is fat and unpleasant, one who holds a sick love for the sight of spilled blood. And his trusty pet crow, Mephisto, sits contentedly upon his shoulder and pecks the eyes of its victims out for fun.

While others say he is a beauty, one with silver hair reminiscent of the moon’s glow upon the calm nighttime sea, and eyes red as garnets, piercing and cold. A terribly prosaic exaggeration of what the wanted poster, again, depicts, but who can stop the airheads giggling like a gaggle of turkeys during a tea party? Whispers of his alleged tall frame, broad shoulders, and sharp jaw are exchanged among the young debutantes thirsty for the thrill of a forbidden, passionate love affair—and who is better than the mysterious head of Onychinus himself, in all his over-romanticised, illusory charm?

Well, we’ll just have to wait and see which of the two is correct. Not that you really want to find out. What you’d really like to do is go home. Perhaps, if you ask him politely enough, he will let you.

What an idiot. You think a pirate’s going to let you go just because you ask him to? You pick your way up the gangway rather stiffly, feet sore from the heels, and you try to keep balanced. You would very much like to not take a tumble into the ice-cold water below, where your heavy dress would drag you down. You’re smarter than that!

Once the three of you are finally aboard the ship, the two crow-masked siblings begin to lead you along the floorboards and you ascend some steps to the upper deck, passing by the helm. At least, you thought it was the upper deck—they lead you up some more stairs, along another upper deck, some more stairs, then another flight, and then, finally, with your thighs burning and lungs screaming in the confines of your corset, you all stop outside a door.

A double door. It’s oak, the wood garnished to bring out the beauty of its patterned grain, and the knobs are pure gold. Engraved into the centre of each is the Onychinus crest: as expected, a crow.

This guy really likes crows, it would seem. Apparently, the people say “the crow is in flight!” whenever illicit trade has been established between another faction or something. “The crow has landed” states that he has docked at a port, and everyone outside of the crew must be on their guard. “The crow is rallying” means he, or another ship, is surrounding a target, and is preparing to attack. There are many more sayings you can’t quite remember at present, because you suddenly need to relieve yourself very badly.

“May I use the powder room?” you nervously hiss, hopping from foot to foot in urgency. “I need to go!”

“Oh, crap—” The duo look at each other, hesitate, and then Luke hastily unties your hands. “Follow me! We need to hurry; we’ve kept him waiting for a while. Don’t try anything funny!”

“I won’t!” Because you don’t have much to lose either way. If your life wasn’t at risk here, you might’ve been glad for this sudden abduction. Your life would be taken from you, one way or the other.

It takes another ten-or-so minutes before you and Luke are hurrying back from the restroom (a terribly clean one for a pirate ship, too; you were surprised) and are finally in front of the double doors again.

Luke wastes no time in dealing three knocks to one of the doors. It’s silent for a pause; you all exchange jittery glances, you fiddle with your (retied) hands, and then, finally: “Come in.”

A chill slithers down your spine at the deep, muffled voice. Luke’s brother releases a breath and he twists the doorknob, easing the door open, and he enters. Luke silently gestures for you to follow, and you hesitate one more time before reluctantly heading in.

The room is well-lit: warm tones of orange candlelight send flickering shadows across the walls—walls that are lined with maps, paintings, cabinets, tapestries and antiques. They vary from looking very old to relatively new, and all have one thing in common: they are priceless artefacts. Plundered ones, too, almost assuredly.

As you make your way further into the room, the dangling crystal chandelier proves as the interior’s primary source of light, and it glitters exquisitely. Immediately, you know that this Captain has taste.

And then there’s the desk. Evidently crafted from invaluable mahogany, it fits into the cosy design of the study flawlessly, with a large hide rug of a bear—that would have been massive if alive—splayed between the two sofas at the centre of the room, off by the windows looking out to sea. Its head remains intact to it, maw open wide in a snarl, and appears well-kept. You expected the room to stink of rum and tobacco and a man who badly needs a shower, but it has a rather pleasant smell of scented candles, whiskey, and cologne.

You’re led to sit down upon one of the couches. It’s plush and leather, situated to be kept out of the sun to prevent fading, with woollen throws and tassled cushions spread tastefully across its triple seats. The coffee table in front of you, separating you from the sofa opposite, is made of walnut, and has a crystal whiskey decanter upon it, along with two crystal shot glasses, and a vase of flowers. Also, a piece of paper, including an ink pot with a fountain pen inside.

Your eyes finally lift to rest upon the man himself.

You don’t really know what you were expecting. A missing hand, a hook in its place, perhaps? A flamboyant tricorne hat, with the bright feathers of exotic birds sewn into its satin sash? Maybe a greatcoat with flared cuffs and ornate embroidery? An eyepatch, like the rumours? Ebony curls, greasy with gel and rare washes, spilling out from beneath his hat and across his shoulders?

No such thing. Instead of ebony curls, he has short-cropped ivory locks, falling over his right eye. Eyes as scarlet as a ruby, penetrating and sharp, lidded and calculating, framed with long, silver lashes. He wears no hat, he wears no eyepatch, and he wears no greatcoat. His lips are full and pink and shapely, curled up at the corners, and his right hand is not replaced with a hook. In his right hand, in fact, is a folder, its leather worn and cracked, the clasp hanging on by a thread. And the man’s shoulders are broad, his shirt unbuttoned at the top, revealing the beginnings of a sculpted chest, skin-kissed skin, and strong collarbones. A silver pendant rests upon his sternum, just beneath his clavicle, glinting in the light. His slacks are ironed, tight across his sturdy thighs, and he sits in a languid manspread. Big hands, long fingers, veiny forearms, his cuffs neatly buttoned at the elbows. His sleeves strain against his biceps. It takes a lot to not let your eyes pop out of your head.

What. The. Hell. Who knew those gossiping, man-obsessed, still-wet-behind-the-ears debutantes would be so close in their depiction of Captain Sylus? The wanted posters do not do him any justice. If those airheads saw him now, they’d all drop to the ground in a faint, one by one, like a domino effect.

“Um…” you croak, mouth suddenly very dry. “Hello.”

“Greetings.” Oh, gods, his voice is hot too. What is this? Some third-rate swashbuckling romance novel? He certainly looks like he just walked right out of one. One not at all for children. One filled with scenes of a man, as devilish as him, entangled with a woman far more beautiful than you. And he’s taking his sweet time to look you over too, just as you did, with a hooded gaze far more intense than it needs to be. You feel your entire body flush with heat, and you hastily look away, clearing your throat, fidgeting with your thumbs. Your hands are still tied, rested neatly on your lap, and you suddenly feel very self-conscious.

The man closes his legs (about damn time!) and slings his right one over his left. He throws the folder he had in-hand down upon the coffee table with a resounding smack! and he settles an elbow against the armrest to his right. In your periphery, you see him smile at you, but it’s more of a smirk. “How are you, my lady?”

“Er, quite fine,” you reply automatically, and you’re too busy worrying about how much of a mess your hair must be (it had been previously woven into a gorgeous updo before a bag was rammed over your head) to think about how to appropriately speak to this man. “I can’t say I was prepared for such an, um, inadvertent evening adventure.”

The Captain chuckles, and it’s a silky, rumbling sound that floods you with even more heat. You risk a glance up, and he’s tilting his head at you, jaw as sharp as the rumours professed, smirk both simultaneously infuriating and tantalising. Scarlet eyes pin you to your seat, and you quickly drop your own as he speaks. “I am glad you are taking this little escapade well. But, of course, any anger or explosive tantrums on your part would be justifiable.”

“You’d kill me quicker if I screamed and cried,” you blurt, before you click your mouth shut. You idiot! Are you trying to meet your maker as fast as you can?

“Kill?” the Captain echoes, and he sounds almost surprised. “Oh, no, my lady, I won’t be killing you.”

That makes you look up. “You…won’t?”

“No,” he affirms, and he leans forward, picking up the piece of paper you’d noticed earlier. He extends it to you, before his eyes drop to your bound hands. The man glances over to the duo standing nearby. Well, lounging nearby, actually. “You can relieve her of those ropes now, you two. Is this any way to treat a guest?”

Guest? You rub the tender skin of your wrists after one of them slices through your binds and steps away with them. You give a wary glance at the man sitting opposite you. What’s going on?

Said man extends the paper to you once again, and you finally accept it, cautious. He speaks as you read over it. “You see, my lady, your father and I have a little bit of a history.”

Ah. Just as you expected. Of course this has something to do with your father. And of course he’d stoop so low as to be involved with pirates. But, just what has he done to piss off the most savage one of them all?

“I see.” You bob your head in understanding. The piece of paper outlines it pretty well. This guy is awfully sophisticated for a pillaging, ruthless, disgustingly wealthy pirate king. It almost feels like he’s asking you to sign a contract. “So, erm, in exchange for…whatever it is this document is referring to, you will hand me back to my father?”

Captain Sylus smiles at you. “Correct.”

“I see,” you say again. “In short, he has to pay a ransom for my return.”

“It’s nothing personal, my lady. Believe me when I say I wish I didn’t have to resort to kidnapping a lovely young woman such as yourself.”

Liar. One look at his smug, gorgeous, cold face, even a blind man could tell he hardly cares at all for how low he has to stoop for things. He’d probably raze the marquisate to the ground, with everyone in it, just to obtain whatever it is he wishes.

“Hm.” You glance back down at the paper. “Alright.”

“Your cooperation is greatly appreciated,” he says pleasantly. “It makes things far easier for myself, and far safer for you.”

“So, you will be sending this…letter to my father?” You breeze over his subtle warning and force yourself to meet his eyes again. It really does feel like he could burn two holes into where your eyes are thanks to the sheer intensity of his stare. “Tonight?”

“Yes,” the Captain affirms, and you place the paper back down on the coffee table before the trembling of your hands can get too obvious. The man maintains his relaxed posture, which succeeds in both aggravating you and proving to be excellent eye candy. “Surely, your father will go to untold lengths to have his beloved only daughter returned to him?” You almost snort. If it weren’t for my betrothal to that duke, he’d probably send the pre-written reply he has an entire stock of back to this guy, thanking him for his letter. Your father dislikes having to read and personally pen a response to a letter, which bore the idea of scribbling out a couple hundred pre-authored, enveloped and sealed answers to be automatically delivered by the butler himself. And then, if it hasn’t been already, it would really be the Grim Reaper’s crest being stamped onto your death certificate.

“Yes, um, well…” You don’t quite know how to correct the man on that, without possibly having your throat slit right here in the process. You awkwardly scratch your cheek and look away. “It might, erm, take a while.”

“No matter.” He leans forward, picks up the whiskey decanter, and pours two glasses of it. He outstretches one to you, and you have to physically restrain yourself from gulping the liquor down once you accept it. The man has a sip of his own, gazing at you from above the rim of his own glass. “We have a long voyage ahead.”

Just great. It’s one thing to be kidnapped, but it’s another to be stuck on a boat with only the most crooked pirate captain of them all, in the middle of the ocean, without a speck of land in sight, as the daughter of a noble who would not frantically search for his daughter if she wasn’t a vital chess piece in his wider political game. And you’re only vital because marriage to a duke would elevate his status and wealth and reputation overnight.

Too bad you weren’t born a boy. Too bad your mother died during childbirth. Too bad your father never married, and has no male heirs. Too bad the only purpose you’ve ever really had was being sold off to an old duke your father’s age. Too bad you had to be abducted on the very night your engagement ceremony was in full swing.

Your grip tightens around the whiskey glass in your right hand. Too bad, indeed.

Your father’s true origins are common, and he has spent most of his noble life fighting tooth and nail to improve his reputation among the age-old aristocratic families which look down on him, and you, for said commoner origins. Apparently, he earned favour with the Emperor for doing something requested of all citizens: turn in any Evolver they come across. Rewards for such a deed is great—like being granted a title.

Evols and Evolvers—an ancient power and people abolished by the Empire five hundred years ago. Those few who inherit its gene are hunted down and slaughtered without exception, and rewards are generous for those who turn wielders in. And rumour has it that this very man in front of you, is one himself.

It’s only a rumour, though. It’s unconfirmed. If it is true, then that raises a whole lot of other questions.

You’re still not exactly sure what you think of this man. So you decide to test the waters a bit. “Sir, if I am to be staying here, I’d at least like a comfortable room.”

His silver brows lift in mild surprise. “Oh?”

“Yes.” Perhaps the two glasses of champagne you had at the ball and this whiskey here is making you a little more courageous than what’s ideal, even though you’re not that much of a lightweight. There’s a fine line between bravery and stupidity. “I am the daughter of a marquess. Who you just kidnapped. It’s the least you can do.”

“Goodness.” The man brushes a free hand across his grinning mouth, giving you a long, assessing look. “Well. I do suppose you’re right. I must extend some kind of welcome and thank-you for remaining so calm in such a…stressful situation for a nobleman’s daughter.”

“Stressful, indeed.” You stare into the amber liquid in your glass. You don’t have it in you to be sarcastic back right now. “I don’t really mind all this, just as long as I have food and water.”

“My lady.” Your head snaps up and you look at him as he uncrosses his legs and leans forward in his seat, gazing at you. “I have a question for you.”

You blink. “Uh. What is it?”

Captain Sylus doesn’t continue for a brief pause—he just continues to stare at you, and then his eyes narrow. “You are terribly unfazed by all this. May I ask why?”

“Oh…” You reach up and tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Um, well, you see, your…henchmen here choose quite the opportune time to seize me.”

He only hums in response, wordlessly urging you to continue. You drop your eyes again. “Tonight is the celebration of my engagement.”

The man takes a sip of his drink. “I know.”

Surprised, you look up at him again. “Oh, you do?”

“Of course. I have had this planned out for a good long while. Naturally, your engagement ceremony was the convenient date to apprehend you.”

Yes, naturally. You chew on the inside of your bottom lip. Your lipstick’s probably smudged. “I see.”

The Captain relaxes back in his chair again. “But I did not expect you to call it ‘opportune’.” He doesn’t ask any further questions to that, though, much to your relief. He has another sip of his whiskey. “Once that letter is delivered, we set sail. In one hour.”

“Okay.” You don’t really know what to think of how he’s ‘had this planned out for a good long while’. You suppose it’s just protocol. Nothing personal, as he’d said—but it sounds pretty borderline personal to you.

“May I just add one thing?” you tentatively ask, giving him a hesitant glance. The man inclines his head toward you in one tilt, staring at you from beneath his lashes. You take that as a yes. “Er, well, you probably already know this, but—my father isn’t the most agreeable of people.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So…what I’m saying is…” And then you realise something: if you divulge all the details of your father (most of which this man will probably already be privy to), he could decide you’re not a useful tool toward obtaining the ransom and thus dispose of you. That’s when you quickly decide to fake a yawn and rub your left eye tiredly. Your finger comes away blackened with mascara and eyeliner. Oops. You probably look like you got punched now. “Never mind! He’s just—well, he’s a handful, haha.”

“Mm.” The Captain’s finger taps against his knee. “Understood.”

Then, apparently deeming the conversation over, he lifts a hand and beckons the brothers over. “I presume you’ve already been introduced, but this is Luke and Kieran. They will escort you to your cabin.”

You make sure you try not to sigh in relief too loudly. “Oh, well, thank you very much, Mister Sylus. Your hospitality is appreciated.” As if you aren’t presently being held here against your will.

“You are welcome.” The man looks immensely amused. “Enjoy your stay, my lady.”

“Haha, of course.” It’s muscle memory, the way you quickly bob a curtsy once you’ve gotten to your feet, bowing your head. “Um, and I apologise on my father’s behalf.” What the hell are you doing, you idiot? Why on earth would thank him and apologise for your father—the one who, essentially, got you into this mess? You’re just asking to become fish food, aren’t you? “Please don’t hold a grudge against me.” Save him the time and jump off the ship yourself already, you fool!

“Like I said, my lady.” He gets to his feet also and steps forward, full lips curled up at the corners, and it’s suddenly a little harder to breathe. Captain Sylus is tall, towering over you, chest wider than you’d initially gambled. He reaches forward, takes your hand, and brings it to his lips. He has garnets for eyes, you think, and his right one is, strangely, a little more intense than the other. I suppose the rumours aren’t as inaccurate as I thought. “It’s nothing personal.”

You gulp and give a wobbly smile in response. Yeah, I think I should jump as soon as I’m out of this office. “Well, thank goodness for that.”

You did not, in fact, end up jumping.

The bed is comfortable, if a little cramped. As expected on a ship—despite its colossal size, and the ample room it does appear to have, your cabin is more befitting a crew member, or a commoner, than a noblewoman.

But it’s not like you can complain, or have expected anything more. You got what you asked for. And you are a hostage here.

However, your room, regardless of its dinginess, is rather quaint. It’s not dirty or unkempt; it is in need of a bit of dusting, but you don’t mind. Its mullioned window is circular, with a direct view out to sea, and its frame is lifted higher than the bed so as to avoid one’s weight potentially breaking through the glass, and into the water below, despite it being plenty thick. Said bed is tucked into a little nook against the window, which is something you especially like, for your room back at the manor never had a view of the ocean. Now, you can see both the sunset and the stars as clear as day from where you sleep now.

Once you were led to your room, you didn’t see another soul for the night, nor into late morning. It was afternoon when someone finally tapped on your door—and you hardly got a chance to say “come in” before they shoved open the door and waltzed in.

“Clothes and a meal for the lady.” It was a female pirate, tall and lithe and dark-skinned. Her glossy raven hair was gathered up into an afro puff, a colourfully patterned bandana wrapped around her head, tied down at the back of her neck, behind her ears. She flashed a bright, good-natured grin and strolled over, relieving her arms of the bundle of clothing and platter of food. “The Captain said to treat ya well, missy. These clothes’ll be comfortabler than that stuffy costume yer got there.”

“Oh, thank you.” You gladly accepted the garments, returning the woman’s smile. “Please extend my gratitude to the cook and the Captain.”

“My!” she exclaimed mirthfully. “Never thought I’d see the day a noble’s nice to me! You rich folk usually turn yer noses up at the likes of us.”

You shrugged, placing the platter on your lap, stomach tightening in hunger. As a young child and teen, you used to sneak out of the estate and go play with the commoner children, pretending to be one yourself. They’d never have looked at you the same, or let you join them, if you didn’t. “You’ve brought me food and clothing, ma’am. The least I can do is thank you.”

“Kieran was right,” she laughed, hooking her thumbs on the baldric surrounding her waist in an insouciant pose. “You ain’t no brat, as far as I can tell. They said you wasn’t even bothered by bein’ kidnapped! If it were me, I woulda kicked and screamed and rammed them up the gonads with me boot before they could say knife.”

You chuckled, slicing through the roast chicken on your plate. “Those two grabbed me at the right time. I’m actually thankful.”

“Oh?” The woman looked rather taken aback, no less humorous. “Why’s that, missy?”

“Last night was my engagement ceremony.” You brought a piece of chicken up to your mouth, but paused to finish your sentence before eating it. “To a man I’m old enough to be the daughter of.”

“Ah.” She nodded, reaching up a hand to scratch at the back of her nape. “Gotcha. Well, I dunno much about you nobles and yer arranged marriages, but it does sound like y’all are a right miserable bunch. Guess yer glad?”

“Guess so.” You offered her a grin. Spending the night sitting in here and staring at the ceiling gave you plenty of time to think about the pros and cons of this. And, eventually, you found that the pros outweighed the cons. “What’s your name, ma’am?”

She chortled, and turned for the door. “Henrietta, but everyone calls me Henry—and no need to call me ma’am! Just glad yer a real one. I’ll leave ya to it now, missy. Will be back later for yer dishes!”

You are, at least, glad for the unexpectedly warm welcome, and the female crew members. You had initially been worried about Captain Sylus’s lackeys onboard being all-male, and thus you would be exposed to the danger of men who have been at sea for too long, been exposed to too much sun, haven’t felt the touch of a woman in years (or ever), and thus their true, ruthless depravity. You have heard far too many tales of the atrocities committed by pirates toward the people in their path of destruction and marauding—and many of them usually involved the young ladies they captured for the very same reasons as the Captain with the likes of you, or even just for entertainment.

You shudder at the thought, despite the cabin’s rather warm temperature, struggling with untying your corset fifteen minutes after you finished up your meal. Your maids last night had tightened the corset as much as they possibly could get away with, all to give you that damned cinched-waist look, leaving you practically gasping for air like a dying old chain smoker for most of the evening. Beats you how you bore with it the entire night—and even managed to get about two hours of sleep in that bodice from hell.

Oh, to blazes with it. With a forceful tug, you snap the strings holding it fast around your middle, and shimmy out of the rest of the garment, breathing a massive sigh of relief once it’s off. Now left in your underthings, you swiftly put on the rather tattered pair of trousers and breezy poet blouse provided for you, and stoop to gather up your gown, skirt hoop and corset. Then you proceed to pull open the tiny closet across the room, ball up the vestments best you can, and haphazardly shove the dirty clothes inside.

Out of sight, out of mind. You don’t want to see the damn things again. You don’t mind dresses, but ones with punishingly tight corsets and ridiculously wide skirt hoops are not your cup of tea. Having this airy, wide-sleeved and baggy shirt on feels terribly freeing.

Then you slump back down onto your bed after letting out your hair, scrubbing off the rest of your makeup best you can in the basin of (cold) water you’d been provided just before you turned in last night, and pull the curtain over the window again. That’s when you curl in on your side, and let sleep take you.

He leans against the door frame, arms crossed, top buttons of his shirt undone, smirk lazy. It appears to be a recurring thing of his: a signature, maybe—always providing everyone a permanent, full view of his sculpted chest, showing off his bulging biceps, and sending people mad with his provocative smirk. Provocative in what way? You’re still working that one out.

“Made yourself at home, have you, my lady?”

This is the beginning of your second-ever conversation with him, and he’s already being sarcastic. You had most certainly not expected a visit from him today; it’s been half a week since you first met him, and you feel subconscious all over again. You resist the urge to subtly fix your hair and smooth down the sun dress you’re wearing this evening. It’s rather disconcerting, how you suddenly feel like you wish you cared more about men’s opinions beforehand so you’d know what to do right now. “Uh, yes, I have.”

The Captain, mercifully, appears to be one who appreciates your unintended, awkward honesty, for he lets out a velvety chuckle. “Well, that’s wonderful news. Have you adjusted well to the seafaring life?”

“Well…” Not really, because you haven’t ventured out any further than just down the hall. They don’t lock your door, but you always opt to remain confined to your cabin anyway, because you’re shy. Embarrassingly so, in fact—one of the most prized attributes of a noblewoman is her grace, poise, and dexterity at being a sociable friend and host. Something that, if you hadn’t been kidnapped and the wedding still went through, you would’ve had to master quick—especially as a duchess-to-be. An eloquent title, sought after by all noblewomen in their right mind, and one you never asked for. So, clearly, you aren’t in your right mind. And you’ve long owned up to that, seeing this man and all.

Also, the ship’s constant bobbing and rocking on the waves is taking some getting used to. Sealegs don’t come instantly, it would seem—and more than once you have had to dash to the bathroom, hand over your mouth and complexion green, your guts apparently more than eager to spill out of you. Maybe going up on deck would help, but you don’t know how well you’d get along with the rest of the crew. Chances are, they would be averse to your company, for your affluent roots and defined upbringing would clash against their brash and boorish and foul-mouthed mannerisms. You’d like to make friends, and the twins and Henry are nice enough, but you’re far too unsure about the rest.

Best act as if I’m just not here, you’d decided a few nights ago. Nothing’s changed, really—for them, or for me.

You fidget with your thumbs and avert your eyes. “It’s been…a gradual adjustment.”

“Understandable,” he genially says. “You will get used to it eventually.” Then the man uncrosses his arms, straightens, and shoves his hands into his pockets. “However, my reason for visiting you is to ask something of you.”

Here we go. You’re torn between being on your guard and feeling rather excited. Damn the man for being so attractive! Why, of all times, do you have to be weak to a man’s charm now? Trying not to freak out, you offer a rather unsteady smile. “…Of course. What is it?”

“Join me for dinner tonight, my lady,” the Captain replies in that suave tone of his. “No need to dress up. It’ll just be a friendly chat over a meal and some wine.”

“Ah.” You look down at your lap. It’d be nice to have control over your blood pressure right now, because you feel like exploding. We’re actually supposed to hate this guy, you know. He kidnapped us!

Those old women who warned you, as a girl, about handsome men and their charm were right, you suddenly find. He is probably the most handsome man you’ve ever come across—all the most-sought-after bachelors in high society have got nothing on this guy. You never thought they were all that much to write home about, anyway, but you rest your case. And this man’s looks aren’t pretty or beautiful or pure in nature—no, he’s devilish, maddening, and hot. A less polite term, something that would make you clutch at your pearls if you had any, at any other time—but it’s no less a fact.

And not a very fun one right now. You’d like to dislike this man, to have a reason to take away his ability to have children, but it’s strangely difficult. His condescending tone does grate on you, though.

“I, well…” It’s probably for the best that I decline. Becoming friendly with your abductor (despite your rather relaxed take on all this) is probably something you want to avoid. “I—I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Impose?” Captain Sylus lifts a silver brow at you. “It isn’t imposing when you have been invited, my lady.” One half of his full mouth quirks up into a roguish little grin. “Besides, you are a noble. It’s only manners to provide a woman such as yourself a meal befitting of your status.”

“I don’t think…status really matters here,” you reply, now fidgeting with a loose thread of your dress, not looking at him anymore. “I’m not exactly a guest.” And you jump to add, “But—I am terribly grateful for your courtesy thus far! The clothing, bedding, and food is much appreciated.”

“Don’t mention it, sweetheart.” You stiffen at the abrupt nickname. And you’re afraid he noticed it, because the Captain’s smirk widens, his eyes a hooded scarlet. “Like I said, none of this is personal. It’s your father I have a vendetta against, not you.”

You laugh awkwardly. “Oh, well, that’s reassuring.”

He insouciantly leans his weight on one foot, and he tilts his head at you, smile far more impish than before. “Aw, don’t tell me I am getting turned down by the most beautiful woman on this boat right now, hm?”

“Oh, no, of course not!” You jump to your feet, heart in your mouth, suddenly very afraid you just signed the dotted line for an appointment with the ship’s plank. And his pet sharks, if he has any. Then that word registers. “…Sorry, did you say ‘beautiful’?” “I did,” the Captain affirms smoothly. Then the man gives you a slow once over. “Am I wrong? I don’t think I am.” “I—” You flush from head to toe. “That’s…That’s very, erm, kind of you.”

“Well, then.” He lifts a hand from a pocket and outstretches it to you. “Shall we?” I guess I don’t get a choice in this. You are feeling rather peckish, anyway, so you reluctantly nod and approach him, taking the Captain’s arm. Let’s just hope he hasn’t poisoned my wine or anything.

He leads you down the corridor outside your cabin, up the steps, and to the main deck, where you can finally get a full panoramic view of the ocean, and the rest of the ship.

There is no land in sight, only an endless stretch of dusk-hued blue in every direction, sparkling with whites and yellows from the gradually setting sun. It’s high summer, and the voyage thus far has been speedy and undisturbed and sweltering, the sun’s ray barrelling down upon the boat and making your room awfully stuffy, even if you open the latched window just below the top of its frame. Onychinus pirates are bustling about the ship, chatting away, or even humming age-old folk songs in unexpectedly glorious harmonies. And you notice that people from all stretches of life and ethnicity and gender merrily go about their duties here, even shouting crass, but jovial, greetings to their Captain as he passes by, you on his arm.

“Evenin’, cap’n!” one calls, lifting a hand in a wave. The man, like most of the crew onboard, is bronzed from the sun, cheery and robust. And then the pirate even tips his hat to you. “Milady.”

You lift your hand in an awkward wave. “Oh, hello, good sir.”

Captain Sylus returns the pirate’s greeting, nodding to the musket in the man’s hands. “That engraving’s looking good, Clive.”

“Aw, thanks, cap’n!” Clive’s words are a little muffled from the puffing cigar in his mouth. “Almost done, yer know! Can’t believe ya scored such a beauty back on the mainland. This oughta be worth a fortune.”

“What are you engraving?” Your curiosity gets the best of you, and you’ve blurted the words out before you can remember your place. “Er, apologies, I don’t mean to be nosy, you just look very skilled, sir.”

“Blimey!” The pirate fixes the Captain with an awed look. “Ain’t ever been called ‘sir’ before, ’specially by a dame. You really scored this time, cap’n!”

The man beside you lifts a brow. “Just answer the lady, Clive.”

“Yessir.” Clive tips his hat in apology and extends the weapon out to you, showing you the intricately-detailed etchings of what is a half-finished boat on the ocean. “I like to carve the odd picture into guns ’n swords, milady.” He taps his graver against the steel side of the musket. “Just a hobby, yer know? Passes the time. Once I finish me duties for the day, I sit here and chip away.”

“You’re very talented!” you exclaim in wonder, admiring the realism and sheer detail of the imprinted scene even on such a small piece of metal. “I knew a gunsmith downtown who took on commissions to occasionally engrave weapons, like this! You’re even better than him!”

“Aw, goodness me, milady,” Clive says rather bashfully. “Yer gonna make me blush! I s’pose if you think it’s good, it must be.” Then he tips his hat to you again. “Much obliged, miss.”

“Not at all!” You beam. “I just think it’s very commendable, achieving such a level of detail, with only a chisel and a few picks.” You glance up at the Captain. “Your ship is full of surprises, sir.”

And, to your amazement, the man gives you a small smile. “That reminds me—you haven’t had a tour yet, nor have I introduced you to the crew.” Then the man gestures to the jolly pirate before you both. “This is Clive, the boatswain.”

You politely curtsy out of simple muscle memory. “A pleasure to meet you, Mister Clive.”

“By me beard!” Clive exclaims, even though he doesn’t have a beard, “you really did score with her, didn’t cha, cap’n!”

“Well, we’d best get going.” Captain Sylus takes your arm again and swiftly begins to steer you away. “Dinner awaits us.”

You let out a small, disappointed noise, and send a wave over your shoulder back to Clive. “Have a good evening, Mister Clive!”

The man chortles and returns the farewell, and you follow after the Captain as he leads you to ascend about three hundred sets of stairs again.

You’re quite tired afterward. “You…huff…sure have a lot of steps for a, haa, boat.”

The man beside you chuckles smoothly. “Let’s say it provides a good bit of extra fitness for the crew, and makes enemy personnel’s trek up to my office a little harder.”

“Um, very strategic,” you offer, not quite sure what to say, and still panting. “Not sure if you know, but your intellect is, uh, renowned, sir.”

“Call me Sylus, sweetheart.” He pushes open the door, steps aside to let you through first, smirking down at you in that way of his. “No need for such formalities.”

“But…” You continue following after him as he leads you further into his study, which apparently will also act as the dining room for the evening. “I’m not a guest, sir. I’m a hostage. And I know this is a strange thing for a hostage to say, but aren’t you supposed to keep me locked away beneath the ship completely?”

“My lady, I may be a scumbag of a pirate captain,” Sylus begins, and he doesn’t sound apologetic in the least, considering that roguish grin of his, “but I do have manners. I run a tight ship. We plunder and pillage and thieve, yes, as pirates do, but I know how to treat a lady. Especially…” That’s when he pauses, faces you, and gently grabs your hand, placing a charming kiss to the top of it. “One as lovely and amenable as yourself.”

Steam’s probably drifting off the top of your head, with how hot you suddenly feel. “O-Oh, my. Well, um…” Those crimson hues, as cheesy as this sounds, are far too deep and intense for you to hold without (probably) melting into a puddle right in front of him. Oh, this is really not good! “Thank—Thank you. Very much. I’ve never been complimented by such a handsome man as yourself before.”

“Handsome?” Idiot! You just had to go ahead and let the h-word slip, didn’t you? Why not get on one knee and ask him to marry you while you’re at it, you buffoon! And that devilish smirk widens, like he knows, damn him, and he coyly tilts his head at you. “You think I’m handsome?”

This is the second time you’ve actually spoken, you inwardly seethe at yourself, trying to keep a straight face and not burst into embarrassed tears, and it’s like you’re desperate to be either a) thrown off the edge of the boat or b) chained to him for good! But, well, even you can admit either-or is better than being carted off back to your father.

No! You can’t let yourself go down that rabbit hole. That’s something where you would choose to be chopped up into fish food other than having something so dreadful happen to you. Remember, we don’t really know this guy! And he kidnapped you!

Right. You’re a captive right now, held against your will, and you’re supposed to be incensed. You should probably be acting bratty and trashing your cabin and sneaking into his room to slit his throat at night or something. But you can’t. You don’t know why, but you can’t.

Because this is better than marrying that old duke. That you know, and have accepted, deep down. And this is better than having to endure the cold, empty, and lifeless halls of your father’s estate and his austere attitude toward you by far.

If Captain Sylus was ugly like the rumours professed, perhaps hating him would be easier. Which just shows how shallow you really are inside. I’m no better than those boy-crazed debutantes.

But he’s not ugly—he is, in fact, the very opposite of ugly—which is annoying all on its own. Because right now he’s rendered you speechless with his question, and you’re itching to run and take a swim with his pet sharks yourself. “Erm, uh, well, I-I…suppose so.”

Sylus’s full mouth curls up at the corners a little bit more, maddeningly smug. “You suppose so?” “I—I was just returning the compliment!” you insist, removing your (sweaty) hand from his grip, clutching it to your chest. “I, um, I apologise. I never really quite know what to say when I am praised.”

“A shame,” he hums, turning to continue leading you into his office, and you both finally stop before the dining table. The Captain pulls out a chair, and gestures for you to sit. “Perhaps I shall just have to compliment you more often, then.” “Oh, please don’t.” You take the seat and hide behind your hair. I’ll combust if you do! “It’s really not necessary.”

He remains standing, and lifts a bottle of wine. “But I’d be a terrible host if I didn’t. Wine?”

Just what I need. You refrain from snatching the bottle and guzzling it all down in one go. “Uh, yes, please, Mister Sylus.”

“Just Sylus is fine.” The Captain pours the wine into your glass and then fills his own, before taking a seat. That’s when you have a good look at all the food laid out for you.

Well, certainly a feast befitting a wealthy pirate king and a captive noblewoman, I suppose. You can’t say you’re exactly fond of using your status as leverage, but this is like a meal you’d expect at a formal gathering between repulsively rich aristocrats. Except, the man before you now is not an aristocrat. He’s a pirate. The same pirate who abducted you. The same pirate who’s out to get your father. And the same pirate you’ve been having a very difficult time not slamming against the wall like this is some brainless romance novel. Get a grip, you blockhead. Closest you’ll ever get to being pinned against the wall is when he’s using you as a makeshift dartboard. Which will very probably happen if it turns out your father really couldn’t care less about you and never coughs up the ransom fee.

You take a shaky sip of wine, and, nice as it is, it doesn’t succeed in immediately soothing your frayed nerves. Which, in your opinion, completely defeats the point of wine, but you make do for now. You just hope you can at least stomach some food.

“Well, this is quite the feast,” you awkwardly say, managing out something like a laugh. It sounds more like a cry for help. “I’m very honoured…Sylus.”

You swear he looks pleased when you finally address him by first name. There are no servants, which is fine by you, and your mood gradually improves as you go about placing some boiled potatoes and rotisserie chicken and fresh green salad on your plate. It all smells divine. The Captain gives a grin. “It’s the least I can do for you, my lady. I have to thank you for being so tolerant of this…what did you call it?” He places the platter of boiled potatoes you’d handed him down back in their place, and lifts his glass of wine to his lips. And he’s gazing at you from over the rim of it. “Ah, yes—an inadvertent evening adventure.”

Heat creeps up your neck, and you look down at your plate. I can’t believe he remembers that! “Haha, um, yes. Quite so. Y-You know, you don’t have to call me by such a formal title.” You place your glass down and pick up your knife and fork. “Just my name is fine. If you know it, that is.”

“Of course I know your name.” He calmly goes about cutting up his chicken, giving you a glance without moving his head, from beneath his brow. The man always tends to execute such gestures in such a way that leaves you feeling a little breathless, and you always look away quickly. And you feel like an idiot. Since when did I allow a man to have such an effect on me? Absolutely beats you.

“Ah, I see.” He doubtlessly did his research on you before you were abducted. Oh, well. You chew away on a piece of lettuce. Just makes this whole thing so much easier to know I’ve been watched this entire time.

You hold back a sigh. Nothing personal, but nonetheless disconcerting.

And the evening carries on rather peacefully—a stark, and almost embarrassing, contrast to your constant inward chaos. You deeply dislike how self-conscious the man makes you, while he just sits there, all relaxed and eternally smug and composed, while you’re barely hanging onto your sanity. I’d best make myself scarce now!

“Well!” you announce, once you’ve finished off your plate and wine, attempting a beam of a smile. “That was a lovely meal. I’m so full! I must return to my quarters now. Thank you so much for your hospitality.”

“You won’t stay for dessert?” The Captain lifts a brow at you, putting his (refilled) wine glass down.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t.” You’re already standing and pushing your chair in, smoothing down your dress. “The main course was more than enough, I assure you. Besides! I wouldn’t want to keep you any longer, me being a hostage and all.” You swiftly curtsy and turn for the door. “Again, thank you.”

“Well, then, allow me to escort you back to your cabin.” He, too, gets to his feet, rounding the table and approaching you. “It’s dark out now, and I doubt you know the way.”

“Oh, I know the way,” you lie, and you sheepishly drop your eyes when he arches a brow at you again. “Sort of.”

“That so,” he says, and then he extends his arm for you to take like the perfect gentleman again. “Well, as you insist on returning, let us go.”

“Ah! Thank you.” You, with an enthusiasm you curse yourself for having, accept his arm, and you begin your walk with the Captain back to your cabin. “I didn’t expect such kindness.”

That smirk looks more like an accommodating smile than something smug this time. “How can I not, when I have such a lovely lady on my arm?” You almost smack him playfully, and instead roll your eyes. “Oh, enough of that.”

Once you both stop outside your room, you give him another curtsy and turn to open your door. “Goodnight, sir—uh, I mean, Sylus.”

The man takes your hand again, placing a peck to the top of it, and that look in his eye really does almost have you shoving him against the wall. Such a notion has you fumbling to open the door and hide away, and he smirks. “Goodnight, my lady.” He looks a little too good in the shadows like this, and you would probably be wise to be afraid. He finally releases your hand. “I enjoyed our time tonight.”

“As did I!” you squeak, avoiding his eyes, smile stiff. Oh, you’re an idiot! Utter idiot! Maybe, at the next stop this ship has, you should take that chance to run. In a flash, you’re peeking out from behind your cabin door. “Goodnight!”

And the last thing you see is his smug little grin you really feel like both smacking and kissing off his face. You wait until his footsteps have faded before screaming into your pillow. Oh, yes, you are an idiot.

Over the next few weeks of the voyage, Sylus takes it upon himself to give you a full tour of the boat and the crew onboard. He introduces them to you, and their attitudes, like Clive and Henry and the twins, are mostly positive toward you. You voice this surprise to the captain.

“Oh, I gave them a talking-to,” he explains, looking very pleased with himself, “the day after you arrived.”

You blink. “Ah. I see.”

And as you continue on your tour of the ship, a sudden call from high above you makes you jump. “Land-ho!”

Everyone drops what they were doing and gathers at the bow of the ship, hands to their foreheads to block out the sun, squinting in the direction which the watchman is pointing.

Far more calmly, the captain leads you to the front of the boat, and the crew parts the way for him, while you stay behind. Someone hands him a spyglass, which he extends and holds up to his right eye. You can’t see anything, for most of the crowd gathered is blocking your view, and eventually Sylus lowers the telescope from his eye, hands it back to one of the female pirates he’d accepted it from, and turns to face everyone. His hands are shoved languidly into his pockets, coat hanging off his broad shoulders, and his silver hair gleams in the sun. “We’re heading due west, right for Othlan, at present. We’ll reach its port city of Othelm in about two days.”

The crew begin chatting amongst themselves, parting the way again for their captain to pass through, and you continue to try and spot the speck of land sighted over the top of the excited crowd. The floppy hat you’d donned earlier after Henry said the sun is “merciless” this time of year doesn’t help much, and you finally give up once he’s returned to your side.

You, with a hand on top of your hat to keep the breeze from blowing it off, blink up at him. “I’ve never been to Othlan before.”

“It isn’t the most interesting of places.” And nor is it the friendliest with the mainland, your country, Rosmon. There’s more of an uneasy, shaky truce between the nations, but as pirates are not strictly allied with anyone in particular, Onychinus will be able to pass through without much of a fuss. You hope.

“Oh,” you say, giving one last glance out to sea, for the crew members are dispersing and going back to their duties now. “Alright.”

“Did you want to see?” Sylus stops in his tracks and half-faces you. “It’s hard to see from this distance. It was only spotted because the watchman”—He points upwards, to the top of the mast—“has the eyes of a hawk.”

“I see.” You squint into the skyline, and you can only just make out the tiniest dark dot, sitting just above the blue horizon, but the sun is blaring down and bouncing off the water, almost blinding you. “It is hard to see, but—look! I can only just spot it.” You point. “Very far away.”

“Yes.” From where you both stand, you can even see the curvature of the planet, and it’s a view you can’t quite get used to. And the man next to you is part of that. You quickly look away before you can start ogling just how exquisite he looks with the breeze softly brushing his hair to the side, out of his eyes, nose and jaw and frame something mighty, as he looks out to sea. Without any doubt, he fits the role as a sea captain and pirate king seamlessly.

“What will we be doing once we arrive?” you ask, brushing some stray strands of hair out of your eyes.

Sylus does not face you, but he tilts his head in your direction, eyes flicking down to you. It’s a motion that’s, as usual, unfairly attractive, and you almost click your tongue in annoyance. “Ideally, my informants stationed there would have received a letter from your father agreeing to the exchange for your return, as my intended destinations never seem to be something I can keep under wraps. So, doubtlessly, the letter would have been sent to Othelm.”

It’s stupid, the little prick of disappointment that’s dealt to that equally stupid muscle in your ribcage by his words. Ideally. Yes, you are, essentially, both a bargaining chip and liability. Extra resources are wasted on you, really—and you should also be eager to get back, but you’re not. You’d like to be, but you’re not.

The smile you give in response succeeds in hiding your disillusionment, however. “Yes, let’s hope so! Fingers crossed my father already has a ship docked there for my boarding.”

“Yes.” He stares at you. “Fingers crossed.”

The next two days fly by like the wind in the sails, and soon, Othelm is directly in sight. Many ships of varying sizes and shapes sit berthed in their respective docks at the port, and people bustle about the area, securing ropes and anchors and carting barrels and crates of goods around.

But everyone, even you, knows the true nature of this port city. Othelm, in all its renowned trading glory, is a thriving pirate hub.

Ruled by Sylus, unquestioningly. The very vessel you’re on right now had drawn the attention of the lookouts and sailors hurrying about the port long ago, as the Onychinus’ flagship approaches with its night-black hull and its signature jolly roger of a red flag and crow in the centre. The Captain’s men stationed here would be fully prepared for his arrival now, and you suddenly feel a sense of foreboding.

Will I be alright? You, a woman, and a captive one, at that, would assuredly be unsafe in such a crime-riddled place as this. You can’t spot a single woman—there would, certainly, be ones, but they would either be brothel workers or female pirates themselves. And you are no safer with a hostile female pirate than you are with a male one, as sad as that makes you. The difference between them is, a female pirate wouldn’t try to violate you in an alley before finally putting you out of your misery. You’d far prefer a woman’s dagger to your jugular than a man’s vicious, bruising grasp, in all potential scenarios.

A knife is a knife. It can be used to slit throats or cut bonds. In this context, your throat is quicker to be sliced open than your escape successful and smooth, regardless of the wielder’s identity.

“I should probably stay down in my cabin, huh?” you comment, veiling your anxiety, keeping Henry company as she goes about readying the anchor for casting. “I have no place wandering around this city.”

“Well, milady,” she begins in reply, straightening and wiping her sweaty brow, “it’s good to see ya so wise and with a rational head here, but I’m afraid ya won’t have a choice.”

You swallow and nervously smile. “Um, how do you mean?”

“I mean, the captain here’ll prob’ly make ya tag along.” She turns to grab a nearby rope. “To make sure ya don’t escape ’n all.”

“What about just…locking me in the cabin?” Is having to follow him around really necessary?

“To be honest, milady, I’m not entirely sure meself, but I presume that’s what’s gonna happen.” Henry offers you a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, yer’ll be safe so long as yer by the Captain’s side.”

You know that much—but you also doubt the man’s willing to go to any great lengths to make sure you are safe. ‘Nothing personal’, which probably includes your well-being. You’re just one of the many aces up his sleeve, and not one he necessarily needs.

Perhaps you could go convince him to allow you to stay in your cabin for the time the ship’s docked here. Bidding farewell to Henry, you turn and make your way back to your quarters, waving a hello to Luke and Kieran as you pass.

And then, out of nowhere, there’s a grating caw of a crow, and something black and feathery obstructs your vision. It flaps to a stop at your side, and you jump to find Sylus’s trusty pet crow, Mephisto, perched quite happily on your shoulder.

“Oh, it’s you.” The bird has apparently taken a liking to you, for it holds something sparkly in its beak and blinks at you in offering. You reach up a hand, stroking its breast feathers, before accepting the little trinket it brought to you. “Aren’t you an intelligent fellow, hm? A far more interesting choice than a parrot, I’d say.”

“Agreed,” a deep voice says from behind you, and you almost leap out of your skin in fright. Startled by your sudden movements, Mephisto caws loudly right in your ear and jumps off your shoulder, gliding over to settle on a certain pirate captain’s broad left shoulder instead. He grins down at you. “I am glad to see I am not alone in my more unconventional tastes.”

“It—It makes a statement,” you reply, rather out of breath, attempting a smile. “It’s definitely more, um, intimidating.”

That grin widens. “Ah. So it works.”

You’ve gotten used to his more acerbic, dry humour thus far, over the weeks you have, in essence, befriended him. At least, you consider him a friend. You’re unsure if it’s mutual, however. You laugh a little. “Ahem, yes, it would seem so.”

“Where were you off to?” Sylus casually asks, lifting a hand and affectionately scratching his pet crow’s head. If a crow is even capable of purring, it does now. The bird nuzzles into his palm. “We are getting ready to disembark.”

“Oh, I was just going back to my cabin.” You weakly gesture behind you, in the general direction of said cabin. “I wouldn’t want to get in the way of anything by tagging along. It’s an unfamiliar and, as you’re well aware of, unsafe place.”

He hums, giving you an assessing look. “You are correct. However, how on earth could I be so cruel as to leave you all alone on a boat? You will be tagging along, and I can ensure your safety.”

“If you’re worried about me running away, you don’t have to be.” You look down at your hands awkwardly. “If you like, you can lock my cabin door.”

“My, you really are strange, aren’t you?” the Captain remarks, crossing his arms. “It almost sounds like you don’t want to go back.”

“Uh, well…” You’re not sure if it’s appropriate to confirm that. “Let’s say…I’ve grown fond of the sea view.”

“Is that so?” Sylus lifts one arm and brushes a hand across his mouth, gazing down at you. “How interesting.”

“But, of course, I do have to return,” you hastily add. Get a grip! Push it any further, and he might leave you here, stranded! You suppose that’s a tad bit kinder of a fate than simply marooning you somewhere. You’d just have to snatch a few coins from a crew member’s pouch, or even his office, and you’d somehow make do in this strange, dangerous city. “My—My father must be worried sick. I can, erm, assure you that he would have sent a letter agreeing to your terms. I assure you.”

“Uh-huh,” is all he replies with, and he lowers his arm back to fold across his chest. You really don’t like that perpetually knowing look of his. It’s simultaneously arrogant and humiliating. And it doesn’t help that his face is easy on the eyes, either, which inadvertently makes things easier to forgive. You’ve found you really quite hate that, actually. “Still. Surely you’d like a tour of the city?” Then Sylus lowers his arms, shoving his hands into his pockets, posture so damn relaxed compared to your tense frame, staring at you from beneath his lashes. “You liked this old ship here so much, sweetheart. Othelm has all kinds of thrills and adventures and things to do, too, you know.”

“Oh, I see,” you weakly reply.

His smirk makes you want to smack him, drown him, kiss him and scream at him all in one breath. “Really, it’s like a manual. The perfect introduction to the pirate life.”

“I see,” you say again, avoiding his gaze. Why does this guy have to be so damn perceptive? It’s not that you want to be a pirate, one who joins in on all the bloodshed and thieving and killing—you just don’t want to go back. And, somehow, you doubt your father has dispatched a letter for Sylus, demanding your return. Despite his rather frightening determination to marry you off to that old duke, you doubt it.

“Either way, you simply can’t hide yourself away down in that stuffy cabin for the rest of the week.” The Captain half-turns to walk away. “Come along. The ship is docking now.”

You hesitate once more, staring at his broad back as he strides away, before heaving a sigh and following after him. Things can’t get any worse, right?

Oh, but they could—especially when it’s pirates and Sylus in question.

You trail after him down the gangplank once the ship docks, trying not to slip on the slimy, wet wood of the wharf as he, with Luke and Kieran flanking him, strides along without a falter to his step. Some other crew members have gathered behind you, their hands resting casually on the hilts of their cutlasses, a dare to those surrounding and watching to just try anything. You slow down and fall into step beside Henry, wishing you had at least some kind of weapon, even though you’re not trained with one.

As if she read your mind, Henry pushes aside her loose-fitting outer vest and hands you a dagger, winking. “You’ll probably need it, milady.”

“Oh.” You breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Henry.”

The attire you chose to wear today proves to be wise: with a baldric hitched around your waist and baggy trousers for your lower half, the dagger fits nicely into one of the empty notches of your belt, and your shoes are far more practical than the heels you were abducted in. They have grip, supportive against the slippery pier you’re walking along now, and the bandana you used to wrap around your hair helps you look more like the part of the pirate.

Blend in, the logical part of your brain had told you earlier this morning, and that’ll lessen the chance of anyone trying anything.

If Sylus had noticed, he’d made no comment. Henry gave you a thumbs-up when she saw you, and the twins gave you two encouraging thumps on the back that almost sent you flying. All that’s left to do now is try to slump your stance and stride a little more, instead of that straight-as-a-rod posture your witch of a governess used to slap into you. She even used to use a switch on you whenever you did something wrong, and the scars on the back of your calves are still fading.

Nobility is a farce, purported to be a life of luxury and little toil and relaxation. Sure, having a full belly at the end of every day and access to a bath and an abundance of clothes to wear is great, but there’s always darker facets to it that remain overlooked, where skeletons reside safely in the closet, and the more illicit is turned a blind eye to. Such an example is your own father.

You’re not entirely sure of what exactly he does, has done, or is embroiled with, but it is nothing moral, as proven by your abduction. Sylus would’ve had a better chance with getting what he wants if you were a ‘beloved daughter’ to your father. However, you have, for much of your life, gone ignored by the only parent you have.

Such is life. Richer or poorer, there are hardships all the way. You’re more fortunate than most, you know this, but it still rather hurts.

Boisterous greetings are exchanged between the crew behind you and the other pirates milling about the port, and a few even approach Sylus to clap a hand over his back. Shared interests in thievery appear to produce a strong sense of camaraderie amongst these people, and the captain, despite his intimidating and rugged and arrogant approach, returns the greetings with a small grin and nod.

The Onychinus head, with his signature pet crow on his left shoulder, continues sauntering through the streets and toward a bouncing pub up ahead. Its sign, nailed into the wood above the building’s door frame, is hanging on for dear life, weather-beaten and grimy. It looks like it might’ve once spelled “Owen’s”, but the E is around the wrong way. Intentional or not, you’re uncertain. Pirates aren’t known for their literacy.

Just outside the pub, the Captain turns and faces the group following after him. “Alright, everyone, you are free to do as you please for the rest of the day. As long as the boat is restocked and cleaned up before nightfall, you may drink to your hearts’ content tonight.”

Immediately, the crew lets out overjoyed cheers and disperse, hurrying off in different directions with their companions. You remain, Henry at your side, with the twins beside the captain, and he turns once more to enter the tavern. “We have business to attend to.”

What business? you want to ask, but you’re immediately deafened by the sheer uproarious volume of the bar, where pirates gulp down jugs of ale and rum and beer, engage in destructive brawls at their respective tables, or rage at each other over games of poker. The place stinks of alcohol, tobacco, fish and unwashed men, and you almost heave your insides out right there.

And it doesn’t look like it’d be an uncommon sight to see in here, either—you have to carefully pick your way through the tables and men and other unidentifiable things you don’t want to find out about on the floor, and it’s clear the place is hardly ever mopped. With a hand over your mouth and nose, you resist the urge to bolt out back into the fresh air, where the stench of fish and filthy pirates is a little less potent.

The other four with you, however, look completely unfazed, and you follow after them as Sylus makes his way through the pub, up for a set of closed-off steps near the back of the alehouse, and barely gives any of the drunk pirates a second glance, even as they slur soused greetings to the man. You keep your head down, and avoid their eyes.

But that appears ineffective—abruptly, out of nowhere, you feel a hand meet your backside, and you yelp, whirling around, more than ready to deal an incensed hand across the bastard’s face. You turn to find a table full of guffawing men, many of them missing teeth, in terrible need of a shave, and puffing glowing pipes of baccy.

“Yer a new face!” your harasser belly laughs, and you almost shriek when he grabs your wrist and tugs you toward him. His grasp is bruising, and you frantically struggle to get away, getting ready to panic. You begin fumbling for your dagger. His companions, all holding sets of playing cards, snicker amongst themselves and watch on with dark glee. “What’s a cute lil’ thing like you doin’ ’round here, eh?”

“Let me go!” you exclaim, enraged and scared, and you lift your free hand to smack his face with all the strength you can muster. It sends his pipe flying out of his mouth, clattering to the ground, and his surprise has him letting your wrist free. Immediately, you back away, rubbing your arm, breathing hard. “Do that again, and I’ll—!”

Your back meets a chest, and a terrified gasp clogs your throat. But the cologne is familiar, something far removed from the reek stifling the air around you, and a large hand meets your shoulder. Your head snaps up to find the face of Sylus, and his set jaw.

“Having fun, boys?” he drawls, gently pushing you behind him. Henry’s standing there also, stepping forward to guard you from the rear, and it takes quite a bit within you not to burst into tears. She gives a comforting squeeze to your upper arm, and softly tugs you to walk away with her. “You won’t wanna see this, milady.”

“What—why? What will he do?” You attempt to throw a glance back, but your view is blocked by Kieran’s taller frame. And then there’s a shatter, a yell, and every pirate in the tavern turns to face the commotion. You’re being herded up the stairs before you can try and catch anything again, and the door at the top of the steps clicks shut just as there’s a pained shriek and collective cheer from down below.

You knew something along these lines would happen to you at some point, as this is the perilous environment you’re now entangled in, but it leaves you greatly shaken regardless. You feel dirty, you’re probably going to cry, and you’re angry. Henry turns and gives you a sympathetic look.

“Don’t ya worry ’bout it anymore, missy,” she soothes, her hand hovering consolingly over the small of your back as she guides you to sit down. “Good thing the cap’n’s fond of ya. Said to us a few weeks ago that if any of us try anythin’, we’ll meet a grisly end.”

“Is…Is that so.” You stiffly take a seat and try to calm yourself, vaguely recalling him saying something along such lines to you. “That’s, uh, kind of him.”

Henry snorts humorously. “He knows this ’as been hard for ya. Sorry that had to happen to ya, though. You got good reflexes!” She grins and jostles your shoulder. “Saw that smack you gave the old scoundrel. Must’ve loosened a few more of ’is teeth!”

You appreciate her attempts at cheering you up, and you crack a wobbly smile. “Yeah. Must’ve.”

Suddenly, you’d really like to go home. And after that happened, slipping away and hiding in a ship set sail back for the mainland isn’t such an ideal notion anymore. Imagine if Sylus hadn’t stepped in? Imagine if you were alone? Compared to them, and their experience in combat, you would be a lost cause.

The ghosting touches of sleazy noblemen that had you spinning around in a rage have got nothing on what you’ve just experienced. You hug yourself and force yourself to relax back into your seat, praying that your father has sent a letter, demanding your return, just so you have a way out of here.

Ten minutes later, the door clicks open, and in enters Captain Sylus. His eyes meet you, trailing up and down your frame in a scrutinising manner, before he strides past and for the door at the end of the corridor. “He won’t be harming you again.” The man casts a glance at you from over his shoulder. “None of them will.”

“Uh, thank you,” you croak, trying to smile again. You rather wish you did the honours yourself. “Much obliged, sir.”

“No need to thank me.” He pauses before the door, pulls out a set of keys from his pocket, and shoves one into the lock. “Luke, Kieran, Henry, you know what you’ve been assigned.”

Henry gets to her feet, smiles, pats your head, and walks over to join the twins. “See ya later, milady. Let’s pray it don’t happen again, but, knee the next guy in the balls, alright? Really give it to ’im!”

That earns her a laugh from you. “Noted, Henry. See you.”

And that leaves you seated here, on the sofa outside Sylus’s presumed second office, the man still standing outside the door. He’s looking at you. “Are you alright?”

You heave a sigh and look down at your hands on your lap. “Yeah. Just a little shaken. Thank you for stepping in.”

“Again, no need.” The Captain turns the doorknob and begins to open it. “I have things to attend to now.” And then he points to the door diagonal to his. “If you would like to rest, there is a bed in there.”

“But, isn’t it your room?”

“I hardly mind.” He shoots you an impish grin, but it’s not unkind. “It seems you’ve convinced yourself you’re a bother, when you’re the hostage here, so isn’t it the other way around?”

“And you call me strange,” you mumble, scratching the back of your neck, “when you treat me like this.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing!” You jump to your feet and hurry for the door he’d pointed to, offering a bright smile. “Thank you so much for your kindness. I won’t keep you any longer.”

And you swear you hear him chuckle as you shut the door. He’s rather good at distracting you, even if he doesn’t seem to try.

Perhaps that’s the thing. He doesn’t need to try.

A few days have passed since that incident, and you let Henry drag you about the safer streets, pushing it to the back of your mind. But you notice one thing—the pirates bustling about the place seem particularly avoidant of you.

Is that her? You’d heard a few of the escorts serving ale and female pirates murmur amongst themselves. The Captain’s woman?

“The Captain’s woman?” you gasp at Henry, rather mortified. “Is…Is that what I’m being called now?” “Gotta cut ’em some slack, missy.” The woman pats your shoulder. “’Tis a bit of a shock, because he ain’t done that for nobody else in the past.”

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish. “Ah.”

It just makes you more eager to get back on the boat and leave this port city, for its heavy atmosphere, violent crime and the looks everyone gives you has the hair on the back of your neck standing on end. However, no harm comes to you—it appears the warning Sylus demonstrated proved effective.

If only my father could see me now. He’d either have a heart attack, throw a hissy, or personally march you off to the dukedom himself. You, a noblewoman, dressed in the tattered, sun-faded rags of a pirate? Those debutantes would drop to the ground in a faint.

You would’ve, too, if you were that age. No wonder your father was in such a hurry to marry you off—you are now well past the common and ideal age for women to be wed, and you think you did a rather good job at putting it off as long as you have. And, now, despite the less-than-ideal circumstances, you’re no longer so glad to have been kidnapped, but it’s still better than having to warm the bed of some squalid old man you don’t know from a bar of soap.

But, eventually, the day arrives for everyone to board the ship again and head off to the next destination. You’re probably one of the first to hurry on the ship, a safe haven from the malignant attitudes and perturbing stares you receive from man and woman alike at the port, and somewhere you can finally think.

It was a harsh wake-up call for you, all of the commotion and the incident you’re still reeling from. It proves as a reminder that, although Sylus and Henry and the twins and the flagship crew treat you a little kinder than the rest, pirates are still pirates, and are evil people by profession.

This has been a fun adventure, while it lasted. You wait until Sylus has boarded the ship, given the command to set sail, and retreats back to his study before you approach him.

You knock on his door, and the answering “come in” has you, with some hesitance, clicking open the door and entering. You swallow, drawing in a deep breath. Alright. It’s okay. Just pretend he’s ugly and nasty and horrible like the rumours, say your piece, and get out of here. Stop overthinking things!

“Ah, it’s you, sweetheart.” Great. In an instant, all your resolve has crumbled, all because he’s, apparently, taken a liking to addressing you endearingly in a tone so deep, it reminds you of the ocean. That sounds corny. And it makes you want to jump in said ocean, and willingly become fish food.

“Uh, yes, it’s me,” you reply, clearing your throat. “I’m just here to, erm, ask if you received a letter from my father?”

Hours ago, when the last of the resources were being loaded onto the ship, you’d noticed the captain speaking with another man far more well-dressed than all the other surrounding scruffy buccaneers. He’d handed Sylus a bunch of letters, tied securely together by a string, and your heart had immediately lifted with hope. Surely, there would be a letter in that pile that would mean your return home.

The man pauses in his present perusing of said pile of letters, and looks up at you from above the rims of his glasses. He doesn’t say anything for a brief pause, before he puts the paper in his hand down, slips off his glasses, and leans back in his chair. “Unfortunately, my lady, no.”

You immediately deflate. You look down at your hands and stiffly pick at your nails. “…Ah. I see.”

“I am sorry,” Sylus says, but his tone sounds impersonal. You half-consider asking him if you can double-check the pile of letters, just in case—however, you know that would be pushing your luck. Instead, you glance up and try to smile. “Oh, no, it’s alright. It…might just…take a little while longer. I apologise for the wait.”

“Mm,” he hums in agreement, and you avert your eyes from his, unable to hold his stare. There’s a long, tense moment of silence, before you look at him again. “You don’t have to answer if this is too, uh, personal, but may I ask what it is my father took from you?”

Sylus, again, doesn’t answer you for a beat, before standing from his seat and lifting a hand to tug at his collar. His sleeves are rolled up at the elbows, revealing his corded, toned forearms, and you try not to gawk at him. Dammit, I always had a weak spot for tanned men. His bronzed skin looks positively delicious in this low light, and maybe it’s time for you to leave. Before you actually jump him this time.

Besides, you’ve been rather uninclined to male company since that mishap at the tavern. Every time it comes to mind, it churns your stomach painfully.

“Your father is currently in possession of something I discovered myself,” he begins, rounding his desk, crossing his arms and leaning back against it. “Emphasis on the I. It is something called a ‘Protocore’.”

You turn your head to look at him sidelong, puzzled. “Proto-what?” “A Protocore,” he repeats. “Wanderers are thought to be extinct. No one knows how they came to be. It’s been centuries, almost an entire millenia, since the last Protocore was recorded. Five years ago, I found one.”

“I see.” You’re still not entirely sure what he’s getting at, but you understand the gist of it. “So, it’s…some kind of mystical item that provides supernatural powers, perhaps, like in those fairytales?”

His lips twitch with an amused grin. “If you like. Except, they are filled with energy I don’t know how to extract and tap into yet, but it is connected to my Evol, I believe.”

You straighten, startled. “I’m sorry, did you say Evol?”

“I did.” Sylus lifts a hand, and something red and black and like mist gathers around his palm. The empty pitcher of water on the coffee table lifts and clatters to the ground, and you let out an exclamation of surprise. “It’s a less well-known factor about me.” He tilts his head and smiles at you, but it’s sharp as a knife. “Usually, those who see me use it don’t live to see the morrow.”

So the rumours are true. Your heart drops. “Oh. Oh.”

Then, realisation hits you in the face. “Wait. Hold on.” You take a step closer and stare up at him with wide eyes. “Is the reason why you hate my father, why you’re the most-wanted criminal of today, and why my father is out for you…” It’s a little less harder to hold his gaze now. “Is because he turned you in?”

His mouth is tightly shut as he gazes at you, long and hard, before he lets out a breathy chuckle. “Oh, yes, you’re a smart woman, alright.”

You falter, taking a step back. “Oh. Well. This is…” You run a hand through your hair. “This is something.”

“It is,” Sylus croons in agreement. “I was only a boy.” You glance up at him. “How old are you?”

“I am twenty-eight.” He tilts his head. “I thought that was common knowledge.”

You shrug. “Some people say you’re hundreds of years old, an immortal alien creature, and the devil incarnate. Rumours tend to spiral out of control and be exaggerated.”

“That is true.” The man gives you an assessing look. “And how old are you?”

“Well, you know that the night you kidnapped me was my engagement ceremony,” you say, shrugging again. “But I’m actually past the ideal age women are married off. My father was in a hurry to get rid of me. That event was celebrating my betrothal to a duke in the northwest. I’m only a little younger than you.”

Sylus gives a low hum. “Ah. That is the reason why you weren’t all that worried about the abduction.”

You smile wryly. “The man is my father’s age. I was being congratulated left and right because I was about to marry into such an affluent family and achieve a grand title, but…” It has been drummed down your throat your entire life: you are the daughter of a noble, his only offspring, thus, it is only protocol that you would be shipped off somewhere, to some man, who you will long outlive. Yes, the money and position and power and life is attractive, but you just didn’t want it. It wasn’t even because you wanted to marry for love—you just didn’t want another set of chains to be locked around your ankles, more than you already have from your father.

Your mouth twists to the side, and you shrug again. “I don’t know. I just didn’t want to get married. Not to a man thrice my age.”

“I suppose that’s understandable.”

“Anyway, this ‘inadvertent evening adventure’ turned out to be far more than I’d bargained for that night I sat here in front of you.” You grin up at him brightly, and then it fades. “Apart from being assaulted, it’s been…fun, I guess.”

“I…am sorry that happened to you.”

You shrug it off, not wanting to talk about it. “I’m surrounded by pirates. You guys try your hand at anything.”

“If you are suggesting that I would lower myself to such a thing…” Sylus straightens in his spot, towering over you. “You are sorely mistaken.” A hand of his comes up and tucks a stray strand of hair behind your right ear, and his gaze roots you to the spot. “That man met his end in a fitting way for harming a woman.” His thumb brushes your cheek. “And, as long as you are on my ship, you’ve nothing to fear.”

You resist the urge to lean into his palm and look down, biting back a bashful smile. “Oh, well, thank you, Sylus.”

“Think nothing of it, sweetheart. I may be a pirate, and I may have kidnapped you, but I do not happen to be completely immoral.”

“Nothing personal, right?” you say, voice strangely hushed.

The Captain’s shapely lips lift at the corners, and his eyes aren’t such a lethal shade of red anymore. His hand drops back to his side. “Nothing personal.”

Sylus revealing the true nature of his history and relationship with your father ended in connecting a whole lot of dots for you: it explained why your father’s reputation is so good, even though he is ‘new money’ and of commoner origins, why he was in a rush to marry you into even higher status, and his elusive countenance. You actually can’t believe Sylus chose not to kill you—wouldn’t it be the perfect revenge against the man who ruined his life from childhood?

The Empire is, despite openly encouraging people to turn Evolvers in, secretive as to exactly why. They brush it off with an excuse that such people are “dangerous” and “alien”—but it confuses you terribly as to why they haven’t revealed to the public, in the man’s wanted poster plastered across all stretches of the Empire and beyond, that Sylus is an Evolver. Wouldn’t it be the cherry on top? Wouldn’t it be the perfect selling point to really motivate people to hunt the man down and capture him?

The answer is simple, you found, after mulling over it for a good long while afterwards: it would make no difference to his reputation anyway, and Sylus is simply too powerful. He is too powerful an adversary, too influential a figure, and too loved as a pirate king to tear down so easily. He has mastered the art of evading the Imperial Navy. They hardly even try anymore, in fact.

But, perhaps the true nitty-gritty of it is that Sylus has his fingers stuck in everything. He makes deals with nobles, maybe even the Emperor himself, and thrives off of their desperation to keep their illicit trading with the pirate king under wraps. Why does he always get away from them by just a hair? Why does he always remain undefeated?

Corruption. And Sylus is at the centre of it all. The uncrowned king of the briny deep. He, in essence, shoulders all maritime trade. He, in essence, rules not only the verboten business of the sea, but of the land, as well. He, in essence, is the true power behind the golden-gilded Imperial throne.

He’s too useful to dispose of. Too powerful to contend with. The Emperor is a weakling compared.

So, perhaps the reason why he is dead set on getting that Protocore-thing back from your father is because it may just be the very thing the Emperor needs. The very key to finally dethroning Sylus. But, just what is the Protocore?

Not even Sylus knows. Or he’s just not telling you. Why would he tell you? The daughter of the very man who brought about this mess, who threw a wrench in the pirate king’s plans? You stare out your window, seated on your bed in your cabin, gnawing on your thumbnail, buried in your thoughts. He surely knows. The man is too cunning to not know.

You just hope it isn’t anything too risky. Knowing that man, however, it’s guaranteed. And you just hope you don’t get too caught up in the crossfire, if everything ends in blowing to hell.

Days melt into weeks, and weeks melt into months. Soon, you’re sure it’s been at least half a year since you first arrived on this ship, and now you have visited more places than you can count. Henry started showing you a few tricks with how to effortlessly gut an assailant without a hitch. You spend time chatting with the crew members up on deck, helping out with the odd menial task, and gradually adjusting to the seafarer’s life.

One little responsibility you’ve taken up is mending some of the crew members’ torn garments. You’ve always been rather good at embroidery, much to your governess’s (very rare) delight, and you gladly accept anyone’s clothing to sew back together.

Some of the woman pirates aboard the ship expressed wonder at the high quality of your needlework, the seamless stitches patching their ripped shirts or trousers up to perfection again. It proved a good pastime for you instead of just sitting in your room and reading, doing nothing, and it makes you feel useful. Especially when you get to redo the loose and poorly-sewn hems of their clothing, as not one of them appears to be much good with a needle and thread.

“Always get me clothes caught on the odd nail or hook,” Henry had lamented once, sitting by your side and peacefully observing as you mended one of her colourful bandanas. “Before you came along with those nimble hands of yers, most of us used to just continue on with massive holes in our pants or shirts! Then the cap’n got us some thread and all that to fix our clothes, but we didn’t really know what we were doin’.”

“I can see.” The shirt she had given you to repair had the most horrid stitching you’d ever seen. First, you carefully removed the yarn, threaded the needle, and began repatching it. “It’s alright.” You smiled at her. “I enjoy doing this. And it’s really quite easy to get the hang of, too. See? I could even do a bit of decorating for you, if you’d like.”

Word spread, and soon many of the crew’s clothing had piled up in your cabin, ready for you to mend—and even a certain someone knocked on your door and leaned against the door frame.

“If you’re unopposed,” Sylus said, lifting a neatly folded shirt in the air, “I have a few things that need stitching.”

“Alright,” you’d agreed, accepting the garment. Its material was highly expensive, with gold thread and intricate embroidery. “It might take a while, though. I’ve got…” You glanced at the mountain of shirts and pants and other things gathered by the closet. “A lot to get through.”

“Take your time.” And he’d even ruffled your hair. “It’s not urgent.”

Then, Sylus started turning up with the odd trinket and jewellery. A lot of jewellery. It only ever happened whenever the ship would make a stop at a port, and the man had taken a strange liking to showering you with gifts.

You stared at the pair of cream pearl earrings in the velvet box. “You…got me these?”

The Captain was standing on the threshold of your cabin, hands in his pockets, head inclined down to you. “I did. I thought they would suit you.”

“Pearls suit anybody,” you blurted, before realising how that sounded. “That is to say, I am very grateful for this gift, Sylus. They are lovely.”

“Try them on.” He lifted one hand from a pocket and brushed some hair away from one side of your face, tucking it behind your ear. You shivered slightly, trying not to preen at his touch. “Let me see them on you.”

“Uh, alright.” You turned away before he could see how flustered you were. “Let me, um, get my mirror.”

After that, he always returned from trips into cities with jewellery, clothes, or other miscellaneous luxuries you’re quite overwhelmed at receiving. And then you start overthinking things, keeping yourself up at night, mulling over every single act of generosity toward you, and that’s when you decide to get up and cool yourself off with some fresh sea air.

You’re an utter fool, you chastise yourself, tugging your cool, silken robe shut to fend off the chill. Another gift from him. Pull yourself together! He’s most likely fattening you up for the slaughter. Leading you along to let your guard down, and then you’re dead meat!

Most crew members are in their bunks and hammocks by now, while some remain out on guard and watch above deck, and you make your way up to a more secluded area where you can be alone to clear your head.

Only, someone’s already there and enjoying a glass of whiskey.

“Oh,” you say, before you can remember to be quiet and slip away unnoticed. Their head turns to you, and you recognise the build as the captain’s. You awkwardly curtsy in apology, even though you’re in a robe and nightgown. “Apologies, sir. I didn’t know anyone else would be here.”

“It’s late,” he replies instead, lifting his glass to his lips. You remain a polite distance away, ready to turn and leave, but he continues. “What are you doing up?”

What am I, a child? You purse your lips. “I can’t sleep.”

Sylus hums, and his head turns to gaze out to sea again. “I am the same.”

Before you can think better of it, you approach the man and come to a stop beside him, a good metre between you. You’re not about to risk giving into temptation. “Aren’t you cold?”

He chuckles. “I am not, but thank you for your concern, sweetheart.”

“Ah.” What were you going to do if he was? Offer him your robe? You’re chilly enough on your own, even with the dressing gown. This was a very bad idea. You clutch the railing you’re both leaning against. “No worries.”

It’s silent for a few more beats, and you can’t stand the tense atmosphere any longer, so you open your mouth to take your leave, but Sylus beats you to it. “Care for a drink?” Your mouth falls open, before you click it shut, awkward. “Oh, you don’t have to. It would be a long walk from here to your quarters. I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”

“Sweetheart,” his chest rumbles with a chuckle again, and you can feel his eyes on you, “this is my private balcony.”

You gasp, reeling back. Oh, gods, imagine how this must look! A woman, dressed in a thin, mercifully modest, nightgown, visiting the very man she has an uncomfortable amount of sexual tension with, at night? Especially this late, where it’s quiet and those onboard are mostly asleep? He must think I’m so pathetic! What an idiot!

“I’m—I’m very sorry,” you fall over your words, blazing hot with humiliation. You take three hasty steps back. “I didn’t know, I promise you. I was only wandering about aimlessly, looking for somewhere to think. This was terribly rude of me. I’ll, um, I’ll leave now. Again, I apologi—”

“I never told you to leave,” Sylus softly cuts in, and he sounds so smug. But he places his glass down, faces you, and takes a step forward. You can’t see his face; he’s just one tall silhouette of muscle and arrogance, horribly good at driving you mad, and you clutch at the front of your robe, finding it uncomfortably hard to breathe. “I’m not averse to your company.”

“Oh…” You lower your head and stare down in the general direction of your slippered feet. It’s too dark to see anything, really, as the moon isn’t out tonight. The scent of his cologne and body wash and shaving cream is almost overpowering. And it’s getting harder to resist the urge to not just grab his collar and wrench him down to kiss you. Get a grip, you buffoon. You think this is a romance novel or something? He’d sooner keelhaul you than return such affections! “Well, that’s kind of you.”

He’s close. Standing right in front of you. You can feel his body heat. And you jump when his hand suddenly meets your chin and lifts it. “You know, I had always wondered what on earth I was going to do with all that jewellery of mine.”

“O-Oh?” You swallow and smile unsteadily, despite him probably not being able to see you. If this is his private balcony, why doesn’t he have any lights on, or a few candles lit? You should’ve brought a chamberstick with you. “Is that, uh, so?”

“Mhm,” he hums deeply. “And then I thought: why not just gift them to the only woman aboard who knows what to do with them?” Sylus’s hand moves, lifting to brush his knuckles against your cheek. You shiver, and not from the cold. “Imagine my happiness when I saw how flawlessly they suited you.”

You try not to think about how all that jewellery is likely stolen goods, and their original owners are either dead or still out there, stripped of their wealth, all because of this one man. “I don’t quite know where to start repaying you.”

“You don’t repay gifts, sweetheart.” His hand is warm. “Besides, isn’t it the least I can do?”

“To be honest,” you begin, voice cracking slightly, and you clear your throat, “I, um, there’s one thing I don’t really understand.”

Is he doing it on purpose, the way he caresses your cheek? Damn the man. “And what is that?” “My father is responsible for you leading a life of piracy.” Your words make his hand stop. “I’m his daughter. Aren’t you at least a little resentful of me?”

“If anything, it should be you who is resentful of me, sweetheart.” Sylus shakes his head at you. “Are you forgetting who’s the vile abductor here?”

“Oh, no, of course not.” You twist your robe’s tie around in your hands. “I just—well…” You tilt your head to the side and avert your eyes. “I would understand if you decided to send my head back on a platter to my father as a pleasant little message to hurry up.”

He snorts. “Are you saying you’d let me?”

You shrug. “I say this because I know you won’t.” Then you give him an unsure glance. “I think.”

“Rest assured, I will not.” The Captain then grabs your hand and lifts it to his lips, kissing your knuckles. “I’ve said this countless times before. It’s nothing personal.”

“Sounds pretty personal to me,” you mutter, flushing. “You must be going out of your mind with impatience. He didn’t even bother to send a letter agreeing to your terms.” Is a Protocore more important than his own daughter?

“That is why we are set on-course for Rosmon right now.” He lowers your hand from his mouth, but doesn’t let go. “I have plenty of less-sanguine methods of procuring an item without mailing a human head to someone.”

“That’s a relief,” you softly laugh, still feeling feverish. I should probably leave now. Stay here any longer, and you will be pinning this man to the wall. “That’s, er, all I wanted to say.”

“So you did ‘wander about aimlessly’ in search of me?” Sylus teases in that sultry tone of his. “Goodness, sweetheart. If you wanted to speak to me so badly, you could’ve just said so.”

“I—no, I really didn’t mean to disturb you here,” you insist, humiliated. “I know how that must’ve looked. Those really weren’t my intentions. Please, just—forget it ever happened.”

“Why should I?” It appears he doesn’t intend on letting you off the hook tonight. “You got my hopes up.”

“Wh-What?” Your heart’s in your mouth at this rate. “I—! That’s—I didn’t…”

“A cruel woman, you are,” Sylus taunts, even going so far as to step away and cross his arms. “What else was I supposed to think?” You put your face in your hands. “I’m terribly sorry, Sylus. I don’t know how else I’m supposed to explain myself to you. I swear, none of that was my intention! Stop teasing me!”

He pretends to heave a forlorn sigh. “I suppose I’ll just have to spend the rest of my life wandering aimlessly about these seas, dreaming of what could’ve been, forever heartbroken by one woma—”

That’s when you let out an exasperated noise, lash a hand out, grab the collar of his shirt, and wrench him down, like you’ve been dying to for months. You still can’t really see him, so you blindly push yourself up onto your toes and head for where you picture his mouth to be—and your judgement proves accurate, for Sylus immediately uncrosses his arms, grabs your hips, and pulls you flush against him, meeting you halfway.

The Captain’s lips slot directly over yours, and they’re as soft and satiny and hot as you’d imagined them to be. Your hands are balled into fists on his chest, tightly clutching at his shirt, and one of Sylus’s hands comes up from a hip and cups your right cheek, tilting further into your mouth, deepening the kiss. His lips move, vehement and slow, prying your lips open. You squeak into his mouth as his tongue enters, laving against your own, and you can taste the aftermath of the whiskey he was enjoying earlier. It’s a rich, smokey tang that you find yourself enjoying, as if it’s enough to get drunk off of, and you go limp against him. The one hand left on your side slides to wrap around your waist, splayed against the small of your back, keeping you upright as you tug on the silver strands of hair at the back of his neck. You’re trying to push yourself up higher, to meet him far more closely and comfortably, and Sylus takes that chance to turn you around, back you up against the railing, and continue his burning incursion on your mouth.

“Mmph—can’t—oh!” You try to break away for some air, but he’s far more eager than you’d initially gambled, and you’re cut off by his tongue swathing against your lips, diving back in, leaving you thoroughly inarticulate. You’re probably going to shred his shirt through with your nails from how tightly you’re grasping it, clawing to find some kind of grounding. You can’t keep up with him; Sylus’s ministrations are deep and passionate and sensual, you’re trying to match his speed, hardly lacking in vigor, but you’re running out of oxygen.

My lungs! They feel as if they’re about to burst, so you pound one fist against his wide chest and squirm, whining into his mouth. “Sy—Sylus—air!”

You can see him now, as he finally breaks away; the moon’s peeping out from behind a cluster of clouds, his hair is identical to its pale beams, mussed from you running your hands through it, and he blinks at you, as if drawn from a haze. You’re breathing hard, gulping in the oxygen, offering him a shaky smile. “…S-Sorry, just a bit out of air.”

Sylus is gazing at you with an intensity that makes your heart both stop, plummet, and leap, and the intimate region between your thighs is burning. You blurt out whatever comes to mind to fill the awkward silence. “Um, I didn’t know you were such a good kisser.” You look away and to the side, lost for what to do and say. “And, uh, I’m sorry for grabbing you like that, um…I just needed to, you know, shut you up.”

“Do you know…” he says instead, one of the man’s hands brushing back a loose strand of hair, eyes roving over your face. “How angry I was when that man harassed you?” You blink. Why is he bringing that up now? You’d rather not talk about it. “…No.”

His smirk is something that instills a deep sense of dread within you—not for your life, but for another’s. Another’s that’s already long gone. “I almost razed that pub, that town, to the ground. With every one of those repulsive bastards inside. That man got off very lightly for what he really deserved.”

Your mouth twists to the side. “Didn’t you kill him?”

Sylus’s teeth flash with that sharp smile. “Far too quickly.”

Lowering your head, you bite back a smile. “I wish I’d had the honour.”

He lets out a breathy chuckle and buries his face into your neck, clutching you close. He’s quiet for a few moments, and you try not to preen too much at his previous comments. He’d go to such lengths for you, a captive, and the daughter of the very man he hates? Your cheek rests on his shoulder, and you allow yourself to smile. I suppose he won’t make me walk the plank just yet.

The man’s large frame is warm and wards off the cold, and your hands are gently rubbing into his back, something that makes him purr delightedly into your nape. “I was wondering how long it would be before you finally found the courage.”

“Uh, sorry?” Your hands pause, and then you flinch when Sylus begins placing soft kisses to your skin, nibbling lightly, before he finally bites down and soothes the sting with his tongue. You jolt upright, mind blank, and he laughs softly, one of his hands cupping the back of your head. “I, um, I’m not quite—” Your head falls down onto his shoulder, and your nails dig themselves into his back, through his shirt. “What you—hm!—mean…”

“Sweetheart, I am no fool,” Sylus murmurs against your neck, the other hand around your middle tugging you closer just that little more. At this rate, he’ll flatten you against him. “Did you think you were being subtle with the way you look at me?” Oh, just wonderful. You burn with mortification and embarrassment. “I…didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“It was amusing,” he chuckles, lips now pressing against your collar, “if that’s any consolation.”

You keep your face hidden in his shoulder. “Not really.”

“I kissed you back, didn’t I?” Sylus emerges from your neck and stares down at you, and that maddening smirk has you conflicted between pushing him away and pulling him back down again. It doesn’t help that his eyes flick to your mouth and back up to your eyes, his top teeth tucked beneath his bottom lip. “And, I dare say, I enjoyed it thoroughly.”

You lower your head and wriggle out from between him and the railing, too humiliated to look at him anymore. “I, well…it was okay. I think I should probably leave now.”

“Not so fast, lovely.” He grabs your elbow and pulls you back, leaning in—and that’s when he firmly tips your head up, his other arm around your waist again. “You have to give me a goodnight kiss first.”

“You’ve gotten awfully fond of her as of late, boss,” Kieran begins casually, as if only commenting on the weather. “Giving her special treatment and all.”

“Right,” agrees Luke, parking his behind on the Captain’s desk, making Sylus click his tongue in irritation. The mask conceals Luke’s grin, but his amused tone doesn’t. “It’s already been, like, six months, at least. Never seen you so polite and charming around a woman before.”

“I do believe you’re overanalysing things,” Sylus remarks, not looking up from the paperwork he’s busy signing. “It’s merely treating a noble lady with the respect she deserves. Something called manners.” The Captain gives Luke a pointed look. “Something you two could learn a thing or two about, it would seem.”

“Uh-huh,” Kieran draws out, waltzing over from the window to stand before the desk. “Been a long time since you ever cared about decorum and respect, sir.”

“Especially since she’s the daughter of the very man who, I dunno…” Luke selected a pen from the desk and twirled it around his fingers idly. “Maybe destroyed your entire childhood?”

Sylus, already used to such antics from the two boys, gives no outward reaction. “I am assuring that the goods remain intact.” He finishes signing one document and begins on another. “I’ve no need to explain myself to you two.”

Kieran snickers. “You’re only digging yourself a deeper grave with that one, sir.”

“And they sure are taking a while to get back to you about her ladyship, aren’t they?” Luke drops the pen and then leans over to grab an envelope, buried beneath the mountain of paperwork on the captain’s desk, and holds it up, as if only just discovering its existence, and it’s the most interesting thing in the world. The seal of the letter is broken, its crest one they all recognise, and Luke smirks. “Or, maybe they have, but you’re just…stalling.”

“And that is so terribly out-of-character for our dearest Captain Sylus,” Kieran quips, crossing his arms. “It’s also terribly out-of-character for our cold and intimidating and oh-so-chaste captain to smooch up a storm with his archenemy’s darling daughter.”

Sylus coolly places his pen down, takes off his reading glasses, and leans back in his chair. But there’s a set to his jaw, a sharpness to his gaze, that immediately puts the twins on guard. “I do believe the bilge cleaners could use an extra pair of hands or two.”

“See? He keeps avoiding the topic,” Luke hisses to Kieran, as if their captain isn’t right in front of them, and as if he doesn’t look like he’s about to maroon them. “Poor guy. Does he really think no one could see them? All that charm, and he hasn’t gotten any action in his life.”

“Yes, I think a demotion from first and second mate really would prove a nice little reprieve from your duties.” Sylus puts on his glasses and picks up his pen again. “Apparently, there’s a rat infestation in the bottom of the ship’s hull. I think you’ll be plenty occupied helping the crew out down belo—”

“No need, sir!” Hurriedly, Luke scrambles off the desk and they rush for the door, giving their Captain hasty salutes. “We won’t bother you any more! We know full well how busy you are! Have a good rest of your afternoon, boss!”

And the door slams shut. The wearied Captain Sylus releases a sigh. I need a nap.

Sylus was invited to join in on the partying, but he had declined. Usually, he’d be unopposed to sharing a couple of drinks with his crew and enduring their awful jokes, but, tonight, the captain is busy nursing a glass of wine with his paperwork. And a particular letter on his desk.

So, when there is a knock at his door, he heaves a sigh and clicks it open. “Luke, I already said—”

“Ooh, look who it isssss.” He’s mildly surprised to be welcomed with a drunken smile and the swaying frame of his dearest hostage. “The gorgeous Captain Sylus!”

He lifts a brow, one corner of his mouth curling up. “Oh, my. What a wonderful compliment to receive from such a beauty as yourself.”

You giggle. “Y’know, I can never tell when you’re being—” hiccup, “—sarcastic or not.”

Sylus leans a forearm up against the door frame, looming over you, but that doesn’t seem to deter your inebriated self in the least. The scent of alcohol is overpowering, and he’s thoroughly amused now. “I prefer to keep my cards close to my chest, sweetheart.”

“Little too close!” The woman lands a smack to his other arm. “Got any rum? Henry showed me this game called ‘the cup of sacrifice’. It was gross! Beer, ale and salt do not go together.”

“You’re not going to throw up, are you?” Sylus gently grasps your shoulders to steady you. “I’d prefer you to not do so in my office.”

“Noooo! I won’t throw up.” You tip forward, despite his firm hold on you, and your forehead meets his chest. Your slurred words are muffled by his shirt. “I do feel a little—hic—squeamish, though.”

The Captain can’t help but huff out a laugh. “Goodness, you have adjusted to the seafaring life, haven’t you?” He eases you from his chest. “One might even say you’re a full-blown lady pirate now.”

Your head tilts lethargically up at him. “I’d rather that than becoming a duchess.”

“Oh?” Sylus wraps an arm around your shoulder and guides you into his office, shutting the door behind him with his foot, and helps you toward one of the couches. “And why is that?”

“Because,” you say, words garbled, “I don’t wanna marry some paltry old duke. I prefer…” And that’s when you surprise him by reaching up, grabbing his chin, and tilting his face this way and that. “You.”

“I’m flattered,” he croons, gently grabbing your wrist and removing your hand from his face. You slump into the sofa, head laid back against the cushion, smile dopey. You reach up again and poke his cheek. “Yeah. I’d rather marry you.”

That makes him pause. He stares. “That so?”

“Uh-huh.” Your arm flops down at your side. “I don’t want to go back.”

The man straightens and turns to pour a cup of water from the pitcher on his desk. Sylus extends it to you. “I thought any woman would like to become a duchess.”

You give a drunken snort and sloppily drink the water. “Yeah, probably. Is it, hic, so weird that I just don’t…” You sluggishly lean forward and place the cup on the coffee table. “Wanna be forced to bear some old guy’s heirs?”

“I suppose not,” he acquiesces.

“Call me superficial, but he’s ugly, and you’re not.” You flop an arm over your eyes. “Ugh, I have a headache. Anyways, you’re obviously the better choice here.”

Sylus crosses his arms. “That’s terribly kind of you.”

“Can you stop giving me two-word answers?” It was actually four words, but you hardly notice, giving a hiccup and removing your arm to glare weakly at him. “You kissed me. Doesn’t that mean you want to marry me too?”

The Captain cracks a little grin, and takes the seat beside you. “Not necessarily, sweetheart.”

That’s when you wave a hand dismissively. “Was joking, anyway. What’s your hair care regimen?”

Your spontaneity barely fazes him now. He refills your cup, then pours his own. “Why do you ask?”

“’Cause your hair’s so soft.” A hand comes down on his head and pats it. “Dunno how you manage it when spending weeks at sea. You—” hiccup, “—are so strange.”

Sylus grabs your hand and kisses your knuckles. “Let’s say that it’s a secret, my lady. Now, how about getting you back to your cabin and into bed, hm? You’ll have a horrible hangover in the morning.”

“Ooh, you gonna join me?” Your forehead leans laggardly on his shoulder. You giggle again. “You look warm. I get a little cold down in that cabin. Sometimes, the water comes smacking right up against the window…”

“What a terrible state of affairs,” he humours, easing you to your feet, arm wrapped securely around your middle. Your head lolls against his shoulder, and Sylus keeps you steady. “Regrettably, it would be most unbecoming for an unwed man and woman to spend the night in the same room and bed, sweetheart.”

“Oh…!” You appear to only be just sober enough to finally realise the connotations of your words. “No, no, that’s not what I meant…” Sylus briefly considers picking you up and carrying you as you abruptly stumble over thin air, speech slurred from the booze. “I meannnn, I’m not averse to it…but—”

“That’s a dangerous thing to say when you’re drunk, my lady.” He opens his door, sweeps you up into his arms, and turns in the direction of your cabin. The sudden sensation of the ground disappearing beneath your feet has your intoxicated self disoriented and clutching at his shirt. Sylus grunts and readjusts his hold. “Fortunately for you, I am no knave who would take advantage of a defenceless woman.”

“See? Marriage material.” A forefinger lightly jabs at his chest, and his eyes snap down to you. “Could you get me some more rum? We need to toast to this!”

“I think you’ve had quite enough rum for one night.” She is wasted. A rambling nonsense. Nonsense that’s probably going to make him lose sleep tonight.

“You can never—” You let out a very unladylike burp. “—have enough rum.”

Sylus can hear the boisterous celebrations of the rest of the crew down on the main deck, and he holds back a sigh. “I suppose they taught you a few of their favourite drinking games?”

“Sure did!” If it weren’t for his firm stature and balance, perhaps your staggering as you jubilantly threw up a hand in merriment would’ve sent the both of you stumbling. “Real fun. Never did anything like that at those dull old balls!”

“Sounds like the noble life is terribly boring, hm?”

“So boring! It’s…” Your fogged mind has to think hard about what to say next. “Nice to let loose, y’know? Probably why I like this boat and crew s’much.”

“Strange until the end, you are,” Sylus softly remarks, amused, and he gently guides you down the corridor for your cabin. “Almost there. You lie down and I’ll go get you some water, alright?”

“Aren’t pirates meant to be ruthless thugs?” you mindlessly, sluggishly muse, fumbling for the doorknob of your room before the captain takes charge and opens it for you. “So unrealistic. You’re the nicest pirate I’ve ever met.”

“I believe I’m the only pirate you’ve ever met.” He sets you down on the bed, straightens, and turns to open a window. The sea is calm tonight, and so is the cool breeze. “Other than my crew. And, yes, I’m likely the only ‘nice’ one out there. If deciding not to kill you is considered ‘nice’.”

“I’d say generous,” comes your muffled voice from the pillows you’ve buried your face into. “You could wake up tomorrow and settle to feed me to your pet sharks.” “Pet sharks?” Sylus snorts. “Have you convinced yourself that I have pet sharks?”

“S’what those fairytales say.”

“Except, this isn’t a fairytale, sweetheart.” The man picks up an empty jug of water sitting near your bed. “This is very much reality. And I don’t have any pet sharks.”

There’s a grunt. “You should get some.”

The Captain can’t help but chuckle. “I’ll take it into consideration. I’ll be back with some fresh water in a bit.”

When he returns, he finds you grumbling incoherently and rubbing your hands over your face. He sets the pitcher down, pours you a cup, and extends it. “Here. Drink.”

It’s like you hardly even noticed he left, with how you wordlessly sit yourself up and accept the water. Once you’ve downed the whole cup, you peer up at him with glazed, squinty eyes. “Did I ever tell you you’re gorgeous?”

“You did, about ten minutes ago,” he replies, refilling the cup and putting it by your bedside, within reach. “I appreciate the compliment. It’s time for you to sleep now.”

“Sleep with me,” you mumble, and then you yawn. “I’m cold.”

“Can’t do that, I’m sorry, my lady.” Sylus is not a good man, but he draws the line at some things. He takes a seat at the edge of your bed. “You must rest now, or your hangover will be worse in the morning.”

There’s a tug on his sleeve, your grip on his shirt feeble with your clear enervation. The high from the alcohol is dropping into sleep. “…If you asked me to…I’d marry you.”

“Is that so?” He brushes some hair out of your closed eyes. “I’m honoured.”

“Should be.” Your words are fading. “I’m a noblewoman.”

“That you are.”

“So, you have to do as I say…”

“Indubitably, sweetheart.”

“We should…replace the nuptial beverages with rum only…”

“Taken a liking to rum, have you?”

He doesn’t get a reply to that one, and Sylus remains for a moment, ensuring you’re asleep, bringing the blanket up a little further over your shoulders, before leaning forward and placing a kiss to your temple. “Sweet dreams, my lady.”

And once Sylus arrives back to his study, he picks up the neatly folded letter and gives it one last skim-read.

Marriage?

There’s a crackle and hiss as Captain Sylus strikes a match, lifting the flame to the corner of the paper, allowing it to catch alight. He watches, closely, as the letter swiftly blackens to cinders, and he blows the matchstick out. As far as he’s concerned, you don’t need to know of its existence.

Yeah. Sylus disposes of the ashes and burned taper. Marriage. He could do that.

And, maybe, he’ll tell you about the letter. Someday. Just not any time soon.

While it took a few hours for your headache to ease and for your ability to actually function to return, the memories came barrelling for you in full force. You babbling embarrassing nonsense to the captain. Poking his face, whining for more rum, suggesting marriage, and essentially spilling your guts. You sit here, now, head in your hands, considering doing the honours and voluntarily walking the plank yourself. To save everyone the trouble. And to save you the embarrassment of having to face Sylus again.

What the hell was I thinking? Thank the gods the ship’s sailing right for the mainland again. Perhaps you could take that chance to leave a letter apologising to him profusely and then make a run for it. You wouldn’t be taking the pearl earrings, as painful as that would be. And you almost jump out of your skin when there’s a knock at the door, before you force yourself to relax. “Come in.”

The door opens, and the very person you’d really not like to see is standing there, arms crossed, that stupid grin pulling his full lips up. “Morning, sweetheart.”

You put your face in your hands again. “Please go away. Can I jump off the ship?”

“You’re telling your future husband to go away?”

“Stop!”

“And I can’t let my future wife jump off the edge of the boat and go swimming with my pet sharks.”

You’re a hair away from bursting into mortified tears. “Where on earth is Henry?”

“Most of them are still asleep and hungover. Who else would be able to check on you?”

You turn, lie down again, and pull the covers up so you’re covered fully, back to him. “I’m fine! Now, please save me from further humiliation and come back later!”

One of the floorboards creak as the captain strolls into the room, and there’s the sound of water pouring from the pitcher and into a cup. “I thought you wanted to know my hair care regimen.”

“Sylus!” You groan into the pillow. “I have a headache!”

“Of course you do. I’m just being a good host and fiancé and making sure you’re—oof!”

Said pillow comes flying and smacks him right in the face, and you rush out of bed, clothes crumpled and hair frizzy, dashing for the door. “I’m going to check on Henry!”

Hours later, after you finally succeed in booting Sylus out of your cabin, you really do go check on Henry—and find her sprawled across the floor of her quarters, apparently not having made it to her hammock before passing out. You sigh and roll her over so she’s face-up. “Henry. Are you okay?”

“Mmf…” is her answering grumble, one arm sluggishly lifting to rub at an eye. Then it cracks open. “What the…?”

You grin. “Good morning! Do you have a sore back? You’re currently lying on the floor.”

Her eyes shut tight again as she winces, turning away from the light streaming in through the window. “Gods…I feel like shit…”

“Want some water? Apparently, we’re nearing the mainland. You might want to get up.”

It takes a good long while for the rest of the crew to get up one by one, groaning and heads heavy and swearing, but, eventually, they’re jolted awake when the watchman cries from the top of the mast, “Land-ho!”

After months of seeing nothing but ocean and unfamiliar lands, your home is finally in sight. You don’t really know how or what to feel about it. It neither strikes relief within nor moves you. Perhaps, with your speedy and firm adjustment to the ‘seafaring life’, as Sylus is fond of putting it, you’ve grown accustomed to it all. The bobbing of the ship doesn’t bother you anymore. Seasickness is a bygone memory. It’s nice being able to see the stars in all their full glory at night. The seafaring life is liberating.

What if you scared Sylus off with your antics last night? You can’t imagine him being ‘scared’ in any context, but it still makes you shudder. What kind of idiot blatantly and drunkenly announces that she wants to tie the knot with a man she kissed once—and one who’s her captor, no less? You got off real lucky with Sylus being your abductor. Now he’s teasing you about it. Maybe you should just leap off this railing you’re leaning against right now.

But, even as you look at your country in the distance, everything settles into indifference. Your father didn’t send a letter demanding your safe return. He didn’t send a letter to Sylus stating his agreement to the captain’s terms. And, if that’s the case, you really don’t know what’s going to happen the moment the ship docks at the port. Is your hour of execution finally nearing? If so, Sylus has done a damn good job lulling you into a state of false security, before finally taking back that Protocore-thing he wants, while taking the life of the one thing your father needs to secure heightened status with the marriage—you. Your hands, presently rested against the railing and hanging over it, aren’t the soft ones of a noblewoman anymore. They’re a bit calloused now. And you look at them, and the change this journey has brought.

You find that you’d rather die than be delivered back to your father, and finally married off. You’d rather die than living on knowing that this whole abduction-thing was just a bump in the road. You’d rather die than live the remainder of your life with Sylus as just a transient memory. Your father would rage at you, send a letter to that old duke stating the marriage is back on, and that would be it.

You purse your lips. The mainland is no longer a dot on the horizon. It’s growing bigger, closer, by the minute, and it’s exactly where you don’t want to go.

Someone comes to a stop beside you. They lean against the railing too. You turn your head and look up at the captain.

“I’m sorry that my father never sent you a letter,” you say, still sick with embarrassment from the previous evening. Your words are stilted. “I suppose that, now, all you can do is…do what there is to be done.”

“And what’s that?” He looks at you sidelong.

You look at your hands again. “Well, you never got the agreed upon ransom, and isn’t the penalty for that the death of your hostage?”

“Is that what the fairytales say?”

You groan and rub your eyes. “Stop bringing that up! I was off my face and babbling nonsense. And, no, it’s not what the fairytales say.” Your hand drops down again, and you frown up at him. “It’s common knowledge.”

Sylus hums. “I suppose it is. So, you think I’m going to drag you to your father’s estate and kill you in front of him?” “Wasn’t that planned from the start?”

He’s quiet for a beat, and then he chuckles deeply, in that classic, sultry way of his. Then, the captain fully turns and faces you, leaning one elbow against the railing. “Sweetheart, I may have gone to an extreme length to obtain the Protocore by abducting you, but…well, things have changed a little.”

You blink. “In what way?”

“I always have Plan Bs, Cs and Ds. You were Plan A. And you worked. For a time.”

“Until you didn’t get the letter, so I didn’t, really.”

The Captain snorts like something about your words was particularly funny. “That’s my fault, actually.” He doesn’t elaborate. “No, you’ve been perfectly enjoyable company thus far. And Plan B is a perfect logical solution also, one that will procure the Protocore from your father’s office and safe just fine.”

You still don’t know where he’s going with this. “And that is?”

“I have your father’s schedule and everything mapped out. Within the next few days, he will be out and about at events, greeting delegates from other countries, striking a few more illicit deals, the like. The old fool doesn’t know that all said dealings are all tied back to me. He thinks he cut ties with me long ago.” Sylus tilts his head at you. “Luke and Kieran will take those chances to try and break into the manor whilst he is absent. Mercifully, they have time and opportunity on their side. If the first attempt goes sideways, they have the next night, and the next.”

You’re rather impressed. “I see. But…what will you be doing, and where will I go?”

“Let’s say…you and I have a date with another place once we anchor at the port.”

The wind is blowing some hair into your face, and you awkwardly struggle to brush it out of your eyes and mouth. “Um, where?”

And then, he does something rather uncharacteristic. Sylus doesn’t smirk, he doesn’t grin, he doesn’t even give you that signature smug look of his, no—this time, he smiles. And it’s a gentle one. One that softens his sharp features and eyes. One that’s all for you. “The registry office.”

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⨾

@abyssal-blossoms, @paper-bag-boy, @miudle, @syluriar, @loraleiii, @myabae, @chrissy26, @bubblegum-bee-otch, @mrswanel, @libromancer, @scarlet-ancunin, @mentalnotstable, @rjreins, @seris-the-aminous, @jupiterswrld, @purpleywire, @jadedist, @teewritessmth, @terriblesoup, @kawaiivanilla-chan, @xyzesf2s, @espace--positif, @hauntedbysmut, @whimsiecat.

#library.sia #WHAT THE HELL MAN AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA #IM GRINNING FROM EAR TO EAR?????#GODDAMN THE POWER THIS MAN HOLDS OVER ME #THANK YOU FOR THIS WONDERFUL MASTERPIECE #I felt everything #i can imagine everything so vividly..ugh it's so good #i loved this very much #made my day a little brighter #i enjoyed it a lot!!!#sia.txt #lads.section

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