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He is no Goldweaver, but Phainon likes to think he keeps himself reasonably informed about the happenings within Okhema’s walls. More often than not, the city’s affairs and his own are one and the same, and even on the rare occasions he allows himself a day of leisure, he prefers to spend it among its people rather than behind closed doors.
As such, when a new craze sweeps through the Holy City, he is usually among the first to hear of it. Only a few weeks ago, it had been a troupe of travelling thespians rescued from a fallen city-state near Janusopolis. They had arrived with little more than the clothes on their backs and the stories they carried, yet before long half the city had been quoting their performances.
It is one of the things he has grown to cherish most about Okhema. Flawed as it is, nowhere else in Amphoreus’s long history has ever gathered so many disparate peoples beneath one proverbial roof. Customs that would otherwise vanish alongside ruined kingdoms endure here.
He only regrets that he has so little to contribute in return. The home he had once known is gone, its traditions burned down with it long before he was old enough to preserve them. Perhaps that is why he finds himself so eager to embrace everything else.
Every unfamiliar celebration, every eccentric performance, every strange dish sold from a market stall. Okhema’s triumphs and failings alike belong to its people, and he loves witnessing all of them, every absurd little fashion that captures the city’s imagination.
Which is precisely why he finds himself at such a loss when, for the first time in recent memory, everyone seems to know something he does not.
It begins as little more than whispers at the edge of his perception. A performance is so scandalous no sensible person would dare stage it. Naturally, Phainon assumes it involves acrobatics or fire swallowing or something of the like.
That assumption survives until Parting Hour. Passing through the square, he notices two young women seated beneath the same shaded awning he had walked past earlier that morning. Curious, he circles back later.
Their conversation has not advanced beyond an enthusiastic torrent of praise for tailoring, and fabrics so exquisite that Phainon wonders whether Aglaea has somehow found time between Council meetings to unveil a brand new line of garments.
By his third pass, curiosity wins him over. He clears his throat into his fist before stepping toward them with an easy smile. That one that usually convinces nervous citizens they can speak freely.
Their conversation dies on the spot when he inquires.
“Oh! Lord Phainon. It’s nothing, really.”
“Y-Yes, just silly gossip. Surely you have more important things to concern yourself with.”
They aren’t wrong, per se. “I have time for every resident of Okhema,” he assures them instead, hoping the forced smile is convincing.
They exchange one horrified glance before dissolving into nervous giggles. “No, no. It’s much too embarrassing.”
“You really don’t want to know, Lord Phainon.”
Before he can press the matter further, they all but shoo him away.
The following afternoon, he returns from a mission beyond the city’s outer limits with little more than a few scratches to show for it. One of the lumbering dromas assigned to haul cargo back to Okhema plods along beside him, broad enough to hide him from anyone walking on its opposite side. Which is how he finds himself overhearing yet another conversation.
“...and the embroidery,” a voice breathes in reverence. “I’ve never seen stitching so fine in my life.”
“The sleeves were unbelievable.”
Phainon frowns. More fabrics. Has Aglaea truly begun designing clothes in secret? Is there some other, newer tailor in town?
Stepping around the dromas’s massive shoulder and narrowly avoiding one of its ponderous feet, he emerges into the middle of the gathering. A handful of Kremnoans stand clustered around an animated storyteller, all of them hanging on every word.
“Excuse me,” Phainon says politely. “Might I ask what you’re discussing?”
He is met with silence. The collective expression of excited conspiracy evaporates.
“…Lord Phainon.”
Someone coughs.
“You’ve returned already?” one young man asks instead. “Was the mission successful?”
“It was,” Phainon answers carefully. The Kremnoans often ask about his missions. He would rather imbue faith in them, at least where it concerns his own work. “Though I confess I’m more curious about this remarkable tailor you’ve all been describing.”
The Kremnoans exchange looks. “Tailor?” one echoes.
“Is that not right? I believe I heard something about extraordinary embroidery.”
“Oh.”
“That.”
One woman laughs far too loudly. “It—it isn’t important. Just idle chatter. Nothing worth troubling the Deliverer over.”
Within moments the discussion dissolves into questions about the monsters outside the walls, road conditions, and whether anyone has been injured. Not a single soul mentions the mysterious garments again.
By the third day, Phainon is forced to concede a deeply unsettling possibility. The entire city knows something he does not. A despicable feeling overtakes him, that of the fear of missing out.
The mystery comes to its inevitable conclusion before the Verax Leo in Marmoreal Market. Phainon is not, unlike some of his colleagues, in the habit of damaging the city’s talkative statuary. But if striking one with Dawnmaker will finally satisfy his curiosity, he is willing to risk Aglaea's displeasure.
“My lord,” Verax Leo finally grumbles. If it had shoulders, it would glance over each of them before continuing. “It concerns Kremnoan royalty.”
Phainon’s expression sharpens automatically. “Has something happened to Mydeimos?”
“No, Lord Phainon. Nothing like that,” The lion hesitates. “It’s... the princess.”
As it turns out, Mydei does not, contrary to Phainon’s increasingly creative theorizing, possess a long-lost twin sister hidden away since infancy. The prince, as everyone already knows, is the last surviving heir of Kremnos.
The princess, however...
She is a new addition to the Kremnoan canon, meaning that she hadn’t existed at all. That is, until Parting Hour in a decent venue at the edge of the city, just over two months ago.
No one seems particularly interested in who she is beneath the cosmetics beyond jokes about her true identity. Only Princess matters. Princess of Castrum Kremnos, to be precise. A dazzling, extravagantly dressed royal with a voice that could carry across an entire tavern, and a talent for reducing audiences to helpless laughter. Every performance is an elaborate retelling of Kremnoan court life as though witnessed by its most dramatic, least reliable noblewoman.
According to Verax Leo, somewhere in the middle of every performance, the crown prince invariably becomes the butt of the joke. The audience, apparently, cannot get enough of it.
Phainon isn’t sure what unsettles him more. The fact that someone has made a career of poking fun at Mydeimos, or the fact that the city seems to adore them for it. He has spent so long crossing blades with the prince, trading barbs whenever the opportunity presents itself. If there is anyone in Okhema entitled to needle Mydei’s pride, surely it ought to be the man who has actually earned that privilege. There is something strangely irritating about discovering someone else has beaten him to it.
He finds the same two young women beneath the awning before the day is out.
“I’ve learned your secret,” he announces, causing them both to jump. It is not the best way to phrase it, but they understand him nevertheless.
Their eyes widen. “You have?”
“The matter of Princess of Castrum Kremnos.”
The pair exchange one look before laughing awkwardly. “Please Lord Phainon, we truly didn’t mean to cause any offence.”
“Offence?”
“Well…” One of them fidgets with her chiton sleeve. “To us normal citizens, you and Lord Mydeimos seem so familiar to one another as rivals, and well…”
“And?” he presses on.
“We thought you would be furious because someone other than you was poking fun at him.”
Phainon pauses. He has not, until this exact moment, considered how his relationship with Mydei must appear from the outside.
He scratches the back of his neck. “It may have done me better not to ask. That is what you believe,” he says at last, “isn’t it only fair of me to expect a committed rivalry?”
The pair stare at him for a beat before exchanging another shrug.
“If you were hoping for more, we do not actually know much about Princess. Not even whether she’s Kremnoan herself, or why she selected Prince Mydeimos in particular.”
A smile creeps across the second woman’s face. “But she is incredibly humorous. And wonderfully quick-witted.”
Phainon cannot decide whether that makes the situation better or worse. By the time the end of the day arrives, it has occupied enough of his thoughts that his feet carry him to the largely Kremnoan district almost automatically. As always, he knocks. As always, the door opens a moment later to reveal a slightly sleepy crown prince, his hair only half-tamed from sleep.
“Mydei.”
“Deliverer.”
Without preamble, Phainon takes him by both forearms. “They’re parodying you.”
Mydei blinks once, looking down at where he is held with contempt. “What?”
“They’re parodying you.”
The prince squints at him with the exhausted impatience of a man who has just been awakened for reasons he cannot begin to comprehend. “Deliverer,” he says slowly, “did you hit your head during a spar?”
Phainon realizes he has absolutely no idea how to explain the existence of Princess of Castrum Kremnos without sounding culturally insensitive, historically inaccurate, and mentally ill.
“Nothing.” He lets go of Mydei’s arms. “Apologies. Come on.”
“Come on where?”
“Uh– The baths. As usual. I need— Baths.”
Mydei studies him for another long, suspicious moment before sighing. “I hope you intend to explain whatever this is on the way.”
He doesn’t. Phainon, privately, hopes the subject never comes up again.
Mydei seriously hopes the subject never comes up again.
The habitual appearance of Okhema’s Deliverer, bumbling on his front doorstep, comes as no surprise. The topic of discussion, though?
To be clear, Mydei is not offended by the jabs he has received in recent days. Of course he already knew of the Princess of Castrum Kremnos. It had only been a matter of time before word reached Phainon.
Princess had long since escaped the confines of taverns and drinking halls. Mydei had endured weeks of Kremnoans unsuccessfully pretending not to recommend the performances within earshot of their own beloved prince before the phenomenon blossomed into a citywide obsession that seemed to reproduce itself endlessly.
In all honesty, Phainon had been one of the last people in Okhema to hear about her. That, more than anything, explains the state in which he had arrived.
Mydei falls into step beside the Deliverer with the same resigned familiarity as every other day. Their route toward the public baths has become so ingrained over time that they could likely walk it blindfolded. The streets know them almost as well as they know the streets.
It seems like Phainon is priming to say something, but he is interrupted. Near one of the plazas, a leather ball goes skidding wildly across the paving stones. Its intended recipient misses it entirely.
The unintended one does not. Without breaking stride, Phainon intercepts it with the inside of one boot, the ball hopping obediently back into the air before he kicks it toward the nearest child. The youngsters erupt into immediate demands for another go, surrounding him with the fearless enthusiasm reserved for people who never considered that the Deliverer might have anything more important to do.
Within moments, Mydei finds himself standing in goal. He does not remember agreeing to this. The match lasts only a handful of minutes before dissolving into laughter. Eventually the children reclaim both their ball and their game, sprinting away in a noisy pack that has already forgotten the two heirs who briefly joined them.
Phainon resumes walking first. Whatever frantic urgency had driven him onto Mydei’s doorstep appears to have spent itself in the square, because he does not revisit the earlier subject. That can only be counted as a blessing.
The baths are quieter by the time they arrive. The afternoon crowds have thinned into a comfortable scattering of familiar faces content to soak away the day’s aches beneath the broad marble colonnades. Steam rises in languid ribbons from the golden pools, carrying with it the faint metallic scent of ambrosial water and polished stone warmed by the eternal sun. A few bathers offer respectful nods as the Deliverer and the Kremnoan prince pass on their way to the Hero’s section.
Routine guides them as surely as habit had guided them through the streets. Their weapons are set carefully within reach. Linen folded with varying degrees of care; Mydei’s gauntlets, meticulously, Phainon’s greatsword, optimistically. They descend into the warm water together.
It embraces them with familiar warmth, liquid gold lapping against shoulders still carrying the memory of armour. Beside him, Phainon exhales. He leans back until his head comes to rest against the smooth rim, eyes slipping closed, the perpetual alertness he wears through every waking hour dissolving beneath the bath's quiet spell.
Mydei finds himself looking. His gaze drifts upward, following the relaxed line of Phainon’s jaw to the long column of his throat, where his skin catches the amber glow reflected from the water below. The tattoo winding around his neck gleams beneath the surface, its gold so nearly the same shade as the bath itself that it appears less like ink than veins of liquid sunlight threaded beneath his skin.
...
Mydei looks away. “My patience has limits,” He says, clearing his throat with perhaps a touch more force than necessary. “Am I finally to hear an explanation for whatever spectacle you presented outside my front door?”
The question serves two purposes. The first is obvious, just filling space. The second is mercy. Whatever fit possessed Phainon earlier has evidently passed. If he wishes to replace it with a more sensible explanation—a concussion, perhaps, or an unusually vivid dream—Mydei is entirely prepared to accept the lie without further inquiry. That is just how they treat each other.
Instead, Phainon opens one tired eye.
“It’s about a supposed Kremnoan Princess.”
Mydei closes his own. There goes the opportunity to forget the debacle, handed on a silver platter.
“I realized,” Phainon continues, sounding almost apologetic, “that I never explained who has been parodying you, which was unfair of me.”
“...Go on.”
“So. There are performers who…” Phainon hesitates, searching carefully for words. “They dress as extravagant women in gowns, cosmetics, and jewellery. The whole point is to create a larger-than-life character, usually a very dramatic one.”
Mydei listens in silence.
“They perform at taverns,” Phainon says, each word tripping over the next. “Comedy, singing, storytelling. Sometimes dancing. They are not trying to convince anyone that they are women, well, not exactly. It’s more,” He gestures vaguely with one hand, as though attempting to sculpt the concept from steam. “performance. A persona.”
Another pause.
“In Okhema, they are most commonly called drag queens.”
Mydei blinks.
Phainon is watching him with the cautious expression of someone introducing an entirely foreign custom, as though the nation of Kremnos had never conceived of theatrical impersonation. As though Mydei himself required a cultural primer. It is almost impressive how idiotic Phainon is.
Meanwhile, every citizen in Okhema who has attended Princess’s performances has reached precisely the same conclusion. How delightfully audacious.
They all believed some anonymous performer had decided that the greatest source of comedy in the Holy City was the Crown Prince of Kremnos. The exaggerated royal indignation forms a merciless parody of Mydeimos.
It is, admittedly, an excellent performance.
The audience, and the Deliverer, have simply misunderstood one crucial detail. They believe they are watching someone imitate the prince.
They are not.
They are watching the prince himself perform every Parting Hour.
Mydei inclines his head. “Very well,” He says at length. “You have now informed me what a drag queen is.”
“I have.”
“And you mean to tell me I am the subject of one such person’s particular ire.”
“That appears to be the case.”
“I see.”
He does not, in fact, see. Not because the explanation lacks clarity, but because it has managed to explain everything except the one part Phainon had originally deemed important.
Phainon shifts in the water, apparently mistaking the silence for confusion. “Well, firstly,” he says, “I should confess I have not actually attended one of the performances myself.”
Mydei knows. Had the Deliverer appeared even once beneath the tavern’s lanterns, he would have noticed him before ever stepping onto the stage.
“Thus I’ve only heard descriptions,” Phainon continues, clueless. “But from everything people have told me,” He hesitates, searching for the least ridiculous way to phrase what comes next. “it seems the entire character is supposed to be your sister.”
A drop of golden water slips from the end of Mydei’s hair and disappears soundlessly back into the pool. If idiots could fly, Phainon would have obtained Aquila’s Coreflame by now.
Mydei exhales slowly through his nose, the sound nearly lost beneath the soft lapping of water against marble. “There is no such figure in reality, but if this entertainment remains within the bounds of jest,” he says at last, trying to keep his voice even, “then it is of no consequence to me.”
Phainon’s other eye opens. “No consequence,” he repeats. “They are making a spectacle of you.”
“They are entertaining themselves,” Mydei corrects. He does not indulge in self-flagellation onstage.
“At your expense.”
Mydei tilts his head a fraction. “If I were to take offense at every careless jab thrown in my direction, I would hardly possess the temperament required of the ‘Undying’ title.”
Phainon stares at him, incredulous. “That’s it?” he demands. “That is your grand response? You are simply going to allow this to continue?”
Mydei’s expression does not change. “Allow?”
“Yes, allow,” Phainon insists. “You speak as though this is some minor street joke, not an entire persona dedicated to— to—”
“To what?” Mydei asks, almost mildly.
Phainon gestures vaguely at him, splashing a small arc of golden water. “To you.”
“It may be so. And yet I remain here, entirely unharmed.”
“That is not the point.”
“It appears to be precisely the point. They can do as they please.”
Phainon makes a sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, dragging a hand down his face before letting his head fall back against the rim once more. “Well,” he says, eyes half-lidded after a moment to clear his frustration, “I suppose I can understand why it would not trouble you.”
Mydei arches a brow faintly.
“But are you not curious?” Phainon continues. “Not even a little? Would you not attend one of these performances, if only to see how you are and your decisions are being portrayed?”
I’ve attended them all, actually.
He does not hesitate to lie. “No. You already consume a sufficient portion of my time with your various follies,” Mydei replies. “As well as these repetitive excursions to the baths. I have no inclination to dedicate what remains of my schedule to further nonsense.”
“Oh, Mydeimos,” Phainon laughs, amusement threading through his voice. “It is just like you to say that.”
Beside him, Mydei closes his eyes. Phainon does not know half of what he has said.
Every official portrait depicts his wide frame clad in golden armour, bearing an expression that screams he would rather be wrestling a gryphon than attending to courtly matters.
Mydei regards the latest one with something far closer to reverence. It is not the work of an old master, nor a commissioned piece destined for the long-abandoned stone halls of home. The parchment is small, its edges uneven, the ink slightly smudged in places where a small hand must have dragged across it mid-creation. It had been presented to him moments earlier by a Kremnoan woman, her son half-hidden behind her skirts until gently coaxed forward. The illustration is rendered in only black, yellow, and red. And still, Mydei considers it the highest form of art.
His likeness stands at the center: long hair mostly accounted for, though it spills outward in errant strokes; his stick-figure body only slightly lopsided. The armour is unmistakable, if generously interpreted, and absolutely drenched in red ink. His teeth, bared draconically in what is perhaps meant to be a smile, are far sharper than they are in reality. In the upper right corner, the radiant Dawn Device hovers. It has a face. It is smiling.
Mydei inclines his head as though accepting a masterpiece. “This is exceptional work,” he says, with his genuine approval. The boy peeks out properly now, eyes wide. “I will place it in my home,” Mydei adds, meaning it genuinely.
The woman gives her son’s shoulder a firm nudge. “Go on. Thank the king.”
The boy straightens immediately. “Thank you, Your Majesty!”
Mydei reaches out, resting a gauntleted hand briefly atop his head. “You have my gratitude,” he replies. Then he rises, the parchment held carefully between his fingers, and takes his leave. There is always work to be done.
A city of refugees does not sustain itself, and neither does the faith of its people. The Kremnoans who have followed him to Okhema have entrusted him with both, and so he meets each day with the same intention: he will be the ruler they believe him to be. He makes time for them always.
Even so, as he walks the familiar corridors, something else makes itself more known. The soldiers he passes greet him with rigid precision, their spines snapping straight, voices sharpened into formality. Their respect is unquestionable.
So is their caution. It follows him in subtler ways, too. In the way artists, renowned and amateur alike, render him larger than life, broader, harsher, more fearsome than the man himself. In the way children, even when they approach, do so with a measure of awe that borders on hesitation. His reputation precedes him. And it does not appear to be a gentle one.
That is not to say Mydeimos isn’t fearsome. The stories alone would ensure it. They are sometimes told plainly among the Kremnoans, tales of cities that did not withstand him or beasts that did not survive him. Before he was crowned king in his father’s blood, he was the sharpest edge of the Detachment. There is an infamous account of a fortified city that had prepared for a prolonged siege. Its gates were not meant to fall in a day, but by nightfall, its banners had changed to that of the Lance of Fury. There is also a tale of an errant beast that rendered an entire valley uninhabitable. Mydei went alone, and alone he returned.
These are not legends in the sense of uncertainty that one may hold for the Titans. They are the stories told at the campfire to urge on an army. In a culture that reveres warfare, that measures worth in spilled lifeblood, such records naturally become closer to doctrine. It is only natural, then, that his people look at him and see something more than a man. Not because he claims it, nor because he encourages it, but because everything they value points squarely in his direction.
Since leading his people to Okhema, Mydei has come to understand that the same culture that forged the Kremnoans into a people capable of surviving what others could not, is one that sits uneasily within the Holy City’s walls. It is admired from a distance, feared up close, and too often reduced to being crude by those who have never truly seen it.
He will not ask his people to become smaller for the sake of comfort. Nor does he believe coexistence to be some impossible ideal, despite what certain voices in Okhema insist. But he is frustrated, incredibly so.
Kremnoans gather among themselves, speaking of Okhema not as sanctuary, but as their confinement. There is restless energy, Kremnoans eager to throw themselves toward the next conflict simply to feel like themselves again. What is the solution to such a conundrum? Does it exist? The question follows him as he leaves the market, a basket of fruit balanced easily against his shoulder.
Okhemans part subtly in his path. Their reactions are quieter than the Kremnoans’, but no less telling. Their eyes widen before quickly turning elsewhere. That, too, is a problem.
Mydei does not care what they think of him. He does care what they think of his people. A nation reduced, in their minds, to little more than brutality. They have heard the stories and decided that is the whole of it, never looking deeper, never asking what kind of world produces such strength or what else might exist alongside it. They do not understand Castrum Kremnos at all.
The bitter thought lingers as he turns from the busier thoroughfares into a quieter stretch of the city, where the noise softens. There, overlooking a broad balcony that opens to distant mountains and drifting clouds, a lone figure sits upon a bench. Mydei slows, then finds it within himself to continue forward, his feet having led him here for a reason.
He comes to a stop beside her and clears his throat lightly.
“I had hoped to find you,” he says.
Castorice turns and looks up at him with wide eyes, quickly shutting the book she has in a tight grip. “Lord Mydeimos. Here to arm wrestle again?”
Mydei scoffs as he takes a seat next to her, mindful of the gap between their bodies. Her aura of death reminds him that he does not want to repeat that arm wrestling competition. His gaze drifts past the balcony’s edge, out toward the vast expanse beyond Okhema’s walls. Amphoreus stretches endlessly under Kephale’s light, and Okhema is only an island of marble and gold.
“While I am not one to back down once challenged,” he says after a moment of peace, voice carrying that measured calm he affords most, “you have already claimed your victory. I trust that will suffice.” A joke, by Mydei’s standards.
Castorice smiles. His attention drifts downward then, catching on the objects in her lap. A quill, its tip stained with fresh ink. A leatherbound notebook, worn just enough at the edges to suggest frequent use, though also carefully kept.
She follows his gaze, then looks back up at him. “All right,” she says. “What brings you here?” Direct, as ever.
Mydei leans forward just enough to set the basket at his feet, shifting its contents with care. Fruit and wrapped breads settle as he moves aside what he does not need, retrieving something he had placed deliberately apart. He holds the parchment between his fingers, ensuring it has not suffered in transit, before extending it toward her.
Castorice leans in. One hand rises to her mouth, unable or perhaps unwilling to conceal the soft laugh that escapes her.
“It is quite cute. Though I must say, the teeth…” Her gaze flicks up to him briefly, then back to the drawing. She hums, thoughtful in a way that feels entirely sincere. “An artistic liberty, I assume? Or a particularly bold creative choice, which is truly thought-provoking.”
Mydei nods. “It is not the only one of its kind I have received. Though, this time I began to wonder how I must be perceived, for a child to depict me fiercely.”
“And that is what brings you to me, Lord Mydeimos?”
He will not do her the discourtesy of lying. “It is. Our circumstances are similar.”
Castorice is quiet for a moment, considering him rather than answering immediately. “In some ways,” she agrees. She rests her hands upon the closed notebook in her lap, fingers folded neatly together. “Some speak of me as though I am something to be feared, long before they have ever spoken to me. They are not wrong.”
Mydei’s gaze lingers on the basket at his feet. “No.”
“But they are not entirely right, either.”
A breeze stirs between them, carrying with it the distant murmur of the market below. “For the sake of the Flame-Chase,” Mydei says after a breath of it, “I can accept that.”
Castorice nods. “So can I.”
Neither sounds particularly pleased by the prospect. It is simply another weight to shoulder.
“My people have always revered strength. Okhema reveres Kephale’s endless compassion. Between the two, they think Kremnoans appear brutish. I cannot fault them entirely. The records speak for themselves.”
His victories. Those that he has slain in worship of Nikador.
“It is a simpler thing,” he admits. “To be regarded as an executioner or a foreign beast.”
Castorice turns slightly toward him. “You think so?”
He gives the thought the consideration it deserves before continuing. It has been on his mind for some months now.
“The Deliverer must embody hope. The Goldweaver must embody wisdom. An executioner need only swing the blade. Even so… I do not believe I would willingly surrender every opportunity to simply be…” He searches briefly for the word before settling upon the simplest one. “...their king. We have not yet claimed the Coreflames, still, they speak of us as though we have already ceased to be human.”
He resents the distance between each mountain in the range before them. After a long pause, he turns back toward Castorice.
“…You have lived with that distance longer than I have. I wished to ask, how have you borne it, all this time?”
Castorice looks at him for a long moment. Then, quite unexpectedly, she smiles. “I think,” she says, “that this is the most I have ever heard you speak in a single conversation. Please do not mistake it for criticism, I rather like hearing your thoughts.”
The admission is offered with such blisteringly warm sincerity that Mydei finds himself momentarily uncertain how to respond.
“I see.”
Castorice’s smile lingers a moment longer. “As for your question,” She lowers her gaze, lifting the leatherbound notebook into both hands. The movement is careful, almost instinctive, as though she were cradling something delicate. “I write.”
Her fingers brush lightly over the worn cover.
“My circumstances make it difficult to know people in the ways I would wish. But prose can reach places my hands cannot. I have always liked that.”
She traces an absent circle against the leather with her thumb.
“I cannot hold someone’s hand. I cannot embrace them. But I can still write something that makes them laugh. Or comforts them.”
She glances back toward him.
“A story may touch someone’s heart without asking anything of their body.”
The breeze catches a few loose strands of her pale purple hair.
“So I suppose the arts have become my way of feeling close to people.”
Mydei inclines his head. “The arts…” He turns the thought over carefully. It is an answer he finds himself considering with surprising seriousness. Stanzas of poetry have always occupied a place of admiration in his mind. He has read far more of it than anyone would likely expect of him, lingering over verses in his spare time. Admiration, however, has never translated into latent ability. He can appreciate beauty in another's words without ever producing any worth remembering himself.
That had rarely mattered, back then. His old companions had possessed enough artistry between them to make up for his shortcomings. One had been gifted with song, another with the pen. Others celebrated victory through stamping heels against packed earth until the entire encampment joined in. Mydei had never quite belonged among them in that regard.
Instead, he cooked. Was that an art? Even now in Okhema, he finds himself preparing meals for the other heirs whenever opportunity allows. There is something so uncomplicated about feeding people. A warm meal requires no eloquence, no careful choice of words. It simply says I thought of you.
Though there is one other thing. He had never considered it an art before. Yet more than once, after a campaign had ended and the fires burned low, his comrades had asked him to recount the day’s battle. Not because they had forgotten it—they had fought valiantly beside him, after all—but because Mydei had always been able to weave the tale under his hands and tongue.
He leaves Castorice with one of the spare pears from his basket and a rushed word of thanks that feels inadequate for the revelation she has gifted him. His mind remains occupied for days afterward. The thoughts circle the circumference of his brain, returning whenever his duties afford him a quiet moment. He speaks none of them aloud. There is little point in burdening others with half-formed ideas.
Instead, he finds himself venturing somewhere altogether less expected. The city’s underbelly, not once, but repeatedly. Each evening, after his responsibilities relent, Mydei trades marble avenues for narrower streets where taverns lean against one another like old comrades. He works his way through the shoddiest establishments he can find along Okhema's fringes.
Each day, a new drink. And a new show to drink to.
Some prove little more than musicians travelling between settlements. Not what he is searching for, but entertaining regardless. He stays until they finish every song before quietly taking his leave.
Others lean far more heavily toward earthly pleasures. He departs one establishment scarcely ten minutes after entering, only to receive a message from Lady Aglaea the following afternoon politely inquiring why the Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos has been spotted attempting to locate a courtesan. An exceedingly unpleasant conversation to explain his way out of, considering their current political causes. She may have lost her eyesight, but the Goldweaver sees all.
His search continues, albeit in plainclothes and with added discretion. A week passes before he finally finds what he desires. The tavern itself is unremarkable, tucked away between older buildings whose foundations predate much of modern Okhema. Its tables bear the scratches of decades' worth of patrons, and the drinks are strong enough that one must suspect they compensate for the quality of the ingredients.
It is perfect.
The establishment is frequented by Kremnoans, certainly, but they are far from its only clientele: People who, for one reason or another, do not fit into Okhema’s perfect picture quite as readily. There is laughter that feels freer than elsewhere in the Holiest of Holy Cities, unconcerned with appearances. Only after settling into a quiet corner does Mydei notice something else. A few couplings of man and man sit scattered throughout the room, and elsewhere, two women share a bottle of wine between them, their shoulders pressed comfortably together as though they have occupied that very table every week for years.
It is not something that offends him. Such pairings are common in Castrum Kremnos. Warriors often take partners who stand beside them as equals regardless of gender. His own persuasion has inclined that way. Though, to Mydei’s understanding, it is less expected in Okhema.
Before he can dwell on that thought, the lanterns dim. Conversation dwindles into scattered murmurs before disappearing altogether. Heads turn toward the modest stage tucked into the tavern's far corner, where a single spotlight blooms against worn floorboards.
Then she appears. The gown catches the light first, followed by a cascade of jewels that glitter with every step. Her cosmetics are theatrical rather than subtle, every feature exaggerated for the benefit of those seated at the back. She carries herself with impossible confidence, greeting the room as though every soul within it has been awaiting her arrival alone.
The performance is unlike anything Mydei has witnessed before. Stories become productions without a semblance of warning other than a smirk. Songs dissolve back into jokes. The audience interrupts freely, only to have every interruption folded effortlessly back into the act until the heckler becomes the artist’s punchline instead. It is rehearsed and entirely spontaneous all at once.
He watches the ease with which she commands the room, the delight on every face, the effortless way she transforms a crowded tavern into something shared and precious between strangers. A priestess leading a ceremony, a commander leading her cavalry. By the time the applause finally swells around him, only one thought occupies his mind.
I want to do that.
The second arrives scarcely a heartbeat later.
I can.
By the time he has paid his tab, walked home through the sleeping streets, and settled onto his kline, there is no room for doubt. He wants to do that.
When he wakes the following morning, the performance is still the first thing to enter his thoughts. Only now he finds himself imagining it from the other side of the stage. The timing of the jokes. The rhythm of the audience's laughter. The feeling of holding an entire room in the palm of one hand. Yes. He still wants to do that.
Only… How does a man do that? How, with a reputation known across the Holy City? With a heavy frame no costume could hope to disguise, red tattoos that mark him at a glance, and a temperament recognised by nearly every citizen?
He spends the following days discovering that there is, unexpectedly, an abundance of reading material. Every volume agrees upon one point with certainty: it is an art inherited as much as it is learned. Most performers speak fondly of the mother who first placed a brush into their hands, who corrected their posture, taught them to sew, instructed them in cosmetics and costuming, and, perhaps most importantly, showed them how to build a person who did not yet exist.
Mydei closes the book with a thoughtful hum. That presents a complication. He cannot very well seek out a mother, for he is a public figure.
So he learns however else he can. His duties continue as they always have, but they begin to accommodate quieter observations.
During the earliest hours of morning, he lingers a little longer among the Kremnoan households, inventing excuses to remain helpful nearby while women prepare for the day together. One braids another’s hair. Another steadies a friend’s chin before carefully dusting pigment across her eyelids. They trade brushes and gossip with equal familiarity, correcting one another’s work without solicitation. Mydei commits every motion and product to memory, forming a list of what interests him and what he could stand to try.
Another afternoon, Lady Aglaea asks him to deliver a parcel to her atelier while she is occupied elsewhere. He completes the errand dutifully, and after ensuring nobody is watching, quietly locates a measuring tape. He has never before taken stock of himself as a tailor might. He records each figure with meticulous precision before returning everything exactly as he found it. No one appears any the wiser.
Whenever responsibility permits, he returns to the tavern. Never so often that it interferes with his obligations. Phainon has already established for him a routine so dependable that Mydei finds himself arranging the rest of his schedule around it unconsciously. Their baths. Sparring. Shared meals when circumstance allows. He has no desire to disrupt any of it.
Truthfully… There is a distinct sense of peace in that routine, and he cannot imagine explaining to the Deliverer that the reason he is suddenly unavailable is because he intends to pitch his voice and wear women’s clothing. That conversation can remain permanently hypothetical as far as he is concerned.
The queens begin to distinguish themselves from one another. One enters carrying an enormous basket of fruit, loudly insisting she alone possesses the freshest produce in all of Okhema. It takes scarcely three minutes for Mydei to realize the fruit in question is not entirely agricultural. The audience howls before she has reached the end of her first sales pitch.
Another arrives to fanfare, draped in celestial robes as an all-knowing oracle whose greatest weakness is repeatedly misplacing every object required for divination. She delivers catastrophically hyper-specific prophecies with unwavering confidence in every word.
“The stars tell me,” she declares to one unfortunate patron in the front row, “that you should absolutely write to your former lover.”
The audience cackles.
“Preferably after curtain fall.”
Even Mydei cannot suppress the chuckle that escapes him. Every performer possesses something unmistakably their own. A beloved character no one else could inhabit in their stead. It becomes increasingly obvious that drag is not merely cosmetics or gowns, it requires a schtick.
Mydei finds every act excellent, yet each time he considers what sort of persona he himself might construct, he reaches the same impasse. He cannot bring himself to simply choose someone to ridicule. He does not wish to make anyone else the butt of the joke.
His thoughts circle the problem for days before finally settling somewhere so obvious he nearly laughs aloud. He does know someone worth parodying after all.
Three weeks later, Princess of Castrum Kremnos makes her debut. Mydei waits behind the curtain with both gloved hands folded neatly before him, resisting the increasingly powerful urge to flee through the back door. He has faced literal armies. He has broken sieges. He has walked alone into battles historians still recount with visible discomfort. None of those experiences prepare him for an audience of scarcely fifteen.
The queen before him finishes to roaring applause, bowing so deeply her wig nearly abandons ship. She catches sight of him under her lashes in the wings and flashes a grin. “You’ll be fine, darling.”
Before Mydei can ask how she could possibly know that, she sweeps back onto the stage.
“My loves!” she calls out, waiting for the cheers to settle. “I hope you’ve enjoyed yourselves tonight. But now…”
She places one hand dramatically upon her buxom, tip-laden chest.
“...it is my great honour to introduce a very distinguished guest. Her Royal Radiance, the incomparable Princess of Castrum Kremnos!”
The curtain parts. Princess enters as though she has never once doubted she belongs exactly where she is.
“Beloved by the people! Feared by her tailoring budgets!”
The gown arrives before the woman does. Layers upon impossible layers of crimson chiffon, lace, organza and embroidered silk billow behind her. The skirts are intentionally enormous. Beneath them, Mydeimos is built like a fortress.
She lifts one gloved hand. The audience applauds politely. A show of their courtesy, not their conviction. Not yet.
Princess sighs, and the applause falters. “So restrained. I expected more enthusiasm. Have none of you ever seen royalty before?” She shields her eyes with one hand, peering dramatically into the crowd. Recognition dawns across her painted face. “Oh. My mistake.”
She gasps.
“This isn’t the court. You are all smiling? How refreshing.”
Already, the atmosphere shifts. She glides across the stage with exaggerated dignity.
“I have escaped the palace for the evening,” she announces confidentially. “My brother remains hard at work. Or arm wrestling the furniture. It is difficult to tell.”
Someone snorts.
“He insists it builds strength,” Princess leans closer to the audience wistfully. “I insist it builds replacement furniture.”
She pauses just long enough for the laugh to ripple outward, then tilts her head, studying the crowd as though selecting her next victim. “No, truly. Last week he attempted to suplex a wardrobe.” Princess continues, fanning herself lazily.
She circles toward the front row, skirts whispering across the stage like a slow-moving storm. “You must understand,” she confides, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “it is very difficult being related to a man whose primary conflict resolution strategy is—” she mimes cracking her knuckles, expression going serenely blank, “—this.”
A man near the front barks a laugh into his drink.
Princess brightens. “Ah! You see it! Finally, someone educated.”
She straightens, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from her gown. “But I do what I can. As the more refined sibling, I am tasked with diplomacy, culture, grace—”
She trips deliberately on the hem of her own skirt, catching herself at the last second with a dramatic flail.
“—and balance.”
The room breaks off into a few laughs. By the time it settles, she is already moving again, faster now, riding the rhythm of it. “Court life is exhausting. Do you know how many proposals I receive in a week?” She places a hand over her heart. “Ten at the very least. And two of them were from the same man.”
She squints out into the crowd. “If you are here tonight, my dear, the answer is still no. Should I have wanted to spend twenty minutes pretending to be impressed by something five inches long, I’d attend another military parade.”
A sharp, delighted cackle cuts through the room. Princess beams. “Oh, I like this crowd. You’re wicked. I feel safe here.”
She pivots again, letting her gaze sweep across the tavern until it catches on a broad-shouldered Kremnoan standing near the back, arms crossed, expression carved from stone. He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even try to hide it.
When she meets his eyes, he raises his voice. “You speak boldly for someone mocking the King of Castrum Kremnos.”
Princess stills. Then, very slowly, she turns fully toward him. “Mocking?” she repeats, as though tasting the word. She places a hand against her chest, scandalized. “My dear, I would never mock anyone.”
The man doesn’t budge. “You make him sound like a fool.”
Princess hums thoughtfully, tapping one gloved finger against her chin. “Mm. Oh,” She smiles. “You’ve fucked him, haven’t you?”
The room detonates. It must be the sheer absurdity of the statement.
“Nobody gets that defensive over a man for free.” She sweeps into a low, exaggerated bow in his direction. “Do rest easy, darling. Your prince remains every inch the legend you believe him to be. I merely ensure he is also allowed to be teased, like any person in this city.”
That lands differently. She claps her hands sharply, shattering the moment on purpose.
“Now! Enough sentiment. You came here for scandal, after all.” Cheers answer her this time, loud and unrestrained. Princess grins, triumphant. “I’ve only lived in Okhema a short while, but I have questions. First of all, who here started the rumor that every Flame-Chaser is good in bed? No, no, don’t applaud yet.”
She waves them down.
“The evidence is mixed. They all have these magnificent titles,” She strikes heroic poses. “The Demised Scholar. The Weaver of Gold. That beloved Bearer of Dawn.”
She drops the pose.
“And then you get them alone and suddenly they’re asking—” She puts on the voice of a timid man. “…Is this all right?”
Princess freezes. “Well, yes.”
A beat.
“That’s why we’re naked, darling.”
The room howls.
“And another thing,” She fans herself furiously. “Why is everyone in this city so dramatic? You can’t simply ask where someone's going.”
She deepens her voice, careful not to slip into her usual gruff tone. “I walk the romantic path that fate has chosen.”
Princess blinks, her long eyelashes nearly batting against her cheeks.
“Wonderful. Are you going to the market or not? And every attractive person here behaves like they’ve taken a sacred vow against flirting. You see, I met a man yesterday. He looked me dead in the eye, sighed, and told me he’d already dedicated his life to humanity. I wasn’t asking for humanity.”
She points to herself, like the answer is plainly obvious.
“I was asking for head.” Princess fans herself as though exhausted, while more chuckles fill the tavern.
“Honestly, for a civilization founded on chasing and preserving the Flame…” She lets the sentence hang. “You people have remarkably little experience keeping one lit.”
By the time she reaches the end of the evening, applause begins before she has even spoken. She presses one hand to her chest.
“My darlings,” She smiles with unmistakable affection. “Support your local queens and princesses. Tip the bar staff generously. And if anyone asks whether you've seen the prince and me together…” She winks.
“...tell them royalty simply can't afford the tickets.”
The applause that follows is no longer polite. It is earned.
The applause is still fading when Mydei slips out through the side corridor. Backstage is warmer than the tavern floor, humid with lantern heat, the smell of powder and lacquered paint clinging to every surface. He exhales once, slow, already reaching for the ties at the back of his long wig.
“Don’t rip it.” The voice comes from the shadows like it was waiting there.
Mydei pauses. “I was not going to,” he says, in a neutral tone not his own, and also not his persona’s.
A figure steps forward into lanternlight. With distinct cat-like ears and grey hair he has already heard of in warrants and Aglaea’s rare musings, can he surmise that this is Lady Cipher. Leaning casually against a stack of crates that absolutely were not arranged for storage purposes, she tilts her head as if inspecting a newly acquired weapon. She looks him up and down with open appraisal. Then she grins. “Oh,” Cipher says softly. “Oh, this is bad.”
He adjusts the edge of his glove. “You are in my way.” His voice comes out rougher than intended, stripped of the tonal smoothness he had been holding for the stage. He hears it immediately and dislikes it, though he does not adjust. There is no audience left to correct himself for.
“Yes? I’m always in someone’s way,” she replies cheerfully. “It’s one of my more consistent income streams. I didn’t know you did theatre, Lord Mydeimos.”
“I do not.”
“That’s so unfortunate,” she says. “Because you’re very good at it!”
Mydei stops undoing the wig ties. “You were in the audience.”
Cipher shrugs. “Bartending. Ten minutes into your set,” She taps her temple. “I recognized you immediately, little prince.”
Mydei’s gaze narrows.
Cipher lifts both hands. “Oh, relax,” she says brightly. “If I were going to ruin your life I would’ve done it faster. With music playing, since we can both appreciate a good show.”
Silence settles between them. Then she adds, almost reverently…
“This is a generational lie, isn’t it?”
Mydei exhales. His neck is damp beneath the line where makeup meets skin, a thin, persistent discomfort that he only now fully registers. “That is not—”
“No, no,” Cipher cuts in, already animated. “Don’t correct me. I’m complimenting you. It takes a liar to know a liar.” She pushes off the crate and circles him once, like a cat inspecting a priceless forgery. “You’re really here, doing drag.”
“It’s none of your business.”
Mydei removes the wig, gritting his teeth. His real hair falls loose.
Cipher gasps dramatically like she’s witnessing a lewd display. “Oh my Titans,” she whispers. “He takes it all off as easily as he jokes that he does.”
He folds the wig carefully. “Get to the point.”
“Point?” she asks. “I don’t have a vendetta here, little prince. I told you already, I appreciate a good act of trickery.”
The logic clicks into place right then. As the demigod of trickery, of course she’d praise what she’s just seen unfold. It’s an act Zagreus would approve of.
Mydei finishes folding the wig with slow, exact care. “If you are finished speaking in riddles—”
“Oh, I’m just getting comfortable.” She circles him again, slower this time, gaze flicking over the discarded wig, the costume, the faint smear of stage paint still clinging stubbornly near his jawline and painted-over eyebrows.
“You didn’t become someone else,” Cipher continues. “You built a story where no one would think to look for you. That’s quite clever.”
Mydei’s expression does not change. “I did not build anything.”
“Mhm.” She hums, unconvinced. “And the princess? The jokes about your court? The comedic timing? The crowd ate out of your hand when you paused half a beat too long.”
Mydei resumes unfastening his gloves. “If you intend to blackmail me, you are wasting your time.”
That earns a laugh. “Blackmail?” Cipher repeats, delighted. “No, no. I don’t do investments I can’t watch pay out. I think you misunderstand me, little prince. I’m not here because I want something from you. Where would be the fun in that? You’d stop doing it, and then I’d have to find a new hobby, and frankly this ‘great’ city is already underperforming in entertainment.”
Mydei exhales sharply, willing this to be over. “Then why are you here?”
She smiles again. “Because I think you might need some help with the logistics.”
By the next week, he’s eavesdropped on three separate conversations discussing the performance. The word has spread around the Kremnoan circuit. While he’d been prepared for the voices of disapproval, hearing them speak positively of the thing is off-putting.
Mydei has not intended to eavesdrop. It simply so happens that the voices carry rather well through the courtyard, and the broad marble pillar beside him happens to conceal a man of his particular proportions remarkably effectively.
He stands behind it now, arms folded across his chest, the corner of his mouth threatening the smallest, most self-satisfied smile.
“I’m telling you,” one voice insists. “She was hilarious.”
“Aye,” another agrees. “The bit about the wardrobe…”
“The military parade, though!” Someone snorts. “Nikador preserve me.”
Laughter ripples through the little gathering.
“I heard she’s performing again this week. If she is, I’m going.”
“So am I, already convinced my wife.”
Mydei’s barely-there smile grows, just slightly.
Then one younger soldier scratches thoughtfully at his jaw. “You know… We’ve never seen the Crown Prince and the Princess of Castrum Kremnos in the same room.”
“What.”
“I’m only saying—”
The older man cuffs him sharply around the back of the head. “Ow!”
“You idiot. You think that’s Lord Mydeimos?”
The younger man rubs his skull indignantly. “No, no— Well— I was only joking that the timing lines up—”
The older warrior throws both hands into the air. “Have you looked at her?”
“…Yes?”
“You’ll agree, then, that she dresses like she’s trying to summon Mnestia down to the city.”
“…Pretty much. It’s very elaborate.”
“Exactly! Layers! Sleeves! Gloves! Half the queens in that tavern look ready to burst out of their gowns at a moment’s notice,” He gestures emphatically. “But Princess has little to no skin exposed at all.”
A solemn murmur of agreement passes through the group.
“Very tasteful,” someone offers.
“Exceptionally dignified.”
“Quite modest.”
“Yes! Thus, there is no chance that woman is our Crown Prince. Do not even joke about it.”
Behind the pillar, Mydei presses his lips together. Do they mean to say that… Mydei is neither tasteful, nor dignified, nor modest?
Is that the reason why he could not possibly be Princess?
He closes his eyes for the briefest moment, his bare shoulders shaking once with a laugh so quiet that no one hears it. Perhaps Cipher is right. It is a rather good lie.
Phainon cannot stop thinking about it. Who is this Princess of Castrum Kremnos? And how, exactly, has she managed to learn enough about the Crown Prince to have half the city quoting her? The answer continues to elude him.
Then, a few days later after his uncomfortable confession to Mydeimos about the entire situation, everything somehow becomes even stranger.
“No, I’m telling you,” someone says as Phainon passes through the market. “It must be the Deliverer behind it all.”
He slows like his boots have become lead.
The merchant behind the stall doesn’t seem to have noticed him. “Think about it! We’ve never seen him and Princess in the same room.”
Phainon stares openly.
“She knows too much about the elites like those Flamechasers and the Council. And she’s very fond of mocking Lord Mydeimos. Who else could get away with that besides him?”
Phainon quickly departs before the conversation can deteriorate his mental state any further. Honestly. Does everyone in this city believe there are simply multiple versions of him wandering around at any given time? Ridiculous.
Well, now he has to attend a performance. If he is sitting in the audience while Princess is onstage, then the rumor ought to die immediately.
Finding someone to accompany him proves slightly more difficult. His first choice politely declines. Not because Castorice lacks interest, quite the opposite, but because a crowded tavern would inevitably draw attention that she has no wish to inflict upon the other patrons.
Phainon catches the disappointment in her eyes all the same. He makes a promise instead, commits every joke to memory. Afterwards he’ll recount the entire performance for her from beginning to end. That seems to brighten her spirits, if only a little.
His second attempt proves successful. Hyacine agrees after a considerable amount of sighing and one very pointed question about whether this constitutes an appropriate use of free time.
For a passing moment he thinks to invite Mydei himself. The thought dissipates quickly. It would be remiss to invite him when the performer could very well be cruel towards him.
The evening of the performance arrives. He leaves his elaborate white coat at home deciding it would attract too much attention. Instead, he wears only the black short-sleeved compression shirt beneath the normal layers, along with the trousers and boots he always prefers.
Hyacine meets him just after finishing her work at the Garden of Life, looking pleasantly tired but amused by his enthusiasm. Together, they set off through Okhema’s evening streets toward the tavern, hoping that if they arrive a little early they’ll still be able to find somewhere to sit.
The tavern is already overflowing. Phainon remembers passing through this very establishment months ago during an evening patrol. It had been lively then, but there had still been empty stools at the bar and entire tables available near the back.
Hyacine surveys the room before pointing toward two vacant seats surprisingly close to the stage. “Those. Hurry!”
By the time Phainon notices them, she’s already weaving through the crowd. The seats are far nearer to the stage than he would have preferred. Considering the alternatives consist of standing by the door or balancing atop an ale barrel, he still accepts them gratefully.
“At least we found somewhere,” Hyacine says, settling beside him. “I didn’t expect this many people. I’m beginning to understand why everyone’s talking about her.”
So is he.
The drinks arrive shortly before the lanterns dim. A pair of attendants (who are probably the bar staff) emerge first, each carrying woven baskets overflowing with crimson flower petals. They scatter them lavishly across the stage and audience with all the solemnity of a royal procession. One particularly enthusiastic handful lands in a patron’s drink. Not a soul complains.
A herald steps forward, planting the butt of an ornate staff against the floor.
“In attendance this evening,” The voice rings through the tavern. “…Her Royal Radiance! The peerless Princess of Castrum Kremnos!”
More cheers.
“Beloved by the people! Feared by waistlines everywhere!”
The curtain sweeps open. The people had not exaggerated. She is absolutely drowning in fabric.
Layer upon layer of crimson silk, black lace, golden chiffon and embroidered velvet spills around her in impossible abundance, the skirts so voluminous that they conceal every hint of the body beneath. The gown glitters beneath the lanternlight, sleeves flowing elegantly to her wrists. He cannot even estimate her height; the hem swallows her shoes entirely, leaving the illusion that she glides across the stage.
Her lips gleam with glossy crimson. Soft pink blush warms her cheeks. A cascade of platinum-blonde curls tumbles nearly to her waist, crowned by a delicate tiara that catches the light every time she turns her head.
“Thank you, thank you—” Then her gaze sweeps the room. It lands on Phainon. He has the sudden, inexplicable feeling of spotting a predator. “You.”
Phainon looks up.
“The one built like a castle wall, please.”
He instinctively glances over his shoulder.
“No, darling,” Princess says patiently. “There’s no one behind you.”
Laughter ripples through the tavern. He points weakly at himself. “Me?”
“Yes, you,” She fans herself dramatically. “Oh, thank the Titans. I was beginning to worry that everyone attractive in Okhema had taken a sacred oath of silence.”
Phainon’s ears begin to warm.
Princess rests one gloved hand against her chest. “My goodness,” she breathes, blinking rapidly as though genuinely overwhelmed. “The Deliverer himself?”
The tavern erupts into applause before Phainon can so much as deny it.
Princess presses her fingertips to her lips. “I am honored,” She bows politely, then peeks back up at him through thick lashes. “I confess, I didn’t expect you to attend one of my performances.”
Phainon clears his throat. “Ah, you see— I w-was growing curious.”
“Oh, of course you were. Purely academic?”
She begins pacing slowly across the front of the stage, fan fluttering idly against her wrist.
“I had assumed you’d finally grown tired of hearing me speak so fondly about you.”
Speaking of him, here? Phainon freezes. “Fondly?”
Princess stops in her tracks, looking to the audience for support. “I ask you all—have I not spoken of this man with the utmost admiration?”
An immediate chorus answers her:
“Aye!”
“Every week!”
Princess sighs dramatically. “There, you see? Vindication,” She turns back toward him. “So imagine my surprise when the Deliverer himself appears. Unless…”
She narrows her eyes theatrically.
“Have all those jokes about you swinging your Dawnmaker finally reached your ears?”
Ale sloshes over tankards. Someone too far gone nearly falls off their barstool laughing.
Phainon’s face goes through three emotions at the same time. “I—“
Princess raises one gloved finger. “Oh, Titans preserve me,” Her ornamental fan, which he doubts is actually a Kremnoan relic, flies open with a sharp snap. “You’ve come to set the record straight.”
Hyacine quietly covers her face with both hands.
Phainon opens his mouth again. “I haven’t—“
Princess nods sympathetically as she begins to fan herself faster.
“No, no. Say no more, my lord. I understand completely,” She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “You wish to assure everyone that your swordsmanship has not been... grossly exaggerated.”
The audience practically howls. “No!” Phainon blurts before his brain catches up with his mouth.
One perfectly arched eyebrow rises. “So the rumors aren’t true? And here I had hoped to admire your dedication to public service at a closer range.”
Phainon makes the catastrophic mistake of trying to recover his position in a fight that he has already lost. “That’s not what I meant!”
Princess presses both hands to her chest. “Hasn’t Lady Goldweaver taught you? The first lesson of surviving a scandal is never volunteering additional evidence. But truly,” she says, smiling more warmly now, “it is kind of you to visit, though I was beginning to think all our illustrious Flame-Chasers considered comedy beneath them. And since you are here now,” She clasps her hands together hopefully. “Would you settle a wager?”
Princess tilts her head, all patient expectancy.
“A wager?” Phainon echoes weakly, ignoring the part about volunteering evidence.
“Yes.” She points her folded fan toward the audience. “Half this room insists the Deliverer blushes because he is impossibly humble,” The fan drifts lazily to the opposite side. “The other half believes he blushes because no one’s ever flirted with him properly.”
The tavern erupts. Princess places a hand over her heart.
“I maintain both can be true.”
Phainon steeles himself. “I think you’ve been misinformed. I don’t blush easily.”
Princess’s painted wet lips curl slowly upward. “Is that a challenge?” she asks. He realizes his mistake exactly one heartbeat too late, for she seems to have a competitive streak to match his own.
Hyacine sighs beside him. “There he goes.”
Princess descends the two shallow steps at the front of the stage until she stands only a pace away, skirts pooling around her like spilled wine. Though Phainon would hardly mind it, she does not invade his space.
She taps her fan thoughtfully against her chin.
“Broad shoulders.”
A feather-light tap on one of his biceps.
“Excellent posture.”
Another tap, this time to his spine.
“The, hm, puppy-like expression of a man who apologizes to chairs after walking into them?”
The fan nearly touches the tip of his nose.
Phainon rubs the back of his neck urgently. It’s strange how she reads him so easily, because he has done exactly that before. Once, a few months back, in tired stupor after a long mission.
She circles him once—still not close enough to touch, only enough to make the audience follow her movement. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look so uncomfortable while receiving compliments. You’ve gone pink, Lord Phainon.”
“I–I have not.” Without thinking, Phainon reaches up to cover one ear.
Princess gasps. “There!” She points triumphantly, expecting someone to seize him. “He’s protecting the evidence.”
He drops his hand immediately. “Alright, I’m a bit… pink. But that was unfair.”
The audience applauds at his admission, a bet seen through. Phainon was already dreading tomorrow morning, certain his teleslate would be blowing up with messages about it.
She leans down from behind him to whisper into his ear. “Oh, it absolutely was. I never claimed otherwise, did I?”
She waits a moment for the laughter to subside, posture pin straight once more. “I must say, I expected pride,” she inclines her head, staring down at him inquisitively. “Thank you for telling the truth.”
The sincerity of it catches him completely off guard. She continues lightly, rescuing the mood before it can settle into sentiment, “As a royal, I don’t usually take tips during these shows. But for you,” Her eyes flick down to his lap for a fraction of a second. She winks. “I might reconsider.”
The tavern explodes once more. Phainon can only stare after her as she saunters off, skirt trailing behind her.
Hyacine studies him for a long moment like they’re back in the clinic. “I can hear Aglaea’s voice already. You’re never recovering from this.” She takes a slow sip of her drink.
Princess is already onto her next victim. A silver-haired merchant in the third row who, judging by his increasingly desperate expression, has just realized making eye contact had been a tactical error.
Phainon finds himself leaning forward. He begins paying attention to things he’d missed before, while he was briefly part of the show. How she lets silence linger just long enough for people to answer. How every audience interruption becomes folded into the performance’s rhythm instead of breaking it. How she never laughs at someone, only with them. Even the sharper jokes always leave the other person smiling.
A pair of young women challenge her to identify which of them had proposed first, so the Princess inspects them gravely.
“The shorter one.”
Both women stare. “How?” they ask in unison.
Princess gestures toward the taller of the two.
“She’s still looking at her like she’s surprised the answer was yes.”
The taller woman immediately hides her face. The shorter one nearly falls off her chair laughing.
An elderly veteran soldier heckles that royalty has become too soft. It is obviously a joke, and Princess nods solemnly.
“Entirely true,” She makes a show of flexing one arm, concealed as it is under her flowing sleeve. “Though if you’re volunteering to help me out of this corset afterward, I’ll happily prove otherwise.”
The veteran laughs and salutes her with his mug. She salutes back with her fan. The room loves her for it. Phainon barely notices when his own drink empties, too absorbed in every word out of her mouth.
Hyacine does. Without a word she rises, disappears toward the bar, and returns several minutes later carrying another tankard. She places it directly into his hands. “There.”
He accepts it automatically, though he suspects this is more for her than it is for him. “…Thank you.” He takes one absent-minded sip.
Princess is speaking to a group of laborers now. One admits he’d brought his elderly mother. Princess immediately straightens, and looks her way. “Madam,” she bows deeply, before grasping the woman’s hand. “Your son has informed me he is his family’s greatest pride.”
The man splutters. “I did not phrase—”
Princess continues as though she heard nothing under her golden blonde locks. “He also says he visits every week. And that he writes home regularly.”
The mother turns toward her son with her eyes narrowed. “Do you?”
“…I will,” he croaks out weakly.
Phainon laughs harder than anyone nearby.
Soon Princess accepts a flower from an enamored showgoer in the front row before declaring she can only receive gifts worth less than the royal treasury, due to past antics, and the entire tavern begins arguing over whether the beautiful flower qualifies.
Phainon smiles again, completely unconsciously. Even more than before, due to the subject’s alignment with his own interest in appraisals. His untouched second drink sits forgotten beside his elbow.
Hyacine follows his gaze to the stage, where Princess laughs with another table, brilliant beneath the lanternlight, making every person she speaks to feel like they have briefly become the most interesting soul in the city when it is really her. Then Hyacine looks back at Phainon, at the hopelessly attentive expression he seems entirely unaware he's wearing.
“Titans above,” she murmurs into her cup.
The next morning finds them crossing paths outside the Garden of Life, where Castorice has just finished tending to a patch of herbs beneath Hyacine’s careful instructions. She brightens upon spotting him, though that is not saying much for the environment, as gloomy atmospheres follow her around naturally.
“Lord Phainon.”
“Castorice!” He smiles back. “Good morning.”
She closes the notebook she had been writing in. “How was the performance?”
Exactly what he’d rushed over to discuss. Phainon opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His mind, so reliable in battle, so quick to recall ancient histories, offers him absolutely nothing of use.
There had been jokes? She was funny. Her gown had been very red. He remembers glossy crimson lips curling into a smile. A gloved hand tapping lightly against his arm.
“Broad shoulders.”
“Excellent posture.”
“The puppy-like expression of a man who apologizes to chairs…”
“Thank you for telling the truth.”
“For you, I might reconsider.”
His ears begin warming all over again.
Castorice waits patiently. “Lord Phainon?”
He blinks, returning to himself with visible effort. “It was…” He clears his dry throat as he searches desperately for something, anything, rational to say. “Very educational.”
Hyacine, watering the nearby herbs, does not look up. “He learned that he blushes. I learned never to go drinking with him. Unless he foots the bill.”
Mydei stands in his sitting room, reflecting on the events of the previous night. While the thought had crossed his mind, he never expected Phainon to attend a show, there and staring up in shock. That alone had been enough to throw everything off balance.
He should have greeted Hyacine properly as well, seated as she was beside the Deliverer, observing the performance. It would have been polite to acknowledge her. To her knowledge, the performer was certainly not her colleague. Nevertheless, appreciation for one Chrysos Heir while ignoring another was tactless.
Instead, the moment Mydei’s eyes had landed on Phainon, everything else had shrunk away into the recesses of his mind. The Deliverer had looked up at him like that.
And Mydei had stopped thinking in anything resembling restraint. He was gone. Princess had done the rest, leaning into Phainon’s presence, pulling reactions out of him. Unsympathetic to the enjoyment of anyone but herself.
Excellent posture.
Mydei presses a hand briefly against his mouth, as though that might contain the memory or un-speak the words. Worse than any of it was how natural it had felt. He would’ve kept going, if there wasn’t an audience.
A knock never comes, the front door just opens instead.
Cipher walks in carrying a wooden box balanced easily in one arm, tail swaying behind her as she surveys the room with ownership. She does not pause before placing the box on the table with a solid, satisfied thud. “What are you thinking about, little prince?”
Mydei does not look up from the table. “Nothing.”
“I told you it takes one to know one.” She tilts her head. “Clearly that’s a bold-faced lie.”
He turns away from her, crossing the room to the table. The box is plain, unmarked, but he opens it anyway Inside lies a new wig that Princess desperately needs.
Platinum-blonde, significantly longer than the last, and the curls are carefully shaped and pinned so they fall in elegant waves. He lifts it, checking the stitching where the lace meets the base. Whoever made it understands detail. It’s an improvement, even.
Cipher watches him from the other side of the table, chin propped lazily in her hand. “You had an extra-special guest yesterday.”
Mydei does not stop inspecting the wig. “Two. Hyacinthia and the Deliverer attended.”
Her ears perk. “They didn’t recognize you.”
Mydei sets the wig back into its box with careful precision. He shouldn’t entertain this, but he confirms her suspicion with a simple “No.”
The ensuing laughter bursts out of her, tail flicking sharply behind her as she pushes off the table. “Oh, this is delicious,” she says, pacing around now. “You’re telling me the Deliverer sat there, watched that, and had no idea?”
“You’re the only one who has. It is a convincing performance.” Mydei gives her a flat look.
She only laughs harder. “I knew you were good,” she says, circling back toward him. “But this is a different level entirely. The man lives half of his life beside you.”
“He does not.”
“He does, I’ve seen you two out and about before,” she insists. “And still nothing.”
Mydei closes the lid of the box so that he isn’t tempted to stuff the poor girl inside of it.
By unspoken agreement, they always meet at the same hour. Eventually, everyone else learned the arrangement as well. The rooftop remains conspicuously empty whenever the Deliverer and the Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos are expected. Some joke that anyone foolish enough to wander too close deserves whatever stray sword, shattered stone, or airborne prince follows.
Today is no different. The broad rooftop lies open beneath Kephale’s eternal light, the marble still bearing the faint scars of countless previous bouts. A warm breeze carries over the city.
Mydei arrives first today. He tells himself it is because he prefers the extra few moments to stretch, and it has absolutely nothing to do with wishing to collect himself beforehand.
Yesterday was unfortunate. He has wanted Phainon for longer than he particularly enjoys admitting to himself. That much, at least, is old news. It is a quiet thing, ordinarily. Easily contained beneath their rivalry, the frequency of political issues or black tide monsters to slay, and the simple fact that Phainon has never overtly implied the slightest indication of—
He stops the thought there. Whatever Princess had done yesterday had not been Mydei acting. It had merely been… Well, Princess. Entirely separate entities.
Entirely—
“Mydei.”
He turns.
Phainon is climbing the final flight of stairs, one hand raised in greeting, smiling. “My apologies,” Phainon says as he crosses the rooftop. “I nearly lost track of the time.”
“Don’t apologize when you don’t mean it, Haikas. You are punctual.”
“I know. That’s why ‘nearly’ is the important part of what I said. Our next competition could be listening comprehension, hm?”
Mydei inclines his head, hoping it disguises the fact that he has already looked away once.
Phainon sets Dawnmaker against one shoulder before drawing it free in one practiced motion. The blade catches the light. Mydei’s brain, the traitorous thing that it is, immediately supplies another image.
“Have all those jokes about you swinging your Dawnmaker finally reached your ears?”
He coughs. It is sudden enough that Phainon immediately lowers the sword. “Mydeimos?”
“I am well.”
“Really? You don’t sound well.”
He curbs the urge to insist it is Phainon who sounds terrible. “There was…” Mydei clears his throat again, this time more successfully. “Dust.”
Phainon glances around the immaculate surroundings. As a common location for young couples to pass time together, it is kept quite cleanly.
“Dust,” he repeats. “On the roof.”
“So it would seem.” Mydei flexes his fingers, the heavy gauntlets shifting with a familiar metallic creak around his forearms. Their weight has always been grounding to him. They ask only for strength and precision, never undue self-reflection. “Shall we?”
Phainon smiles. “As always.”
They take their positions, so Mydei fixes his attention on Phainon’s stance.
His even footing. His shoulders.
Broad shoulders.
Oh— Absolutely not. He lunges forth before his own thoughts can betray him again.
The first exchange tells Phainon everything he needs to know. Mydei is as distracted now in the heat of their battle as Phainon has felt for days.
Ordinarily, the prince’s focus is unnervingly fitting for a champion warrior. Every shift in weight is committed with his complete confidence in his own prowess. That is precisely why sparring with him feels like trying to outwit a landslide or tame a lion. It is the very reason Phainon insists they spar as often as possible.
Today, Mydei’s timing is half a heartbeat late. Not enough for anyone else to notice. More than enough for Phainon to notice, his perfect equal on the field if they are both being honest with themselves. He slips inside one punch, catches Mydei’s forearm with his own, and lands a sharp kick against his side before retreating.
Mydei’s eyes narrow.
“There you are,” Phainon says, smiling despite himself.
The prince answers with a grin that is not remotely reassuring. Whatever hesitation had possessed him disappears, and his next strike arrives hard enough to force Phainon back three full steps.
“So that’s– Haah, how we’re doing this?”
“You started it.” Phainon retorts, like a child might say when pushing another into a sandpit. Titans, he enjoys this far too much.
Mydei in motion is an unfair sight. The prince is built for violence in the way some people are built for music. Phainon has wondered, on more than one occasion, what it would be like to face him while wielding a lance instead. According to some, the King of Castrum Kremnos is familiar with one. Surely Mydei still practices with it. Surely—
Phainon ducks another swing. One day, he decides, he is going to insist upon it.
The thought nearly costs him. His guard opens for the smallest fraction of a second, and a gauntleted hand catches his shoulder. Not hard enough to seriously injure, but he is thrown completely off course.
Mydei follows the sight, his face transforming, a mean grin spreading across his face. The expression transforms him. His braid has begun to loosen, crimson hairs escaping to frame his face. Sweat glistens faintly across his abdomen catching the endless daylight every time he pivots.
Phainon has the inconvenient realization that rivalry is a terminal condition. If titankin or cleaners don’t kill him, the prince’s torso will.
The next impact sends him flat onto his back, center of mass out of his own control. Marble greets him with bruising enthusiasm. Before he can recover, Mydei plants one leg across his stomach, pinning him effortlessly.
“Really?” Phainon groans.
“You were distracted.”
Phainon braces an arm beneath himself, but the pressure across his middle immediately increases. He gets approximately halfway upright before Mydei shifts his weight.
“No, stay down.” Then the prince kneels over him. One knee settles beside Phainon’s ribs, blond hair slipping free over one shoulder as he leans down just enough that only Phainon can hear him. “Will you submit?”
The words are perfectly ordinary and entirely appropriate. A common question asked a hundred times over the course of a hundred spars, right in this very location. Unfortunately, Phainon’s mind has become a deeply unreliable place in the last day-night cycle.
The other half believes no one’s ever flirted with him properly.
You’ve gone pink, Lord Phainon.
He becomes acutely aware of the warmth rising into his face, and the gauntlet resting only inches from his neck. Also the matter of his blood, which is choosing an exceptionally unfortunate moment to move north.
Oh. And south. Very far south. Titans.
“Mydei, I…”
Nothing. His thoughts scatter. The silence stretches long enough for Mydei’s expression to shift from smug to mildly perturbed. “Deliverer?”
“I concede,” he rushes out. Yesterday morning, his greatest inconvenience had been admitting to himself that the Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos was distractingly handsome. Twenty-four hours later, a new performer has joined the circus in his mind, and they are both dead set on driving him mad.
Mydei blinks once before the pressure disappears entirely. “There,” he says, standing and offering a gauntleted hand down toward him. “That wasn’t so difficult.”
Phainon sits up first, gawking at the offered hand which hangs patiently between them. Metallic fingers had, only moments ago, been pressed against his shoulder. Against his chest. He has gone insane and mustn’t be allowed on missions anymore.
Because somehow, impossibly, he is looking at Mydei’s hand. A hand he has dreamt of over the course of a thousand nights. Holding it, kissing the golden knuckles and calluses under them. Doing far less chaste things with them.
And he is simultaneously thinking about Princess. About gloved hands grasping a fan, the fan tapping over his skin like a ghost’s touch. She is a drag queen he has spoken to once, while she was working.
Oh, and better yet, he still hasn’t admitted to Mydeimos that he attended the performance. Mydeimos, the subject of the performance itself, the person whose reputation he had wanted to protect.
Which means he now has to continue pretending that yesterday evening never happened. A backbreaking task when the recollection of her words stirs the same arousal that the scent of Mydei’s sweat seems to elicit in his hindbrain.
Phainon closes his eyes for the briefest moment. The rooftop is still warm from their movement, the air carrying the faint metallic taste of their clashing weapons. Dawnmaker rests loosely in Phainon’s grip, but he doesn’t raise it again. Neither of them does.
Mydei is watching him for the surprise strike that never comes.
Phainon should say something. Something to set them back on the correct course, continuing their day the way he’s done so many times when he starts to have these foolish, perverse thoughts improper of Deliverer.
Instead, he hears himself say, “We could stop here.”
“Fool. We already have.”
“Not like that.”
Mydei lowers his hand fully this time. “What then?” he asks.
Phainon almost answers honestly. His eyes drift past Mydei instead, over the edge of the rooftop, toward the distant sprawl of the market and the pale lines of the shops below. Somewhere down there, the passers-by are especially restless lately. He wants a simpler place to go. Somewhere that does not require him to keep track of his own heartbeat for fear of ruining his reputation
“The Garden,” Phainon says. “We should visit there.”
“For what purpose?”
Phainon shrugs, knowing he is trying and failing at nonchalance while stuck sat on his rear.
“The chimeras.”
That earns a look. Slightly narrower like Mydei is trying to understand the suggestion without trusting it yet. “You want to train there instead,” he attempts.
“No.” Phainon exhales, slower this time. “Just… be there.”
Mydei studies him for a long moment.
“As you wish,” he says again. But it doesn’t sound like dismissal.
They move through the quieter upper paths of Okhema in parallel, not quite side by side but never far enough apart to feel separate. The city spreads out below them, ordinary life continuing, indifferent to whatever fracture has formed in the space between two people who only understand each other through harsh impacts.
Phainon is hyperaware of everything, how his companion adjusts his stride without thinking when Phainon slows. The absence of conversation that should feel comfortable, but doesn’t land that way today. Once, their silence was his ease, a reprieve each time he’s shoved or kicked. Now it feels occupied. By what, Phainon cannot name.
The Garden of Life greets them with its green light filtering through layered glasswork, air smelling close to the freedom they fight for, the scent of clean water threading through everything. Hyacine is not immediately visible, fortunate because she deserves a break after the tavern.
They pass through the main walkway and toward the open area, where a few younger chimeras notice them immediately. One lifts its head sharply. Phainon crouches first without thinking, so it bumps into his arm with enough force to be considered his second loss of the day. He steadies it automatically, palm resting against its shiny fur.
Mydei watches before he kneels as well. A larger chimera approaches him cautiously, sniffing at his gauntlet like it is deciding whether metal is an acceptable concept. Mydei holds still.
Phainon glances over despite himself. The chimera sneezes against Mydei’s wrist. Then—very carefully—Mydei touches its head. The chimera immediately leans into it.
Phainon feels something in his chest loosen without permission.
“They like you more than me,” he says. “Have you spent more time with them without my knowledge?”
Mydei does not look up. “They tolerate me now. That is not the same thing.”
They fall into it after that without deciding to. Feeding. Brushing fur. Phainon finds himself sitting on the grass with two chimeras pressed against him. They have decided he is a piece of furniture that belongs to them. One is half-asleep against his thigh.
Mydei is a short distance away, still surrounded by his own cluster, still careful, but no longer rigid. Every so often, their eyes meet, confirming the other’s sustained presence. Then look away again. Neither of them comments on the fact that this is not training, nor is it productive, nor the fact that they both chose it anyway.
At some point, one of the smaller chimeras wanders between them. It hesitates, looking to the right and left before it sits directly in the gap between Phainon and Mydei.
“So,” Phainon says at last, keeping his eyes on the chimera, “this atmosphere. It’s refreshing.”
Mydei answers without looking at him. “You requested it.”
Phainon shifts his hand through the nearest chimera’s fur absently. It presses closer. He thinks, briefly, that this is what it should always feel like, being around Mydei without needing the sharp edges of sparring or training or competing or cooking to justify it.
Mydei tries again, quieter this time. “You were distracted earlier.”
Phainon’s hand pauses. The chimera immediately nudges him, annoyed at the interruption to its leisurely comfort.
“I know,” he says, resuming his strokes.
Mydei glances over. “Was it the same issue as before?”
Phainon almost asks what he means. The chimera between them yawns, utterly unconcerned with whatever unspoken thing is moving underneath human conversation.
Mydei’s expression is not probing. Just overly observant, in the way he and nobody else quite is. As if there weren’t already enough things to admire about him.
“Do you mean what I spoke of last week? Your…” Phainon searches for the least inflammatory word. “parody.”
Mydei’s fingers are still against the chimera’s ears. “Yes.”
Phainon sighs. It almost embarrasses him to admit to it, like he’s done something elicit. Though Mydei seems unaware of people discussing it and thus would have no idea what occurred last night. “I attended a show last night. It was rather enjoyable.” Phainon scratches absently behind the chimera’s ears.
Mydei inclines his head. “I am pleased your curiosity has been satisfied.”
“It hasn’t.”
“…No?”
“I have more questions now. She was much kinder than everyone described. She didn't mock you,” Phainon says. “Not earnestly.”
“Then what?”
“She teased you. And the other Chrysos Heirs, the Council too. You’re the set dressing.”
“I see.”
“But only the way that—” He frowns, trying to explain it. “The way one teases someone they already admire.”
Mydei focuses very intently on the chimera presently chewing on the edge of one gauntlet.
“That was my impression.” Phainon clarifies.
“I see,” he repeats.
“She made everyone feel welcome. I think you would enjoy it.”
Mydei's hand stops moving. “…Would I. Hmph. I decline.”
“Why?”
Mydei moves to reach automatically for the nearest excuse. “I have responsibilities.”
“It starts after Parting Hour. You're usually finished by then.”
“I require rest.”
Phainon looks him up and down. “You sparred with me for hours on end, on many occasions, with no trouble.”
“That was already scheduled, Deliverer.”
“Yes? And next week’s performance is also scheduled. A new tavern, actually.”
“It is a different sort of schedule.”
Does he think he operates on a unique plane of reality? Phainon frowns. “I don’t understand.”
A chimera chooses this precise moment to climb directly into Mydei’s lap. Though it wasn’t scheduled, he accepts this development with considerably more grace than the conversation.
Phainon watches him stroke absent-mindedly behind its ears. “Just last week, you fought through an army of Black Tide creatures.”
“I did.”
“You addressed the entire Kremnoan community last month. Shortly following, you stood in front of the Council and argued alongside Aglaea for almost an hour. What is a crowd to a king? Are you afraid of a mere tavern?”
“I did not say I was afraid.” Mydei searches for another word. “I am disinclined.”
“Even so,” Phainon continues, oblivious to the devastation he has just caused, “if you ever change your mind…”
“I won’t.”
“…I’d still like you to come.”
Mydei exhales slowly. “Then I shall consider it.”
“You absolutely won’t.”
“I absolutely won’t.”
“I’d have been convinced I was speaking to an imposter if you'd started agreeing with me so easily.”
One of the smaller chimeras chooses that exact moment to crawl into the space between them again, flop dramatically onto its side, and insist upon being scratched by whichever of the two heroes surrenders first.
They both reach for it simultaneously, and their hands collide. Phainon jerks his back as though struck. “Sorry.”
Mydei withdraws just as quickly. “Likewise.”
The chimera looks from one to the other with visible disappointment before making an executive decision. It rolls over. Demanding both hands, brooking no argument. It wiggles insistently, one paw batting at Phainon’s wrist while the other reaches for Mydei’s gauntlet.
“Well,” Phainon says, trying not to smile as they exchange glances, “it seems we have no choice in the matter.”
They both reach down, and this time neither pulls away. Their hands settle on either side of the chimera’s small, warm body. Phainon’s fingers work the soft fur along its ribs while Mydei’s hand—still gauntleted, still careful—strokes from shoulder to hip.
“Its ears need attention,” he announces, gesturing vaguely at the chimera's perfectly fine ears. His voice has gone stiff. “I’ll handle that.”
Phainon bites the inside of his cheek. “The ears are fine.”
“Best to be thorough.”
The chimera, utterly unbothered by this nonsense, simply leans into Mydei’s touch and purrs louder.
“Ridiculous.”
“I’m a professional,” Mydei corrects, still not looking at him. His voice has taken on that clipped, defensive tone he uses when he’s flustered. “Someone has to maintain standards around here.”
“Is that what we’re calling this?” Phainon reaches over and gently redirects Mydei’s hand from the chimera’s ear back to its side, where it had been before. “Because it looks more like you’re avoiding—”
Mydei snatches his hand back like Phainon’s fingers are the Living Flame of Georios. “I think we should maintain appropriate professional boundaries. With the…creatures.”
“The creature,” Phainon says, gesturing at the chimera now contentedly rolling in the grass, “does not care about professional boundaries.”
“Well, I do,” Mydei says firmly, standing up with perhaps more haste than necessary. He brushes grass off his legs, which Phainon can’t resist staring at. “And we should finish up here. There’s still much else to do.”
Mydei practically vibrates with the effort of not looking back at him. Knowing he can rattle the usually composed warrior so thoroughly with something as simple as a brush of hands feels like he has earned back some of the power lost when Princess’s lips brushed the shell of his ear.
Neither is inherently bad. The loss of power, or the return of the upper hand.
“Whatever you say,” Phainon says, standing as well. He takes his time, stretching, making sure to move just close enough that Mydei has to step back.
Mydei steps back. Then back again. He’s going to trip over a chimera if he’s not careful.
“Stop that,” Mydei mutters angrily.
“Stop what?” Phainon asks innocently. Is this how it feels, when Princess is teasing the audience? Had he known that feeling all along?
Mydei’s voice has gone slightly strangled. “Whatever this is. Stop it.”
“I am just standing here,” Phainon says, and he’s definitely smiling now.
Mydei makes a low, frustrated noise in the back of his throat and turns away, ostensibly to check on another chimera. But Phainon catches the way his shoulders are tense, the way his hands keep clenching and unclenching.
The last person Phainon expects to be approached by in the hall is Krateros. Shadowed by a hulking warrior on either side as he is, the older man still looks to be the biggest threat in the room. They are not blocking the hall. They are, however, making it abundantly clear that walking anywhere else would be interpreted as a mistake.
“Lord Krateros,” he greets with an easy smile. “Might I help you?”
The older man regards him for a long, measuring moment. “I have no need for pleasantries, Deliverer. I have a task for you.”
Phainon’s posture shifts almost imperceptibly.
“In service of the Crown Prince.”
"...Yes?" The answer leaves him much faster than intended. “How can I help, sir?”
One of the guards glances sideways. Krateros notices the eagerness too, if the faint twitch at one corner of his mouth is anything to judge by.
“Walk with me.”
Phainon falls into step. The four of them move together through the broad marble hall, their footsteps echoing beneath painted ceilings. Servants and attendants instinctively give the procession a respectful berth.
Krateros keeps his hands clasped behind his back. “There have been unscrupulous acts of performance I have borne witness to since arriving in Okhema. It is not that Castrum Kremnos lacks appreciation for the arts. We preserve our stories with great care.”
His brow furrows.
“But never in the long history of our kingdom has someone dared insinuate anything less than reverence toward its ruler.”
Princess.
Phainon keeps his face politely attentive. Trying to explain that Princess had never felt malicious—that her jokes only landed because they carried affection—would accomplish nothing with this man.
“Deliverer. You realize I must discover who is responsible for these performances so they may be dealt with. Thus,” Krateros says, “I am entrusting this task to you.”
Sure, Phainon’s curiosity about Princess’s identity is undeniable. His willingness to hunt her down on someone else’s behalf is considerably less so. More importantly—
“Is it truly wise to act so impulsively?”
Krateros scoffs. Beside him, one guard exhales sharply through his nose while the other rolls his eyes with a long-suffering expression.
“Impulsively?” Krateros shakes his head. “Mydeimos’s image is integral to all of us. To your Goldweaver and her endeavors. To those of us who reside in a foreign city. A ruler’s dignity is not a trifle, Deliverer.”
Phainon cannot entirely disagree. Nor can he entirely agree. But it is better that he agree, lest Krateros seek someone else out for the task. “Very well. I will investigate for you.”
Krateros nods. “You must not inform Mydeimos that you are investigating this matter.” That surprises him enough to earn a visible blink. “I selected you because you know the prince well enough—as his rival—to understand the sort of people who might wish to ridicule him. Do not mistake that for believing you are a sleuth.”
“…Of course. I wouldn’t tell Mydei.”
Not that it would matter very much. If Mydei learned someone was looking into Princess of Castrum Kremnos’s true identity, he would probably nod once, say I see, and continue whatever else he had been doing. Those pressing responsibilities of his.
“So,” Phainon says, returning his attention to Krateros, “what are your leads?”
By every reasonable standard, this is a ridiculous plan.
Phainon is dressed entirely in black. Black tunic. Black trousers. Black gloves. Even a black scarf wrapped around his neck because he’s convinced himself his tattoo was too noticeable and a scarf looked suitably inconspicuous.
It occurs to him, approximately three minutes into the assignment, that he resembles a stagehand. Which would be much easier if Okhema experienced even a bit of nighttime.
Instead, eternal daylight pours over the market, illuminating every rooftop, alleyway, and terribly disguised Deliverer attempting espionage.
Surely no one has seen him. Surely.
Krateros had not exactly provided an abundance of useful instruction: “No other shop could accommodate these ludicrous requests. Survey the premises.”
Phainon crouches behind a stack of crates across from the tailor’s shop, carefully positioning himself where both entrances remain visible: the public front door, presently locked now that the city sleeps, and a narrower side entrance tucked into the adjoining alley.
He reaches up and attempts to flatten his hair. It only lasts a second for his cowlick immediately springs back into existence, rising with renewed determination at each subsequent attack. After the third attempt he gives up and simply crouches another inch lower, thankful that years of training have left his thighs more than capable of holding the position indefinitely.
The streets are quiet and nearly empty. He has nothing to entertain himself with for several long minutes, and he considers whether this has all been an elaborate prank on Mydei’s behest, to waste Phainon’s time. He sighs silently. Or maybe Krateros has found a punishment cruel enough to rival one of Aglaea’s lectures.
A pair of footsteps approaches. He perks up.
Two men wander unsteadily along the street, both smelling faintly of wine despite the early hour.
“Hold on, I’m telling you,” one declares with immense conviction, “if existence is predetermined, then choosing another drink is predetermined.”
His companion frowns. “No, not again, because then you’re assuming causality is linear.”
“It absolutely is.”
“No no. If it were, a dromas couldn’t dream.”
“What do those have to do with destiny?”
“I don’t know, it made sense in my mind.”
They nod solemnly to one another. Then continue stumbling down the street, still arguing.
Phainon bites the inside of his cheek. If only he could’ve gotten away with such lax debates at the Grove of Epiphany.
Another ten minutes crawl by. His knees remain perfectly comfortable, a contrast to his mind which decidedly does not.
Why had he agreed to this? Because Krateros had invoked Mydei. Right. He is beginning to suspect Krateros thinks he would agree to almost anything if someone prefaced it with ‘The Crown Prince require—‘
Movement. His attention snaps back to the tailor’s shop.
The air ripples. A circle of violet light blossoms into existence without warning, forming a smooth circular distortion edged in shimmering purple that spreads soundlessly through empty space.
Lady Tribbie and her sisters conjure passages with enviable ease. But theirs shimmer with soft golds and warm iridescence.
The purple thing he is witnessing carries strange depth to it, as though looking through dyed glass. Not an act of Janus, if he has ever seen one.
A boot emerges first. The figure steps through the opening with practiced confidence before the portal contracts slightly behind them. They wear a heavy black cloak from shoulders to ankles, hood pulled low enough to conceal every distinguishing feature.
…Exactly what Phainon should have worn. A proper cloak. Instead he’s dressed like an amateur puppeteer.
The cloaked figure lands lightly, adjusts the large hood once, and walks to the side entrance. Three polite knocks.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
The door opens almost immediately after the third, and the woman answering it is familiar. The real proprietor. Phainon has passed the tailor countless times over the years. She glances left and right, canning the empty street with an anxious expression. Phainon instinctively ducks another fraction lower behind the crates. Apparently all those afternoons hiding from Hyacine after accidentally upsetting her had not been wasted.
Satisfied, she steps aside. The cloaked figure reaches beneath their mantle and produces a small leather pouch. Heavy enough that it lands in the shopkeeper’s hands with noticeable weight. Payment?
The proprietor checks it only briefly before disappearing inside at surprising speed. The cloaked figure waits.
After less than a minute the woman returns, this time carrying an enormous canvas sack. Bulky enough that Phainon briefly wonders whether someone has hidden a person inside it, and this is how Princess travels…?
No, that would be absurd. If one could create a portal elsewhere, why bother with a bag at all? There must be clothing inside, those lengthy gowns that conceal all of the performer’s body.
The cloaked figure accepts the burden without complaint, though the sudden shift in weight causes them to lean ever so slightly before recovering their balance.
The proprietor wastes no time. She retreats inside, and the side door closes with what Phainon images to be a soft click.
The cloaked figure turns back toward the impossible purple aperture. Only then does Phainon notice the boots have wing engravings worked delicately into the material along the outer sides. An odd detail.
The figure steps forward. One boot disappears into violet. Then the other. The heavy sack vanishes after them.
The portal contracts once more before it collapses into a single ripple. And disappears entirely as though nothing had ever disturbed the empty alley.
Phainon continues staring long after it is gone.
“…What?”
The following morning, he makes for the Hero’s Bath at the earliest respectable hour. There is only one occupant as he'd hoped. Aglaea reclines against the far side of the pool, shoulders submerged beneath the water. Her eyes are closed, not that opening them would alter very much for her.
Phainon quietly sets aside his towel and steps into the bath opposite her, lowering himself carefully enough that the water barely ripples.
“Phainon.” Aglaea does not move. “What brings you to me?”
He has to actively resist rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve come to ask whether you know something I’ve been trying to research,” He clears his throat. “Do you know about a performer called Princess of Castrum Kremnos?”
“I do know…” Hope surges through him. “I know you tripped over your own feet in your rush to make it here. I know you nearly collided with two attendants because your thoughts were elsewhere. I know all that the threads know. They have been positively humming since yesterday.”
Of course. Aglaea only answers what has been asked of her, if she moves to answer him at all. He leans forward, restructuring the phrase.
“If you would, Lady Aglaea,” The phrase comes out with considerably more desperation than dignity. “Who is the person behind the Princess of Castrum Kremnos?”
Aglaea’s expression remains serenely composed. “That, I cannot tell you.” She folds her hands neatly atop the water. “I divulge information only when it serves against genuine threats. And have you not personally assured multiple individuals that Princess is far from one?”
He has. To Hyacine. To Mydei. To Castorice. Even to himself. He sinks a little lower into the bath.
Then Aglaea speaks again. “I may, however, answer a different question if you possess one.”
A different question. She means one that she would be able to answer even without her threads, an answer she would not be remiss to grant.
Phainon thinks back over everything he’d witnessed the previous afternoon. The impossible purple gateway is the obvious choice, and yet… The boots caught his attention at the end. They bore those wing engravings as a sign of elegant craftsmanship.
“Ahem… Lady Aglaea, have you ever crafted a pair of heeled boots with engraved wings? And if so,” He chooses his words carefully. “For whom?”
Aglaea opens her eyes. Unseeing. They rest upon him anyway.
“Tell me first.” Her voice is as calm as ever. This time it’s clear that he has stepped in the correct direction. “Are you familiar with the Chrysos Heirs you have not met personally?”
He blinks. Is he being judged on his loyalty to the cause?
“Of course,” He answers automatically, reciting each name he recalls from the historical codex. “Queen Cerydra, Commander Hysilens, and Lord Terravox. They gave everything so that we might reach the Era Nova.”
Aglaea’s mouth tightens, meaning that was not the answer she expected of him. She says nothing. He needs to think about this more carefully.
Aglaea invokes the well-known Heirs, already a small group of people. From that group, it is specifically those that Phainon has not met, though she does not want the name of an heir already passed… It is someone presently still alive, then. Someone who could have worn boots made by her hand. His thoughts abruptly rearrange themselves. Of the twelve Titans, which holds a propensity for quick movements?
“Lady Cifera.”
The realization arrives all at once.
“A fleet-footed Heir who prefers remaining unseen. Then,” His eyes widen. “Is Lady Cifera behind Princess?” The words leave him in a rush before he has time to examine why disappointment settles so heavily in his chest. He isn’t certain what answer he’d wanted. Only that this isn’t it.
Aglaea’s lips press together. Not confirmation or denial. Simply silence.
Phainon’s thoughts begin racing again.
The enormous sack, with the cloaked figure shifting beneath its weight. If that had truly been Cifera… She had struggled carrying the costumes. If she could scarcely transport them, how could she possibly perform while wearing them?
No, that made no sense. Cifera had not been the performer. She had been helping. Which meant the elusive Princess remained someone else entirely.
He groans softly. Back to square one.
“…Please,” He almost hates how plaintive he sounds. “Could you spare me anything more than that? I really must know who it is.”
Aglaea shakes her head. “I shan’t divulge another’s personal affairs. Speculate alone if you must,” Her tone leaves no room for negotiation. “Only remember this. If Cifera has agreed to help preserve someone’s secret, then it is a secret worth keeping.”
After a long moment she settles back against the stone once more, closing her unseeing, all knowing, eyes. “Now. I believe you have asked enough questions. I should like to enjoy the water in peace.”
Phainon sits there for another few seconds.
“Of course.” He climbs from the bath with all the enthusiasm of a thoroughly scolded puppy.
Princess is still a mystery. Krateros will be no happier with today’s report than yesterday’s.
As he dries the ends of his hair outside the baths, one consolation remains. He knows who the helper behind the veil is. And Lady Cifera isn’t Princess herself. For reasons he cannot quite explain, he finds himself oddly relieved.
Predictably, Krateros is unsatisfied with his failure. Phainon cannot say he feels much better.
Searching for Princess’s true identity is not an official duty, and perhaps it is better that the elder does not discover her, but Phainon embraces his usefulness to others naturally. A propensity he may as well have been born with.
He declined mentioning his discovery about the trickery demigod, hoping instead to catch her at the next show and interrogate speak to her. It might be grasping at straws, but he thinks he may have seen someone with feline ears at that tavern.
As luck would have it, Princess’s next performance is for the evening. He busies himself trying to plan an outfit. The plan is to arrive early, blending into the audience to watch who enters and leaves. Paying particular attention to anyone carrying costumes, unusual luggage, or—if Aglaea’s implication proves meaningful—any suspiciously agile women with suspiciously winged boots.
His teleslate chimes. The sender is Tribbie.
As luck would not have it, a refugee caravan has been attacked east of Okhema. Survivors are scattered with titankin still active. The Janus gate opens in twelve minutes. For him and Mydei.
Everything else recedes as he makes for the door. There are people waiting for the Deliverer.
“There you are!” Despite her height, Lady Tribbie spots him almost immediately. “De is already here.”
Of course he is. The Crown Prince is tightening the straps beneath one gauntlet, crimson hair caught by the wind. He looks up at the sound of approaching footsteps. Something unreadable flickers across the prince’s face before he replaces it with an angry look.
“Finally rolled out of bed, Deliverer? Care to bet on how few you’ll kill today?”
Before Phainon can puzzle over the response, Tribbie claps loudly.
“Mission first!”
The maps are hastily unrolled before them. The refugees had been travelling toward the Holy City after abandoning temporary settlements swallowed by the Black Tide. Somewhere along the eastern road they were intercepted. The caravan broke apart between the mountains.
The objective is civilian extraction, not pursuit. In Phainon’s experience that equates to: “Kill whatever stands between them and home.”
As soon as they're briefed, the triangular Janus Gate opens with liquid gold. Cold mountain air rushes through. Tribbie wishes them well before they step into it together.
Rocky highlands stretch before them, broken by sparse foliage and narrow footpaths worn smooth by generations of travelers. Below, a caravan has ground to a halt. Refugees crowd around overturned wagons while dark shapes move among them.
Neither waits for the other, they descend the slope at a run. Dawnmaker is the first weapon to taste blood. A Titankin crumples before it has time to reach the nearest wagon, and beside him, one of Mydei’s gauntlets caves another’s chest inward with a sound like splitting stone.
The remaining creatures turn as one.
“Left.” Mydei calls out.
“I have eyes, you know.”
“Hmph. You so rarely use them.”
Phainon ducks beneath a sweeping claw, drives Dawnmaker upward through a Titankin’s ribs, and glances toward the prince just in time to see him hurl another monster bodily into two more.
“I was looking at you.”
“So you admit my fighting is– Haah, more entertaining than yours?”
“Ghh, I admit nothing.”
“Arrogant fool. You’ve always been a terrible liar.”
Maybe that holds some truth, but only little things. Pretending Mydei’s comments don’t amuse him. Or pretending he doesn’t deliberately bait the prince into saying them.
A Titankin lunges between them, forcing the conversation to end there. It resumes several minutes later, after another handful have fallen.
“I believe,” Phainon says, flicking unnamed substances from Dawnmaker’s edge, “your count is generous. And I weakened the last one.”
“You mean you hesitated.”
“I exercised restraint.”
“You lost either way, Deliverer. Distracted? At least pretend you’re making me work for it.”
Phainon laughs.
There it is again. It strikes him, absurdly, that Mydei has been teasing him for years. Not with shameless innuendo, or painted smiles and whispered remarks that left him blushing in front of half a tavern. But he has always found ways to needle him with raised eyebrows after a missed strike, smug grins after victory, or that casual Haikas spoken whenever Phainon became predictable to him.
Somewhere along the way, Phainon had grown attached to it. He cannot remember exactly when. Perhaps after their tenth day of sparring. Perhaps it had happened so gradually that there had never been a moment to notice.
It does not untangle the confusion that night in the tavern left behind. Phainon still has no idea what to make of his ears warming whenever he recalls crimson lipstick or a conspiratorial whisper. But it is something else to occupy his mind. Responsibility fills every empty corner of his thoughts. It is almost a relief to discover there is room for something as harmless as wondering exactly when the Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos had become one of his favorite people to argue with.
Another few Titankin lunge from the brush in a pathetic attempt at an ambush.
“Twenty-two,” Mydei announces after reducing it to a cloud of ash.
“Twenty-one,” Phainon corrects, leaning his head to the side to avoid the arrow hurtling his way.
Once again, they reach the last creature almost simultaneously. Dawnmaker catches it across the shoulder at the exact moment one of Mydei’s gauntlets crashes into its sternum. The Titankin freezes for the briefest instant before collapsing beneath the combined force of both blows.
Silence follows. Mydei looks at the corpse. Phainon looks at Mydei.
“I suppose… Twenty-three each?” Phainon offers.
The prince pretends to consider it. “Very well. Since you seem so attached to tying with me.”
By the time the valley falls quiet, every refugee has been accounted for. They are shaken, exhausted, and eager to continue on, but alive. Phainon and Mydei had arrived soon enough. No names would be added to the memorials today.
Phainon wipes a streak of blood from the shallow cut along his cheek with the back of his glove. A dark bruise is spreading beneath Mydei’s pauldron where a Titankin had managed to land an unfortunate blow on his chest. By the time they begin the journey home, the prince’s unusual constitution is erasing the worst of it.
The return to Okhema consumes the rest of the night. When the city’s gates rise before them, the Dawn Device greets them with its familiar daylight.
The refugees are passed to Hyacine and Tribbie’s capable hands to be given medical attention and fed. Mydei and Phainon linger until they are banished, Tribbie noticing the grime they’re covered in and declaring they both urgently require baths.
Phainon would rather just sleep it off, in all honesty. Mydei seems momentarily surprised when Phainon bids him farewell instead of shoving him towards the usual direction they’d take together. But when they each go their separate ways, Mydei is walking as fast as he is. Of course he’d have his own matters to attend to after a sudden mission… it does not sour his own mood at all.
Taking the shortcut back to his home, he passes through a familiar square. As usual, in the shade of the awning, two young women are curled up chatting. It is safe to assume that worldly responsibilities mean nothing to them. Thus, if anyone could tell him about the show he’d missed out on, it would be these two.
“Lord Phainon! You seem, um… to have returned from a mission?” one of them asks, as both of their eyes go wide. Tribbie’s assessment of his state was correct.
“Good morning! Yes, we’ve just returned. I may not look the part, but it wasn’t much of a hassle,” he shrugs. “Actually, I was hoping to run into you both.”
“Why’s that?” the other asks.
“Er…” he’s careful to lower his voice as he continues, “…Could you tell me what happened at Princess’s show last night?”
The two young women look at one another. Not just a glance, either. Phainon waits. He has seen them do this often enough to suspect they possess telepathy.
“You haven’t heard?” one of them says.
Phainon shakes his head. “I was called away before it began.”
“Oh.”
“The show was cancelled,” the other tells him. “At the very last minute.”
He blinks. “Cancelled?”
They both nod. “And before you ask,” the first adds with a sigh, “nobody knows why. They just said it wouldn’t be happening.”
“That was it.”
“No explanation?”
“None. Some thought maybe she had gotten sick. Or something had happened backstage. But everyone was just guessing.”
His shoulders loosen. That certainly explained why he hadn’t heard anyone talking about an incredible performance he’d failed to attend. For once, fate had chosen an unusually convenient time to send him racing across Amphoreus.
“I suppose I didn’t miss much, then,” he says with an apologetic smile.
“Not unless you enjoy standing around wondering what's going on,” one of them laughs.
“I do not,” Phainon admits, thinking back to his little surveillance gig. They exchange a few more pleasantries before wishing him a good morning, and he continues homeward.
His relief lasts approximately half the walk. Was she all right? Surely she must be. If something truly serious had happened, word would have spread through the city already. He can’t help hoping she’s simply caught a cold or lost her voice. Whatever the reason, he hopes she’s recovering well.
By the following week, word spreads through the city that Princess is finally performing again.
Phainon had done an absolutely terrible job pretending he wasn’t looking forward to it. It had taken Castorice less than ten minutes to figure it out. He’d stopped by the dromas caretaking grounds to help brush one particularly stubborn beast that refused to cooperate with anyone else. Somehow she happened to be around at the same time, and their conversation had drifted toward what everyone in Okhema seemed to be discussing.
“The tavern’s show is back tonight,” Castorice had remarked.
“Wow! Is it?”
She’d looked at him. But perhaps she was seeing through his body.
“You were trying to sound casual, Lord Phainon?”
“I was.”
“I’m sorry… It didn’t work.”
“Oh. I see.”
She’d continued standing by the dromas in silence for a few moments before adding, with complete sincerity, “I hope you enjoy yourself. Please pay more attention, this time.”
He had fled before she could say anything else.
Of course, his interest is purely academic. He simply wants to see whether Cifera might appear this time. That is the only reason he finds himself arriving at the tavern a little earlier than before, selecting a seat farther off to the side than last time, where he can observe both the stage and the room without drawing much attention to himself.
Within minutes, every table is filled. People continue streaming through the doors until there’s scarcely enough room to walk between them. Phainon even spots several familiar faces among the crowd—shopkeepers he’s passed during errands, a blacksmith’s apprentice, a pair of city guards off duty.
The tavern is thriving. It is fascinating. One single performer dramatically increasing business for an establishment, leading to renewed circulation of coin. He is, obviously, observing a local economic trend. Yes. Professor Anaxa would surely commend his unwavering dedication to research.
…
He is almost certain Anaxa would instead spend an hour explaining exactly why Phainon’s methodology is unsalvageable.
The tavern gradually settles as every available seat disappears. The lights throughout the room dim one by one until only the warm glow cast upon the stage remains. Along the aisle between the bar and the stage, patrons accept handfuls of crimson rose petals from an attendant weaving through the crowd.
Not Cifera, just another member of the staff. A shame. The attendant reaches the front, projecting their voice.
“Returning to her kingdom this evening…”
The announcement spreads from wall to wall.
“Her Royal Radiance…”
The pause stretches just long enough to build anticipation.
“The unrivaled Princess of Castrum Kremnos!”
Cheers break out immediately, mugs slamming against tables, and ale sloshes over countless rims as everyone cranes their necks toward the backstage entrance.
Princess emerges through the curtains. She is wearing a gown unlike any he’s seen before. White and so daintily soft, with flowing fabric swirling around her with every step and a long train trailing elegantly behind. Pearls shimmer at her sleeves, and delicate embroidery is caught in the stage lights until she seems almost haloed in silver.
It looks suspiciously like a wedding dress. Was this the one Cifera had collected that night?
“Beloved by the people!” the announcer proclaims. “Feared by off-the-rack gowns everywhere!”
The audience roars with laughter. Phainon realizes he’s started applauding as well. Well, there was no reason to stop. Blending in is important. That is all.
Fortunately, he’d left the proper Deliverer getup at home in favor of ordinary clothes tonight. If everything goes well he could remain just another anonymous patron in the crowd. Assuming he’s able to avoid applauding too enthusiastically.
The applause takes its time fading. Princess waits patiently through every last cheer, one hand resting over her heart, the picture of gracious nobility.
“My, my,” she sighs at last, smiling so brightly it seems impossible that she was ever absent. “What thunderous applause.”
She glances around the packed tavern. “Has my brief disappearance truly caused such strife?” A theatrical hand comes to her forehead. “I suppose I really can give that brother of mine a run for his money.”
The crowd laughs knowingly. Someone lets out a shrill whistle. Princess rewards them by taking a slow turn, the skirts of her white gown blooming around her in a perfect circle. The train sweeps elegantly across the stage to another wave of appreciative applause.
“Please, my darlings,” she says, fluttering a gloved hand. “Don’t be concerned. My costume split and revealed my tuck a little too voraciously, so I had to be rushed to the tailor’s. Unless…”
There is a pregnant pause as her grin widens.
“…that’s what you all wanted to see?”
A chorus of assenting voices fill the room. The answers come so quickly and so loudly that even Phainon is startled.
Princess laughs, delighted. “Oh,” she purrs, “Such a slutty crowd tonight for me.”
A voice from near the front rings over the laughter.
“I WANT THAT!”
The entire tavern dissolved into fresh cackling. Princess shades her eyes as though searching the audience. “Hmm, is that you, Bathhouse Adamos?”
A skinny blond man near the stage raises both arms triumphantly. “It is, Princess!”
“I thought I recognized that shameless voice. Wonderful. It is good to know the returning cast of lecherous queers has made it tonight.”
Adamos bows from his seat as though accepting a royal commendation. Applause breaks out once more and Adamos beams, waving both hands as if he were the guest of honor.
Phainon watches the spectacle in utter disbelief. Princess recognizes the man well enough to expect him in the audience. Which means he has returned often enough to be a regular. His gaze drifts back toward the stage.
Why am I not a regular?
Princess glides down the short staircase at the edge of the stage before the applause has entirely died. “My train is very expensive,” she informs the nearest table. “If any of you step on it, you become my ladies-in-waiting.”
One woman immediately lifts both feet off the floor.
“See? She respects the monarchy. Good girl.”
She points toward a man carrying an enormous bouquet of flowers. “Oh my?”
He proudly raises them. “They’re for you!”
Princess clasps both gloved hands over her heart. She accepts them with care, bringing the flowers close enough to breathe in their scent.
“They’re beautiful,” she says, and for the first time there isn't a trace of irony in her voice. “Thank you. You’ve successfully bought yourself immunity from all future insults. Terrific investment on your part.”
The tavern laughs. As a passing bartender moves by with a tray balanced expertly on one hand, Princess deposits the bouquet into her free arm.
“Oh, be a dear and put these in my dressing room, won’t you?” She bats her lashes at the man who’d gifted them. “I’ll thank you personally in my dressing room later.”
The poor fellow looks moments away from ascending to the heavens.
The bartender is already slipping away with the flowers when Princess catches hold of her wrist. “Ah, wait.”
Phainon blinks. Cat ears. His gaze instinctively drops. Golden boots.
Princess tugs the reluctant bartender back into the spotlight. “It would be quite dishonorable,” she announces, “if I didn’t introduce this lovely audience to the bitchiest chapstick in all of Okhema. Please meet one of our lovely bartenders!”
She gestures grandly toward the girl beside her.
“Say hello, everyone.”
For just a moment Princess’s smile vanishes into something perfectly solemn, threatening the crowd into her bidding. The audience immediately catches the joke in it.
“Oh, don’t look so serious!” someone calls.
“Careful,” another adds. “You’ll start looking like the Crown Prince!”
Phainon grimaces. Objectively speaking, Mydei looks rather handsome when he’s serious, what are they talking about?
Princess has to fight a grin over the audience’s words. Beside her, Cifera gives the room a tiny, unenthusiastic wave. She sighs and then adjusts herself, effortlessly slipping from Princess’s grasp.
“I have drinks to pour.”
“And I have a kingdom to rule.”
“Congratulations.” Without another word, Cifera retreats toward the bar, bouquet tucked carefully into one arm. Her tail curls around herself as though insulating her from the attention.
Princess is already sweeping onward through the crowd, claiming another unsuspecting victim for conversation before half the audience has stopped laughing.
Phainon watches Cifera disappear behind the counter. This is the opportunity he’d been hoping for. He leans toward the woman seated beside him. “Would you mind terribly keeping my seat for a moment?”
She smiles knowingly. “I’ll fight anyone who tries to steal it, Lord Phainon.”
“Haha… Thank you..?”
He slips through the crowd. The noise of the royal procession happening behind him dulls slightly once he reaches the bar. Cifera is arranging bottles onto a shelf as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened.
Phainon rests his fingertips lightly against the countertop. Only after finishing with the bottles does she turn. There is no surprise on her face. Only a knowing little smile.
“Took you long enough, Deliverer. That Goldweaver must’ve been pretty vague about me.”
“You know I’ve been looking for you?”
“Mmhm.” She reaches beneath the counter for a clean glass. “Noticed you the day you crouched behind all those boxes, staring at me and that tailor. But I thought you were just a passerby relieving yourself at first.”
Phainon closes his eyes for the briefest instant, cringing. “I can assure you I was not.”
“Good.”
She polishes the glass with maddening composure.
He clears his throat. Whatever embarrassment he feels is secondary. He is still a Chrysos Heir.
“I hadn’t intended for our first conversation to happen like this,” he says evenly. “But the circumstances have changed. I need to know who’s behind Princess, and as far as I can tell, you’re the only one who knows.”
Cifera stops moving. The glass remains in her hand. “That’s a very interesting way to introduce yourself. Did you already speak to that Goldweaver?”
“I did,” Phainon answers. “She pointed me your way.”
It's good he hasn’t started drinking, because he notices then how Cifera’s composure slips. One grey ear flicks like reacting to touch.
“She did?” The surprise lasts less than a heartbeat before she sets the polished glass down. “Of course she did. Well, Deliverer, I should warn you,”
She leans onto the counter.
“You’re really not the first patron to sidle up to this bar trying to get into a drag queen’s pants.”
Phainon nearly chokes.
“You’ve misunderstood. That’s not why I’m here.”
She tilts her head. “Hmm? Then enlighten me.”
Because— Because there is the matter of Mydeimos. His honour. Even if Mydei himself seems utterly unfazed by Princess’s creative interpretations, Phainon isn’t. Someone ought to object on the prince’s behalf, right? Although Mydei had dismissed it the last time Phainon mentioned it.
Whatever. Then there was Krateros. The Kremnoan had been positively scandalized by the very existence of the performance. Surely the descendants of Castrum Kremnos deserved some consideration. Though, admittedly, Krateros had reached that conclusion without ever setting foot inside the tavern.
And—
And…
He stares at the polished wood of the bar. Cifera waits. One brow slowly rises.
Phainon searches desperately for another reason. It dawns on him that there is nothing else to be found. The truth is simply that he’d wanted to know who Princess was. He wanted to know how someone could command a room like this. Command Phainon’s mind more than what was reasonable.
None of those sounded like acceptable answers.
“Mhm, mhm, I see,” Cifera smiles at last when he’s quiet for too long.
Phainon’s shoulders sink a fraction. “Could I just have a drink?”
“Now that,” she replies, reaching for a shaker, “is a request I can actually help with. What’ll it be, Deliverer?”
Over her shoulder, Princess’s laughter rings out again as the audience erupts into another round of applause. Cifera doesn’t so much as glance toward the commotion as she slides the drink across the counter.
“There you go.”
“Thank you.”
Cifera only hums in response, already turning away to serve another customer. What an odd character.
By the time he realizes it, half the glass is already gone. A few droplets cling to the corner of his mouth. He considers pressing but then looks back toward the stage. He doesn’t actually want to miss it.
He sets the glass down. “Perhaps I should return to my seat. How much do I owe you?”
Cifera raises an eyebrow. “Leaving already?”
“I suppose I really did come here to watch the performance.”
“Mm. He was right about you getting all pink,” Her expression says she doesn't believe him. “It’s on the house. You’ll just have to make it up to me some other time.”
He thanks her and gives her a small, almost sheepish nod before stepping away. Owing her a favor is a problem for future Phainon.
When he returns to his original seat, he finds that the kind woman beside him has indeed protected it. Phainon is about to sit when—
“What’s this? My beloved is here!”
Phainon’s hand stops halfway to the chair. Slowly, painfully, he turns.
Princess is standing several steps away, one hand dramatically pointed toward him. Her expression is delighted, tinged with pure evil.
“The Deliverer himself returns—Everyone clap for him!”
Cheers erupt from every corner of the room as patrons turn in their seats, mugs raised, hands clapping in awe and delight.
Phainon’s soul leaves his body. He had been hoping to remain an anonymous patron this go around. He would like Castorice to hold his hand right now, actually. Immediately. Preferably before he has to endure whatever comes next.
Phainon turns back toward the crowd, because there is no escaping this. There is nothing to do except acknowledge them. He raises one hand awkwardly, offering a smile that he hopes looks dignified. The applause only grows louder.
Then a blur of white fabric begins making its way toward him. Perhaps if he does not move, the situation will somehow become less embarrassing. The entire tavern watches as their beloved performer approaches the Deliverer. Phainon has never been more certain that he is about to lose a battle.
Princess glides through the sea of tables as though the tavern parts for her by Nikador’s divine decree. She acknowledges cheering patrons with a flick of her fan but never once takes her eyes off Phainon.
He considers running out.
She stops directly in front of him. For the first time, they are both standing. Phainon blinks. They’re nearly the same height even though he had expected her to be shorter. He does not have the time to psychoanalyze why it feels oddly satisfying.
Heels under the dress, perhaps? Princess notices the fraction of a second his eyes dip downward.
“You dog, undressing me with your eyes in front of guests?” Her lashes flutter. “We’ve finally discovered we’re the same height. Surprised that I’m taller than expected?”
Should he play along? Is his sense of humour on par with the crowd’s?
“Just a little.”
"Oh, don’t worry." She waves a dismissive hand. “You’re still quite enormous. That Aglaea really knows how to pick them…”
Someone whistles. Princess nods solemnly toward the offender. “I know. It’s intimidating.”
Him? Intimidating, when he’s supposed to be approachable to all citizens? “It isn’t,” Phainon says automatically.
She slowly turns back toward him. “Did the brick wall in front of me just defend itself?”
Phainon pinches the bridge of his nose. He has made another mistake.
Princess circles him once. “I’ll confess I’ve been thinking about you,” Several patrons cheer before she even continues. “Oh, don’t make that face. Not constantly, I have a reputation to maintain.”
Phainon isn’t entirely convinced those words mean anything anymore. Wasn’t this all about Mydei’s reputation? What does she know about preserving her own, if she’s undermining his?
Princess stops in front of him again. “I was terribly wounded, you know. You vanished.”
“I…”
“You came to one performance,” She sighs dramatically. “Confessed to being completely pink and swooned.”
“I admitted I was a little pink.”
“You accepted defeat at my hands. And then I never saw you again.” The accusation sounds genuine enough to make him feel guilty. “I’m sure you were busy, as were the rest of us. Pray tell, what changed? What inspired the hero’s miraculous return?”
Nothing. He knows that it was nothing, he’d simply wanted to come back.
Her smile softens into something dangerously knowing. “You don't have an answer? You just wanted to see me again.”
His heartbeat stumbles. How can she read him so easily? Can everyone do this? Did he forget his heart on his sleeve in his haste to change his clothes
“Well, of courses… I came for the performance.”
“My performance. There are a dozen other liquor burrows in the city, and yet you sought me out. You even interrogated the poor staff member over there.”
His eyes widen. Was she watching him that long ago? How long ago did she first notice him sitting in the audience?
“She told you?”
“Cifera tells me everything.”
From behind the bar comes a snarky, unapologetic voice. “I do.”
The tavern laughs. The bitchiest chapstick in Okhema, after all. Perhaps, if he toes around, he could find a floorboard old enough to fall through.
Princess fans herself lazily. just enough that he catches the faint scent of perfume beneath the tavern’s ale and smoke. “This show had not been running long, and yet I’ve had nobles come to challenge me. I’ve had priests attempt to convert me. I’ve had husbands insist I stop corrupting their wives, and the inverse. But you…”
She tilts her head.
“…you may be my first admirer to interrogate my bartender before introducing himself, Deliverer.”
“I’m not—“
Princess raises one finger. He stops.
She smiles sweetly. “Keep denying it. Every time you do, your ears go pinker than my last dress.”
Before he can dig his grave deeper, a deceptively heavy hand comes down on his shoulder, urging him into the seat below. He blinks up at the when he finds himself seated, and only catches the tail end of her, figuratively and literally.
The barest hint of it, beneath the painted smile, is a remarkably warm expression.
He cannot return to this tavern under any circumstances.
When Mydei returns home and stares at himself in the mirror, the desolate look in his eyes doesn’t match the fabric pooling around his body. The room is too quiet after another night of raucous applause.
He goes about the annoying parts. Removing the hairpins that hold his wig in place, setting it onto the canvas head gently. Untying his corset and hanging up the expensive costume to preserve its shape. Shedding the padding from his hips, untucking. Washing away the cosmetics layered across his face until only his own reflection remains.
The soreness is the one part he cannot wash away. When it all began, the exhaustion belonged to Princess. She was the one expected to smile through aching cheeks, to command a room, to leave every patron convinced they’d shared the evening with charming royalty. Mydei merely borrowed her for a few hours before returning to himself.
The jokes still come to him as readily while walking Okhema’s streets as they do beneath the yellow tavern lanterns. He has caught himself considering how Princess might answer a councilor’s complaint, or whether a passing merchant possessed the makings of an audience member. Maybe more than once he’d needed to censor the urge to respond with a line better suited to painted lips than a king’s ascetic cadence.
It no longer felt as though he were stepping into another person. It feels as though he has made room for another part of himself.
His gaze lingers on the basin where rose-tinted water slowly disappears down the drain. Phainon would undoubtedly find some foolish remark to make about the amount of colour. That line of thinking carries with it the memory of the Deliverer laughing in the baths after insisting, with complete sincerity, that only he had earned the right to tease Mydei. Such an absurd declaration.
Phainon has unknowingly spent more time with Princess than anyone else in Okhema. The Deliverer speaks to both of them with the same earnestness, argues with both of them, somehow manages to entice both of them, never realizing they are one and the same. There should be comfort in that. There was comfort in that.
And now, Mydei feels like his skin has gone artificial. Every lie slips more easily from his tongue than the last. Every omission sits heavier in his chest. Princess belonged to the tavern, and Mydeimos belonged to his people. Keeping those lives apart had seemed only sensible.
Now, it feels increasingly like asking Phainon to know only half of him. The room has been tidied, the costume carefully stored away, the last traces of paint washed from his skin.
It is an unpleasant thing to admit. So he won’t. But oh Nikador, does he feel lonely.
…Despite every promise he’s made to himself after the previous performance, Phainon returns. After a gruelling day dealing with the Council, at that.
It’s really his last time. For closure. And stress relief, also.
The regulars recognize him quickly now. Someone raises a mug when he enters, the person next to them cheering that Princess will be immensely pleased by his being here. Phainon pretends not to notice either remark as he slips into an open seat. His feet have developed opinions independent of their owner. Perhaps he could also do with a pair of fancy golden boots.
He settles in just as the lights dim, without bothering for a drink. The introduction is met with the now-familiar thunder of applause and rain of red petals. Princess sweeps onto the stage in a golden ensemble. She’s clearly been inspired by the crown prince’s typical armour.
Phainon knows every line before they’re said aloud:
In attendance this evening,
“In attendance this evening,”
Her Royal Radiance,
“Her Royal Radiance!”
The [adjective] Princess of Castrum Kremnos,
“The Incomparable Princess of Castrum Kremnos!”
Beloved by the people,
“Beloved by the people!”
Feared by [nouns] everywhere.
“Feared by upstanding citizens everywhere!”
The smile that spreads across painted lips is dangerous. She shields her eyes dramatically, peering into the audience.
“There are so many of you this evening. I do hope none of you had important responsibilities today. I’d hate for the Citizen’s Assembly attendance to plummet because everyone decided listening to me was the better investment.”
A polite laugh rolls through the tavern.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I have every confidence the Council of Elders managed splendidly without your guidance. Though, it has come to my attention,” Princess continues, beginning a slow stroll across the front of the stage, “that certain individuals held very serious opinions regarding refugees entering this fair city.”
A few knowing groans answer her. She folds her hands primly before herself.
“‘But Your Radiance,’ they ask, ‘how shall we possibly accommodate so many newcomers when they are changing the culture of our Holy City?’”
Princess tilts her head thoughtfully.
“Titans forbid a city full of refugees changes because more refugees arrived. Horrible.”
She earns a good few laughs with that.
“It seems to me a rather odd complaint,” she shrugs one shoulder. “Okhema was built by people who had nowhere else to go. Perhaps the travesty of royal tutors has swayed me, but I’d rather greet newcomers with a loaf than a lecture.”
Someone near the back raises their mug. “To bread!”
“To bread!” half the tavern echoes.
Princess points dramatically toward the voice. “Now there’s a councillor. I shall have someone deposed in your honour.”
More laughter. She spreads her arms, skirts shimmering beneath the lanternlight. “Enough of that. If I continue, someone will accuse me of running for office. Alas, my beloved subjects, I am merely your opening act this evening. We have a truly exceptional queen joining us after intermission.”
She presses one gloved hand against her heart.
“And while I am perfectly capable of occupying your attention for the next several hours, I have reluctantly been informed that sharing is an admirable quality.” A dramatic sigh. “Let us make the most of our time together.”
Her gaze drifts lazily across the audience. Every head in the tavern follows wherever she looks, each patron privately wondering whether tonight they’ll become the object of her attention. Left. Right. Center. Phainon’s throat goes dry. Perhaps he should have accepted a drink after all.
Princess doesn’t hurry his way, even though he’s certain she saw him. She continues speaking with another patron, stopping to compliment one woman’s earrings before stealing a man’s hat, placing it atop her own elaborate coiffure and declaring herself qualified to levy additional taxes upon the public.
The audience hangs on every word. So does Phainon. Like each time before this one, he is transfixed. He notices every step she takes toward his table. She’s letting the anticipation build, taking her time mingling, blowing kisses at audience members.
Three more steps. Now she’s only a few tables away. Phainon can already feel people beginning to glance between them.
When she turns his way, one hand flies dramatically to her mouth. “My loyal knight. You’ve returned,” she pretends to sniffle. “I was beginning to think you’d abandoned your princess.”
He struggles to think of something fitting to say, intent on not blushing. “Not at all. My tactical withdrawal encountered, ah, unforeseen complications. I merely felt… another investigation was warranted?”
Princess nods gravely. “A wise decision. It would be irresponsible to draw conclusions after a few short audiences with royalty.”
“I thought so.”
"Research is very important. And you haven’t yet given me that tip I’ve been expecting for so long."
The tavern erupts with laughter.
Before Phainon can scrape together any sort of reply, someone from across the room calls, “Careful, Your Radiance! He will need written instructions at this rate.”
Princess gasps theatrically. “Written instructions?” She presses a finger to her chin. “My dear, at his glacial pace, if I handed him a list he’d spend three weeks drafting a formal response.”
She looks back to Phainon with exaggerated sympathy. “My poor Deliverer. Tell me, have you prepared an itinerary for this evening’s investigation? You Okhemans love paperwork. Did you submit the proper paperwork before observing the princess in her natural habitat?”
“I…” Phainon begins. His mind has vacated the premises.
The silence stretches just long enough for someone near the bar to shout, “He’s buffering!”
The room howls. Phainon cannot say he’s enthusiast about all the chiming in that’s happening.
He had been about to say something that would demonstrate he remained a capable military commander, a graduate of the finest academy in Amphoreus. Instead, he discovers he’s rubbing the back of his neck like a new recruit.
“I am thinking.”
“Mhm. I can see that. First time?”
Another wave of laughter. “Your Radiance, perhaps he’s here for the view?”
Princess follows the offered line without missing a beat.
“The view?” She looks around dramatically. “Of what, this subpar drinking den? The stage I’m certain I’ve seen two of you heathens copulating on, or the questionable ale they serve?”
“No,” the patron laughs. “You.”
Princess turns to look down at Phainon again. “Is that your official report, Sir Knight? Am I to your viewing pleasure?” She beams.
He can’t speak again. He should be quiet. Every time she smiles at him, his thoughts scatter like startled birds.
Princess sighs. “Oh, but as the entertainment, this is quite unfair. I have been standing this entire time, my feet positively ache.” She shifts her weight, emphasizing the size of her chest like that might explain the tiredness. Phainon hopes his eyes do not visibly linger there.
A sympathetic aww ripples through the room, accompanied by several unconvincing looks of concern.
“Kremnoan or not, it is, frankly, unreasonable to expect a noblewoman to remain upright for so long.” She scans the nearby tables. “Surely someone will assist their exhausted princess?”
Her gaze lands on the chair beside Phainon.
“Is this seat taken?”
Phainon glances at the empty chair. He hadn’t seen anyone else there, no. It was slightly less busy tonight because of the Citizen’s Assembly, after all. “No, not at all, Princess.”
“How thoughtful.”
For reasons Phainon cannot hope to comprehend, she steps closer than she’d ever come before. One gloved hand settles lightly on his shoulder, but he is already sitting down. Where does she intend to move him this time? His pulse immediately forgets its training.
Then, in a whirl of shimmering gold and crimson fabric, she pivots. Instead of lowering herself into the vacant chair, she sits squarely in his lap. The movement is so confident that Phainon fails to process what has happened until her skirts settle around them. His entire body goes rigid.
Princess leans back just enough to look down at him, one arm still draped comfortably over his shoulder as though this were the most natural place for it.
“There,” she declares brightly. “Much better.”
The tavern must be filled with noises now; Phainon can’t hear a thing behind the rush of his golden blood. Every pair of eyes in the room land upon him. He can feel their weight even though he cannot hear their voices.
More alarmingly, he can feel Princess. Heat floods his face clear to the tips of his ears. Can she feel him, in turn? Does she know that his hands are sweating? Does this princess of strife know that his heart beats to the tune of a war drum?
She glances at him from the corner of her eye, maybe preparing another teasing remark, when a voice cuts cleanly through the laughter.
“Oh, for strife’s sake,” The tavern quiets just enough for the rest to be heard clearly. An older man near the back rolls his eyes, voice bitter. “If you’re going to sit there mooning over him all night, Your Radiance, charge him for the privilege and move on. The rest of us came for a performance, not to watch a Chrysos peon.”
Princess’s radiant smile vanishes. Her shoulders draw back beneath the embroidered gold. Phainon feels the muscles beneath the costume tighten where his hand rests against her waist to ensure she doesn’t stumble. The room seems to cool down.
“So,” she says quietly. One word. She turns her head toward the heckler. “I’ve spent the better part of twenty minutes doing what’s expected of me, making every one of you the punchline. You’ve survived because you’re laughing.”
The tavern grows still.
“And yet the one person who’s had enough courtesy to sit quietly, applaud everyone else, and let people enjoy themselves is the one you’ve decided deserves your attention.”
Her chin lifts.
“If you are bored, that’s quite unfortunate.” Her voice remains perfectly level. “But if your evening only improves when someone kinder than yourself becomes the object of ridicule, the entertainment wasn’t the problem.”
The man’s face reddens. “I only—”
“Oh no. I heard you.” The clipped cadence strikes Phainon like the crack of a training sword on marble. “You were perfectly clear. He comes here after what is undoubtedly a miserable day, sits down, applauds every performer, and minds his own business.”
Her furious gaze never leaves the man.
“You’ve contributed considerably less. I’d suggest trying his approach.”
The heckler shrinks into his seat, muttering something beneath his breath.
Someone nearby clears their throat. “Leave the poor bastard alone.”
“Hear, hear.”
Conversation slowly resumes around them, a bartender having decided to resume the ambient music. Princess lets out the smallest breath, one no one notices unless they happen to be sitting close enough to feel it. Then, as though nothing has happened, brightness flows effortlessly back into her smile.
“Now where were we?” She gives Phainon’s shoulder a gentle nudge. “I believe I was rescuing this handsome warrior from excessive public scrutiny?”
Phainon’s mind has snagged on something impossibly small. He has seen that tense expression countless times before. Only, it wasn’t in this room. It was across polished tables during mission briefings. Or directed at him across shallow waters. That exact look, with the tightening around the eyes and the slight squaring of the shoulders.
Through layers of embroidered silk, he feels the tension slowly ebb from muscles that are anything but delicate. His thoughts lurch backwards. Oronyx has taken pity on him.
“I did not say I was afraid.” Mydei searches for another word. “I am disinclined.”
Mydeimos was disinclined to attend the shows. He wouldn’t have been busy every single time a show happened, rather, he claimed he was not interested.
“The show was cancelled,” the other tells him. “At the very last minute.”
The very evening Phainon ventured out on an emergency mission, Princess cancelled a performance for reasons unknown.
Her tone leaves no room for negotiation. “Only remember this. If Cifera has agreed to help preserve someone’s secret, then it is a secret worth keeping.”
What would make a secret worth keeping in the eyes of a notorious thief who has seen and held all kinds of secrets already?
Phainon’s eyes drift upward to those golden eyes. It could be a coincidence, or a trick of light, but he feels that he knows those eyes intuitively. He could read them like the tomes in the library at the grove if he were allowed to. He would want to, severely.
Princess catches him staring with recognition. For the briefest instant she freezes, the persona waning inward like the tide. It lasts less than a heartbeat, but her jaw tightens. Exactly the way Mydei’s always does whenever he’s bracing himself.
Memory after memory slams together. Mydei laughing quietly to himself in the baths, hoping Phainon will not notice, even though Phainon notices him all the time. Princess laughing across the stage when an audience member says something particularly taboo.
The way Mydei protects people without drawing attention to it. The way Princess has just defended him, risking the rest of the performance unnecessarily.
His hand slips from the small of her back, fingers falling slack against his own thigh.
It isn’t a resemblance. It’s Mydei.
The realization flashes across her face almost as quickly as it had across his own. Her smile remains perfectly poised for the audience, but beneath it he watches calculation race through her thoughts. She knows that he knows.
For one suspended heartbeat neither of them moves. Then Princess laughs. It is effortless as it always has been. Beautiful. Convincing enough that the tavern erupts into fresh applause, everyone assuming the pause had simply been another expertly timed joke. She shifts as though intending to rise from his lap, offering the audience an exaggerated sigh.
“Well,” she says lightly, “I suppose I have burdened this poor Deliverer enough.”
Almost without thinking, Phainon tightens his grip. His hands, already resting at her waist to steady her, slide instinctively to her hips, enough to stop her from standing.
She freezes. He feels every muscle beneath the costume go still. Is that why they’re so elaborate?
The audience laughs again, believing the hesitation part of the performance. Someone whistles. Another calls for Princess to stay right where she is. Phainon scarcely hears them.
Those golden eyes meet his. Mydei’s. The thought crashes through him so violently that his breath catches. His hands loosen immediately. What was he doing all this time? Coming here again and again.
Mydei had hidden this for a reason. Cifera warned him without saying the words aloud. Even Aglaea kept this in the dark. Every deflection was chosen to protect Mydei. Phainon wasn’t supposed to know. And in one careless moment of overthinking himself into a mess, the veil lifted.
She slips from his lap, smoothing the gold fabric as though nothing at all had happened. Her fan snaps open, concealing the lower half of her face as she turns back toward the room. The performance continues. At least, it appears to. Phainon cannot hear half of what she says anymore.
The graceful posture he had once attributed to years of stage experience is simply the same disciplined bearing Mydei always carries softened into something theatrical. The way Princess stands with her weight favoring one leg whenever she pauses to think. The tiny tightening at the corner of her mouth before delivering a particularly diabolical joke. Even the cadence hidden beneath the affected royal drawl refuses to stay concealed once Phainon knows where to listen. How had he missed it? It was Mydei without the crown weighing upon him.
Onstage, Princess is still smiling. Only now Phainon can see the effort behind it. Her gaze never quite settles on him again.
“My beloved subjects,” she announces warmly, “as much as it pains me to deprive you of my company, royalty is an exhausting profession.”
A chorus of disappointment answers her.
“Please contain your grief. Fortunately for all of us, someone considerably more talented is waiting backstage, and if I continue monopolizing your evening she may very well stage a coup.” Princess places one hand over her heart and offers a deep, graceful curtsy.
She blows one final kiss toward the audience and disappears behind the curtains while the next performer is already being announced. Most of the tavern remains focused on the stage. Phainon is already standing on shaky legs. He scarcely notices the applause around him as he slips between crowded tables. Someone calls after him, assuming he is merely stretching his legs. Another laughs that the Deliverer must be chasing after his princess. If only they knew.
His feet carry him toward the backstage corridor before he has consciously decided to move. Every hurried step pounds in time with his heartbeat. The person he needs to speak to is disappearing down that hallway, convinced their carefully guarded secret has been exposed.
Phainon has no idea what he intends to say when he catches up. He only knows he cannot let Mydei walk away believing that recognition was the worst thing that could have happened.
If he could make himself care less about the consequences, he’d crystallize the doorway behind him. Instead, all Mydei can hope to do is hurry home unseen.
The door slams open.
“Wait! Please, wait!”
Exactly why.
The alley behind the tavern is little more than a crack between buildings. The lower districts have long since run out of room to breathe; every new storefront wedges itself into whatever sliver of space remains. The buildings crowd so closely together that even the city’s eternal daylight struggles to reach the ground in the cracks. What light does find its way in arrives thin and fractured, caught on crooked eaves and sagging balconies before dissolving into a cool gray gloom below.
The stone beneath him is damp where sunlight never lingers for long. The walls rise on either side like cliffs, carrying the lingering scents of spilled ale and yesterday’s washwater.
Most would avoid the alley. Why squeeze through a corridor when the broad avenues are only a street over, washed in warm gold? Even to a drunken mind, or to lovers seeking a tryst, it doesn’t seem appealing.
And it doesn’t feel right to be followed here. Especially dressed like this.
Mydei knows Phainon has stepped fully outside when the door creaks shut. He knows, but he will not turn around to watch. Phainon has seen enough of him tonight.
The footsteps don’t stop. “Mydei. Please.” Another step. “Would you… would you turn around?”
The request is painfully small. Phainon could ask for the world, for all he has done for it.
Mydei’s hand curls into a fist. The silk glove shifts over his knuckles. He wants nothing more than to tear the damned thing off—to rip away the gloves, the sleeves, every last piece.
Slowly, he turns.
Phainon forgets how to breathe. The face before him is still painted. Oh, those-tinted lips too. The jeweled wig catches fragments of the city’s eternal light filtering down between the buildings.
He can’t unknow what he knows. The person standing before him is Mydei. Or, both. It is like looking at one of those impossible drawings scholars enjoy arguing over. A vase until it becomes two faces. Two faces until it becomes a vase. His eyes cannot settle on one truth without immediately seeing the other.
“My…” The word dies on his tongue. Your Highness no longer fits. Mydei feels almost too intimate when the skirts are still gathered around his ankles. “I don’t know what to call you.”
The confession hangs awkwardly between them. Mydei does not answer. So Phainon does something he was never particularly taught to do. Every appearance and lesson had drilled the same lesson into him: speak with certainty, even when certainty is impossible.
He can’t.
“I didn’t know. I truly didn’t.” His gaze drops for a moment. “If I had known… No—that isn’t right.”
He shakes his head.
“If I’d realized you wanted it hidden,” Another pause. “I never would’ve kept coming if I thought I was making you unhappy. We spar together, but I didn’t mean to corner you here.”
Still nothing. He laughs once under his breath, embarrassed.
“I suppose I should explain why I kept showing up. The first time,” He rubs the back of his neck, the familiar habit returning before he notices. “I heard someone was teasing Mydeimos. I thought that was impossible. I always believed teasing you was my privilege.”
The smile disappears. He looks more at the ground than he does the prince.
“So I got curious, wanting to see the person bold enough to mock you. Then Princess spoke to me personally. And after that,” He searches honestly for an explanation. “I kept finding reasons to come back. I liked being around you.”
Mydei listens quietly until Phainon says the last part. Then, he starts feeling like he has ants in his throat. He turns his head away for a moment, coughing lightly into the back of his gloved hand. It is a poor disguise. By the time he looks back, his expression has settled into something carefully neutral once more.
“I thought it would be…” He searches for the right word in common. “…a simpler facade. A place and person, to make people laugh. To allow my people to feel joy, and to try thinking of me as just a man.”
His gaze drifts toward the mouth of the alley, where warm daylight spills between the buildings. “Instead, the attention kept growing.”
He glances down at the jeweled sleeve wrapped around his wrist, turning it absently between his fingers.
“I expected the novelty to wear off soon. That people would grow bored. But people began alluding to Princess outside the tavern. Talking about her, theorizing, looking for her. I’ve been fortunate no one else has realized.”
Not until tonight. He lets the silence settle between them before speaking again.
“I never intended for the secret to become this large.” His fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the silk gathered at his wrist. “At first, separating Princess from Mydeimos felt sensible. Lately,”
His words falter.
“It has begun to feel unnatural.”
He scoffs quietly at himself, unable to find a cleaner way to say it. His eyes finally meet Phainon’s.
“There are supposed to be no walls between us—”
Immediately, regret follows. That wasn’t fair. Phainon already carries the weight of a Deliverer. What right did Mydei have to place this in his hands as well?
He lowers his gaze.
“Forget I said that. It isn’t something else for you to carry.”
“No, Mydei,” Phainon takes a tentative step forward. “Knowing you better than anyone else has never been a burden to me. The place I want to be is wherever you happen to be.” He laughs quietly at himself. “Apparently, whether I even know it’s you or not.”
Mydei searches his face as though expecting to find the punchline hidden somewhere behind it.
“How,” he asks cautiously, “do you have it in you to say these things so openly?”
“Openly? There is nobody else here.”
“You make it sound terribly uncomplicated.”
“Me, saying things openly?” A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I am not the one standing in a gown at present, Mydeimos.”
Mydei pinches the bridge of his nose with an exasperated sigh. “For now, you aren’t,” He closes the remaining distance between them, which must be a good sign. “Just wait until Aglaea decides you’d make an excellent model. She’ll parade you around the streets, and you wouldn’t even say no.”
Phainon laughs. “I doubt she’d ever—”
“Blue,” Mydei muses, as though already considering fabrics. “A soft shade with layers of chiffon. Perhaps some silver embroidery. It might even suit you.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Without really thinking about it, he lets himself lean forward until his forehead, then the side of his head, comes to rest against Mydei’s shoulder. The fabric is soft. “You look very pretty in this,” he admits, his words half-muffled against embroidered silk. “But if I ever wear a dress, it would only be for you.”
Mydei goes completely still. After a long moment, Phainon hears him clear his throat.
“…Deliverer.”
“Mm?”
Mydei’s voice grows quieter. “Do you truly not mind the things Princess said to you?”
Phainon lifts his head instinctively, intending to meet his eyes. A gloved hand immediately plants itself against the side of his face and shoves him right back onto Mydei’s shoulder. “Augh—!”
“Stay there.”
“You’re remarkably forceful for someone dressed so elegantly.”
“I… contain multitudes. You should be more open-minded, Haikas.”
Phainon can’t help pressing his face even deeper into the soft fabric, leaning his weight on the other. “Must you pummel me even now?”
Mydei doesn’t answer. His hand remains where it is, buried in white hair, refusing to let Phainon look at him.
Phainon laughs softly. “I really shouldn’t portray myself this way, lest you think me perverse…” He hesitates. “...but I was rather…” His ears begin warming again. “…taken by the things Princess said?”
Mydei makes a tiny, strangled noise that Phainon has never heard before. Encouraged and overly hopeful, he continues.
“I only hope you won’t…” He clears his throat. “stop saying them.”
Nothing. Not even a dry remark. Curious, Phainon cautiously attempts to lift his head again. This time, Mydei lets him.
The tables have turned. Even beneath painstakingly applied cosmetics, colour has begun creeping across Mydei’s cheeks. It reaches the tips of his ears, and his own gaze has found the stones under them.
Something else occurs to Phainon. Princess of Castrum Kremnos admitted herself that she was speaking about the Deliverer before Phainon had ever set foot inside the tavern. Which meant… Those remarks had not been inspired by Phainon’s visits.
Had Mydei been giving voice to thoughts he’d already been carrying long before he’d ever painted his lips red? Could Phainon really be so lucky? He almost asks.
Mydei answers anyway.
“Do you know how embarrassing it is to spend weeks constructing a persona only to discover she’s more honest than you are? Princess could say all of these things openly. She could tell you that your shoulders were distracting. That she looked forward to seeing you every week.” His fingers tighten around the folds of his skirt. “Mydeimos could do none of those things.”
“Why not?”
“I am expected to know better. I should have known better.”
Phainon smooths an imaginary wrinkle from the embroidered sleeve resting over Mydei’s forearm. “While I can’t fully understand what it must be like, in the position you’re in,” Phainon says, “it’s clear your love for your people dictated every action. Well, aside from joking about my Dawnmaker. Hm, can you remind me how that joke went, Mydei? I’ve completely forgotten…”
Golden eyes finally meet Phainon’s. “Haikas. Don’t play coy. You said you kept finding excuses to remain beside me,” Mydei exhales quietly. “I don’t think either of us has been subtle.”
Phainon laughs. “Cipher must have been insufferable after she heard you bring me up.”
“She was.”
“And Castorice? Does she have any idea?”
“No. Though she inspired the idea in the first place.”
“Aglaea?”
“…Smug. From the very beginning.”
“That sounds right.”
They chuckle together. It breaks whatever sour taste remains between them. There is nowhere left to hide.
“Haikas,” It is softer and truer than Phainon has ever heard it. “You can stay.”
Phainon’s brow furrows. “Is that a question or a demand? I would’ve done that regardless, as long as the crown prince will have me.”
“Good. Nobody else would tolerate you.”
Phainon doesn’t tease or stutter or overthink it for once. In one fluid motion, he closes the distance and presses his lips to Mydei’s. It’s hungry, desperate with months of pent-up longing disguised as casual conversation. The kiss is insistent; Phainon cups the back of Mydei’s neck with both hands like he might vanish if let go.
They’re still technically in public, so it is unexpected when Mydei kisses back just as needily. His gloved fingers tangle into Phainon’s hair again—not pushing away this time—but pulling him closer, deepening it. Their noses brush clumsily before finding alignment again, warmth and want that makes Phainon dizzy.
It is Phainon who finally draws back, though only far enough that their foreheads nearly touch. His breath catches against painted lips. “...You don’t know,” he murmurs, voice rough, “how badly I’ve wanted to do that.”
Mydei’s eyes search his face. “No?”
Phainon shakes his head once. “You truly don’t.”
For the briefest instant, the prince of Kremnos disappears. Mydei’s shoulder finds the stone wall behind him almost absentmindedly. One gloved hand settles against the rough masonry as the corner of his painted mouth curls upward into a familiar, dangerous smile.
When he speaks again, his voice rises into that practiced cadence Phainon has heard from the front row of the tavern. “Is that so?” Golden eyes glitter beneath long lashes. She tilts her head, every inch the Princess of Castrum Kremnos once more. “Show me.”
Phainon’s breath hitches. His pulse roars in his ears. Without another word, he surges forward again. It’s a slow-burning fire instead of a wildfire, lingering on their lips and leaving no room for doubt about who wants whom most right now. Princess kisses back differently too, not needy or surprised anymore, but commanding, turning her head just so to deepen things further while pressing closer against him until there’s barely space between their bodies.
She shifts. A subtle arch into him, a hand sliding down from his jaw to grip his shoulder like an anchor. There are layers upon layers of embroidered silk between them, ones Mydei had worn so elegantly for the stage.
Phainon’s hands slide down instinctively over those flowing skirts first, bunching delicate fabric in trembling fingers without meaning to be rough. A deep-seated desire ignites low in his gut at the sensation, the warmth beneath all that fine cloth, how easily their bodies align now. He ruts forward, a quiet grind against lace-trimmed silk where no one could see, but full enough pressure to send a jolt through both their bodies.
Princess inhales sharply through her nose, parting to breathe. When she meets his eyes again, she bites her bottom lip, moving to seduce him even more when she lifts the skirts up with a fist.
“On your knees, Deliverer. For your Princess.”
Oh, how Phainon longs to drink from him. He wants all that he can hope to swallow, on his knees in the back alley, with the Kremnoan prince— no, princess’s hand twisted in his hair, her other hand muffling her own moans like a commoner.
“Yes, Princess.”
He sinks to the ground in a quick motion, shuffling close to the powerful tattooed legs he knows are beneath it all, but that he can’t see. He hasn’t earned the right yet.
The moment his fingers curl around the hem of her lifted skirts, anticipation coils tight in his chest. He slowly, reverently, pushes the fabric upward. Silk glides over smooth skin, and then he sees them. Garters. Delicate white lace with tiny silver clasps holding up sheer stockings that disappear beneath layers of ceremonial dress.
Mydei wore these all night during Princess’s performance—the whole time he was on stage. Even when he sat on Phainon’s lap. Did those garters press into his thighs? Was Mydei thinking about this very moment when he put them on?
Phainon’s cock pulses sharply in his pants—a hot throb of arousal so sudden it nearly makes him gasp—and without thinking, because his brain has melted now, he exhales slowly. “Garters, Princess?” He looks up through his lashes, voice dropping an octave. “Were you hoping your knight would defile you like this?”
Phainon isn’t smirking. Isn’t joking. He needs to know.
“Mm,” Princess hums, not answering yet. Just savoring how he looks right now on his knees before her, his wide-eyed reverence mixed with unmistakable hunger. Then she lifts one leg slightly off the ground, and presses her knee forward gently against Phainon’s chest. Not pushing him away, but testing whether he’ll lean into it.
Phainon’s breath stutters. Sheer stocking is stretched taut over a muscled thigh that could crush bone if she wished—but right now? She’s offering him this. Without breaking eye contact, he shifts forward slightly on his knees, then gently turns his head and presses an open-mouthed kiss to the lace-covered skin just above her garter strap. Then another, higher up on her thigh. Higher, and higher still, to where the garters meet the waistband.
Princess shudders, so Phainon continues leaving more and more, shifting to allow her to rest her knee on his shoulder as he takes his time, biting at the skin of her inner thigh, gradually trailing higher. He could drag this out forever and die satisfied to have lived this way, worshipping her.
Mydei’s face is perfectly flushed now, the lip makeup smudged at the edges from earlier kisses.
“Please,” Phainon says, placing another kiss, this time onto the soft fabric of the waistband. “Can I have more?”
A nod follows.
“Yes,” Mydei says back, his voice having slipped back into its natural timbre.
Phainon’s heart stutters. It’s too cute, Mydei forgetting to stay in character after these kisses and touches. What else could Phainon elicit? His chest tightens. Could he make Mydei forget even his own name while being pleasured?
Careful not to rush, he cradles Mydei’s with both hands for balance as he leans in again, then slowly lowers his mouth toward where fabric meets skin. With infinite care, he hooks his teeth into the waistband and tugs it downward, an inch at a time. The cloth gives way easily under careful pressure, peeled back like unwrapping a treasure, as Phainon tugs downward using only gentle nips of teeth mixed with kisses along newly exposed skin.
The moment the fabric is fully pulled down, he stares at the strong thighs. Not because he hasn’t seen the brilliant red tattoos before, nor because he hasn’t admired Mydei’s body before. But… braced against the wall, still letting Phainon worship him… this cannot be real.
Then his gaze travels higher. His eyes land on it, the soft flush of arousal painted across skin. Mydei’s cock is blushing the same red as the rest of him. He’s still holding up his skirt, exposing his body to be pleasured more, offering himself freely. Both the arrogant princess demanding more attention, and the dutiful prince blushing when held gently instead of roughly.
He leans forward and presses the flat of his tongue along the full length of Mydei’s arousal in one long stroke.
The sensation must be overwhelming for Mydei; Phainon on his knees before him, not as rival or ally, but a partner far more intimate. A lover. And Phainon feels it too, the way muscle contracts under his palms where he still holds Mydei steady at the hips, like he wasn’t prepared for how good it would feel.
Phainon presses the gentlest kiss to the very tip. The kiss is feather-light at first, a brush of lips so tender it could almost be mistaken for innocence if not for where it landed, or who was leaving it. But he lingers. His lower lip curls as he kisses it again, slower this time, his tongue darting out to taste the ambrosia Mydei is already leaking out.
“Ah–” Mydei moans, before cutting himself off with a bite to the lower lip. Phainon learns quickly that he wants Mydei as vocal as possible, even if they really should be mindful of volume with a tavern full of their people on the other side of the wall. Phainon kisses the tip again, followed by a faint drag downward as his mouth opens, then closes gently over the head. His tongue swirls once around, tasting salt and sweetness mingled together.
He works the head with his tongue over and over, delighting each time he earns a reaction. Soon he grows more bold, hollowing his cheeks to take the prince deeper whenever Mydei moans. Each is a victory, every stifled “Mh–” or bitten-off gasp fuels him. He hollows his cheeks more to take another inch, creating soft suction around it.
The effect is immediate. Mydei’s hips twitch involuntarily, a jerk forward before he catches himself and stills against the wall.
Phainon pops off to look up at him with a grin. “Who knew the Princess could be reduced to a common slut like this? To think that, even with her subjects inside this tavern, none the wiser, she’s all too eager for my mouth? Could she take my fingers, too, in her needy hole? Would she want to?”
Mydei nods, before his lips part to speak. But then his brain catches up. They’re in a tavern alley, and cold stone meets his back. There are muffled sounds of drunken laughter just beyond the thin wooden door leading inside. And they don’t have anything useful here, nothing for that kind of intimacy.
“We don’t…” he starts, voice softer than usual but not theatrical, because he barely knows who's in control anymore. “Don’t have any oils... here.” He swallows hard, and shifts awkwardly against Phainon’s hands still resting on his thighs.
Phainon squeezes his legs. “Relax. We don’t have to do this here. Your place or mine, Mydei?”
Mydei swallows again, thinking fast. Phainon’s home is far, and he scarcely wants to pass by guards at this hour and in these clothes.
“Mine.”
Phainon’s grin returns. He rises to his feet and adjusts Mydei’s skirt back into place with careful hands. Then he offers his hand, a soft look in his eyes.
Mydei scarcely knows how they made it back. Maybe it was good to have Phainon come knocking at his door for their daily baths, all of those times. The Deliverer knows the route back readily, as if he’d studied it, weaving them between shortcuts so as not to be seen.
It is inconvenient, rushing through the city when arousal still clings to him. Worse yet when he is wearing a skirt that was not made for athletics. Phainon better not start thinking he’s the faster one between the two of them.
By the time they reach his home, Mydei has gathered enough of the cumbersome hem into one hand to preserve what remains of his dignity. “Do not say it.”
Phainon blinks. “Say what, exactly?”
“Whatever observation is currently forming.”
“I was merely admiring your footwork.”
Mydei spares him a flat look over his shoulder as he fishes the key from somewhere beneath layers of embroidered fabric.
The key refuses to cooperate. Of all the evenings to discover that one’s own front door is duplicitous. Phainon leans in, close enough that Mydei can feel the warmth of his breath near his shoulder.
“Would you like—”
“No.” The lock finally yields with a satisfying click. “Ha.”
Mydei pushes the door open with considerably more force than necessary, stepping inside without so much as glancing back to see whether Phainon follows. Of course he does.
The door has scarcely swung shut before Phainon is already there again, crowding into his space. He inclines his head, hopeful and unbearably endearing.
“May I?”
Mydei studies him for exactly long enough to suggest the answer might be no. Then he reaches up, cups Phainon’s jaw, and presses a brief kiss to the bridge of his nose. Before Phainon can begin negotiating for more, Mydei catches him smartly by the front of his collar.
“Come on, Haikas.”
“Oh! Where are we—”
“Bedroom.”
Phainon forgets the rest of his question. Mydei turns on his heel, towing the suddenly very cooperative Deliverer through the house behind him.
The hallway is dim, lit only by the soft glow of oil lamps left burning lowly, as he usually prepared his chambers for the late hours before leaving. Phainon stumbles slightly as Mydei tugs him along, his long legs catching up easily despite being pulled like a dog on a leash.
Phainon’s pulse spikes when he sees where they’re heading. Down the hall to Mydei’s bedroom, its door slightly ajar as if waiting for this very moment. Uncharted territory.
As soon as the door clicks shut, Mydei’s voice becomes a velvety purr he scarcely uses on stage. The one that makes the crowd gasp. He steps forward slowly, hips swaying just slightly under all those layers of fabric still clinging to him like a second skin.
“Now where were we?” he drawls in Princess’s richest register, tone thick with lust and performance both. “You’ve been good tonight, worshipping me so sweetly,”
Then Mydei leans in close enough for Phainon to feel his soft breath against his ear, reminding them both of that first night. “I think it’s time you were rewarded. What was that I said before about taking tips?”
Mydei moves to sink to his own knees, and the irony of a noble on her knees isn’t lost on Phainon.
But Phainon doesn’t want that tonight. He shakes his head and pulls Princess back up instead of letting her sink down.
“My reward is your pleasure. I— Please let me make you feel good, Princess?”
Before she can respond, he leans forward to claim her lips again. It’s deep and slow and everything he was missing in the short amount of time since they last kissed.
Phainon breaks the kiss to look into her eyes, pupils wide and dark with want. “Your Highness,” he murmurs, voice low and tender, “you can take whatever you want from me. I’m yours. All of me. Be as greedy as you please.”
Her breath hitches. Here, desire wears the crown instead of duty. Without breaking eye contact, she reaches up and grabs the front of Phainon’s shirt.
“Then undress your Princess, Deliverer.”
With gentle hands, he turns Princess around, guiding her to face away from him. The fabric of the dress sways with the motion. His fingers find the first hidden lace at the nape of her neck—the delicate ribbon that starts all those tiny ties running down his back beneath layers upon layers of embroidered red and gold. It’s complex work: dozens of minute laces woven into intricate patterns only royal tailors could manage.
He begins carefully undoing them, watching as his lover stops tensing under his fingertips the longer he goes on. The dress is beautiful, but right now, Phainon only sees the person beneath it. The fabric loosens at the shoulders first, then slips slightly off one arm. She melts under his touch like candle wax in the summer heat.
He kisses each newly bared patch of skin, right between the shoulder blades after a lace is pulled free, then again just above a tattoo when another loosens. One by one, the laces surrender to him, until the final stretch gives way with a soft shhk of silk, and the dress falls.
It slides gently down the absurd body, pooling around Princess’s feet in a shimmering heap, spilled wine catching lamplight. Princess stands there wearing only delicate undergarments, those white stockings held up by those same garters from earlier, with nothing else but smooth skin where the costume once hid everything.
She turns slowly, her dark eyes finding Phainon’s. It strikes Phainon, how privileged he is. How he alone bears witness to this now. The person before him, Mydei and Princess both, his to wring pleasure from exclusively.
Well, he certainly hopes it is exclusive. Perhaps he is too eager to fall into bed without clarification.
Phainon leans in, kissing Mydei’s sternum first, a soft press of lips just above his collarbone. Then lower, across the smooth plane of his chest. His arms slide around him, strong and steady because they’ve carried far heavier burdens. And with strength that belies his gentle nature, he lifts Mydei clean off the ground. The prince is hardly light, but years of effort have trained Phainon for this very moment.
“Almost there,” Phainon murmurs. The kline meets the backs of Mydei’s knees.
Actually depositing him onto the kline, however, proves to be far less graceful than the lift itself. Phainon bends, readjusts his footing, then pauses halfway when Mydei instinctively shifts his weight.
“Hold on.”
“I am holding on, Haikas.”
Another awkward adjustment.
The mattress atop the kline dips beneath them as Phainon tries again, lowering Mydei with all the care in the world. They wobble just enough that Mydei lets out a sound suspiciously close to a laugh.
“There,” Phainon says at last as Mydei settles onto the bed. He straightens and reaches for him again.
Mydei catches both of his hands. “You’re a scoundrel. Let me remove this wig first.”
“There you are,” Phainon says quietly.
“What?”
“I missed your voice. I mean—I enjoy both. I certainly react to the other one, but hearing Mydei speak is also incomparable.”
A flush creeps across Mydei’s angered face. Before he can think of a response, Phainon leans in and presses a gentle kiss to his cheek, right where he knows the red tattoo lies hidden beneath powder and paint. He doesn’t need to see it to know exactly where it is.
When Phainon pulls away again, he smiles. “Apologies, your highness. I will behave myself.” He releases Mydei’s hands, though one lingers loosely around his fingers for just a second before letting go entirely. “Take your time.”
Mydei reaches behind his head, fingertips searching beneath the elaborate hairstyle until they find the first hidden pin. He eases it free without tugging, placing it neatly on the bedside table before finding the next, and then another. The arrangement begins to loosen bit by bit, each pin released with caution.
The wig comes off and Mydei’s real hair tumbles free in a cascade like firelight caught in the sun. He places the wig on the bedside table beside the pins and looks at Phainon pointedly.
“Why aren’t you undressed yet?”
He watches the Deliverer fumble in response, reaching for the hem of the black shirt he seems to favor. This presents an opportunity unlike the many baths they’ve shared. Mydei stares openly at his hard muscle, at the white hairs that tickle his nape and the form of sun where his neck and shoulder meet.
The shirt lands beside him on the floor, soon also populated by everything except his undergarments. Mydei’s gaze drops as Phainon strips down. He traces each ridge of muscle across Phainon’s abdomen, and then lower. A soft line of pale blond hair leads downward from his navel, narrowing as it descends beneath the waistband of his briefs. Below that, the unmistakable outline of his desire.
“Does this commoner’s body please you?” Phainon asks, crossing his arms with a cocky smile he should know better than to wear.
“When all it has done is untie a few laces and undress itself? Hardly.”
Phainon steps forward, glowing in lamplight. “What should I do, then, Your Highness? What more would you let me do?”
Mydei’s jaw tightens. He should scold him. What a presumptuous, disrespectful hyena.
“You really think,” he begins, eyes locked on Phainon’s smug face, “you can stand there smirking oafishly, and ask me what I’ll let you do?”
Phainon lets Mydei’s sharp words roll over him like rain on a roof. Then, without breaking eye contact, he drops to one knee beside the kline, lowering himself so they were closer to level with each other, so Mydei couldn’t loom quite so dramatically.
“I can,” His answer is infuriatingly simple. “Because you keep asking what I’d dare.”
He dips his head, a gesture that could almost pass for deference if it weren't for the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I'd much rather hear what Your Highness wants. Give me an order. Any order,” His eyes flick over Mydei’s face with shameless fondness. “You’ve spent all evening playing at being a princess. Surely you won't claim you’ve forgotten how to command someone?”
The warmth in Mydei’s chest is inconvenient. “You kneel very easily. Is that simply who you are? You’d do as much for any citizen?” His thumb traces idly against the edge of the blanket, gaze dropping briefly to Phainon’s bent knee before returning to his face.
“So eager to carry another’s burdens. So tell me…” His eyes narrow in scrutiny. “What makes this worship different? What is it you’re offering me that you haven’t already given everyone else? Or is the devotion you speak of so indiscriminate that I am simply next in line?”
Phainon lets the question hang.
“If this were simply my nature, I wouldn’t be asking. But I did not kneel because you’re a royal. The person who challenges me, surprises me, understands me—it has always been the same person. So I don’t care which of them stands before me. The prince. The princess.”
He holds Mydei’s gaze.
“I’ve only ever fallen in love with the person who refuses to let me stand alone. And every time I find him, it’s you.”
Mydei’s expression gives nothing away save for the slightest slackening of his jaw. “Come here.”
It is neither a plea nor a command. He lifts two fingers in a small, impatient beckon.
When Phainon doesn’t immediately move—perhaps dazed—Mydei clicks his tongue. “I said, come here.”
The instant Phainon climbs onto the kline, Mydei catches him by the nape. There is no gentleness when he drags him close.
“Now we’re level.”
And then he kisses him as though every argument he’d been preparing had found a better use in his mouth instead. As skin meets skin, Mydei can feel how badly Phainon has wanted him. Not as a king to serve, not as a burden to carry, but as the person he was never willing to ask anything from.
Mydei has spent his life carrying what others needed of him. And for that—because Phainon has finally let himself want something—Mydei will choose to give him everything he has.
Pressing Mydei downward, claiming his lips over and over, Phainon releases a broken moan before he can stop himself. Mydei has spent the entire night daring him, and now, with a simple pull closer, he has answered. This is what he wants Phainon to have.
Phainon rolls his hips forward in a slow, instinctive grind against Mydei’s own lap. The friction sends sparks through him, and Mydei reaches over his shoulders to hold steady. Phainon moves again, raw need driving him to press closer, chasing that delicious pressure like oxygen. Mydei makes a low sound beneath him, and Phainon nearly comes undone right then. A whisper tumbles out of him.
“Fuck… you feel so good,” He swallows hard before leaning down to nip at Mydei’s jawline. Then lower, to a sensitive spot beneath his ear, and he murmurs “Can I keep doing this? Please?”
Mydei turns his head slightly, lips brushing Phainon’s ear when he speaks. “The oil is on the bedside table.” Then came the next part, teasing almost. “If you want to please me, then get it. Hurry up.”
Phainon shifts carefully to avoid knocking over the wig resting neatly on the bedside table. His fingers brush against cool glass, the small oil bottle glinting in the dim light filtering through the room. He grabs it quickly and turns back toward Mydei without a sound.
The weight of what they are about to do settles over him like a warm fog. He holds the bottle tightly, but his pulse thrums at his throat as he meets Mydei’s gaze again. “Could you spread your legs a little?” he asks, cheeks warming. “Just so I can get closer.”
Mydei exhales sharply as he shifts beneath Phainon. His thighs part, the muscles tensing as he makes space between them. His expression is insane. Eyes dark and hungry one second, then flashing with something impatient the next.
The oil bottle rests heavy in Phainon’s palm. Phainon’s fingers hook under the fabric of Mydei’s undergarments, lingerie so delicate it seems made of spun moonlight, and he slowly begins peeling them down. When the last bit slips off, Phainon swallows hard.
Kephale above. Mydei is devastating. The contrast of bare, warm skin beneath him framed by those tight garters clinging to his thighs like promises, socks still hugging his calves with innocent cuteness… it is far too much.
The alley—the slow kisses, the flirty words—had all been foreplay. But now? He needs to serve the beautiful prince under him. He needs to draw pleasure from him, like it is the only thing giving his life any meaning.
Unable to resist, Phainon leans down and takes Mydei’s cock into his mouth. He is careful at first, lips parting around him with a soft gasp, but then quickly surrendering to instinct. No teasing this time, he goes straight for it: warm heat enveloping every inch as he sinks lower and lower, hands gripping onto those ridiculously soft garters for balance.
The moan Mydei releases is deep, unrestrained, and reverberates through Phainon’s entire body like a shockwave. Mydei’s hands fly to Phainon’s head and tangle in his soft white bangs as pleasure overwhelms him. Then come the muttered words between gasps. Awe laced with arousal.
“How… how do you know how to do this?”
Phainon pulls off with a soft pop, lips glistening, cheeks flushed. Without missing a beat, he leans up and presses a tender kiss right to the tip of Mydei’s cock. Then another. A third on the side, just because he can.
“Haha… I’ve read… so many books about this…” He admits, failing to preserve his dignity. “I wanted to be perfect for my princess,” he adds.
Mydei flutters his lashes, the makeup smudged from the heat of the moment, yet somehow that only makes him look more otherworldly. And then—without hesitation—Princess regains control. She reaches down with both hands and gently but firmly pushes Phainon’s head lower again.
“Oil.”
Just one word, wrapped in her silk.
Oh. Right. That’s why he hadn’t taken her against the tavern wall in the back alley earlier. That’s why they were here now, in this room instead of a shadowy corner where anyone could walk by. The oil, to be proper for someone as cherished as his princess.
Phainon keeps her cock cradled between his lips, mouthing gently at the head—soft kisses mixed with careful licks to taste every drop of precum. Meanwhile, without breaking focus or rhythm, he reaches for the oil bottle with his free hand.
He twists the cap off and pours a good amount onto two fingers, enough to glisten under the low light. Then he rubs them together between his palms to warm it, body heat spreading through each fingertip. He uses his other hand to guide her hips, lifting so he can reach better. Just a careful adjustment, like a lover arranging sacred things. His oil-slick fingers hover near the entrance. He begins rubbing slow circles around the sensitive skin, teasing the proximity, warm fingertips tracing and massaging.
Each pass of those warm, wide fingers send tiny shocks through Princess’s nerves while the gentle tongue strokes along the length of her cock are sweet torture. Her hips lift off instinct alone.
“Phainon,” she gasps. “Keep going.”
Phainon obeys the command instantly. His lips part again, sealing around the drooling cock with renewed focus on the wet heat as he takes her deeper this time. Meanwhile, he begins applying gentle pressure right at the prince’s entrance. His index finger glides in just past the first knuckle.
Mydei’s breath comes out in a shaky, deep moan, laced with frustration. He arches his back slightly off the bed, thighs tensing around Phainon’s hips as he tries to silently urge him on—but Phainon isn’t picking up speed fast enough for his liking. “Faster–” he demands, dropping the saccharine tone, still expecting service worthy of his crown.
Phainon begins curling his finger, watching Mydei close to time the movement. Push deeper on an inhale, retreat slightly on an exhale. After spending a good few minutes accommodating more inches and stretching the sides, he adds another finger, his middle one joining the first. They part slightly to make room in a scissoring motion, and Phainon curls his wrist slightly for better angle while maintaining the slow rhythm. The scissoring becomes smoother over time as Mydei’s body relaxes into it, muscles yielding to the careful pressure.
A memory flashes from one of those books he read. This time, instead of curling inward randomly, Phainon angles his fingertips upward, prodding gently toward that sweet spot high on the front wall.
Mydei’s entire body jerks beneath Phainon, a full-body flinch, eyes flying wide open with surprise. Then his hips move, trying to press into Phainon’s hand.
“Mh– Not at the same time as your– mouth–”
Phainon doesn’t pull away even as Mydei spasms beneath him. His lips stay sealed around Mydei’s cock, warm and wet with growing confidence now that he knows exactly where the sweet spot is. He angles deeper on each inhale while curling those two fingers upward again to brush that place over and over.
There is little mercy in his devotion. Using Mydei’s dazed, pleasure-drunk state to his advantage, he slowly adds a third finger, watching for each reaction he elicits.
“Mmnnn–!”
Mydei’s moan pitches higher as Phainon doesn’t let up. Phainon infuriatingly keeps his fingers curled pressing into his prostate while the third finger joins seamlessly. And then his mouth works harder too, cheeks hollowing as he sucks deeper around Mydei’s cock, adding strong suction to the wet heat already building there.
The dual assault is too much. Mydei whimpers first—a soft “Mmnn…”—then both of his hands fly to Phainon’s hair, tugging urgently like a drowning man grabbing for air. His voice cracks on the warning. “H-Haikas— Stop– I’m—”
Phainon hears the warning, and for a heartbeat, he pulls off. Just long enough to leave Mydei gasping and exposed in the open air. He lifts his head, lips glistening with a mixture of saliva and precum, eyes dark with playful intent.
“Don’t hold back, Princess. Cum for me.”
He dives back down without hesitation. He takes Mydei deep, nearly all the way to the hilt, swallowing around him with firm pressure as he descends—while at the same instant, those three fingers curl sharply upward and press hard against that sweet spot inside.
It’s a coordinated strike: mouth sealing tight around Mydei’s length while deep within him, Phainon hits that nerve bundle like lightning. Mydei arches violently off the bed when he climaxes, a gasp tearing from him before it erupts into a loud moan.
Pulse after pulse of warmth floods Phainon’s mouth, thick streaks of cum landing on his tongue. Mydei trembles beneath him, gasping for air between moans as each spurt leaves another shudder in its wake.
Phainon can only swallow eagerly through the ache in his jaw. He eases his mouth off and pulls his fingers out once Mydei’s tremors begin to subside, the collapsed prince staring up at him in wide, wet-eyed fury. The room is starkly quiet now, just the sound of Mydei’s laboured breathing filling the space. Phainon sits back slightly on his knees as he studies Mydei’s kiss-swollen lips, and that glare simmering just beneath exhaustion.
He swallows hard as he glares up at Phainon through half-lidded eyes. “You… dog,” he accuses, each word dragged out with exhausted frustration. “I told you I was going to finish and you—you—” He gestures weakly between them with a trembling hand, too drained to finish the sentence properly. The fury isn’t real, but the princely indignation simmers seductively.
Phainon grins. “I said I wanted you to worship you. This shouldn’t come as a surprise.” He wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.
Mydei takes a slow breath. “Your garments. I want them all off.” He pushes himself up by his elbows and sits up, watching as Phainon does as asked.
“What next, Your Highness?” Phainon asks.
Mydei stares at him for a moment. “You love receiving my commands, don’t you?” he says. “And you just love saying ‘Your Highness’… Did you think about this when Princess toyed with you? Did you want this all along?”
Phainon opens his mouth, then closes it again. The sight of it is far too satisfying.
Mydei has seen the Deliverer cut down opponents with a few carefully chosen words. Seeing him like this, caught off guard and searching for an answer, is a privilege Mydei intends to savor.
No wonder Princess enjoyed teasing him so much.
“Sit on the edge of the kline,” Mydei instructs.
Phainon does so immediately. Mydei takes note of that, too. He sits up and moves behind him, settling close enough to lean over Phainon’s shoulder, his arms bracketing him in place. He has noticed before, the way Phainon’s gaze lingers whenever Mydei’s biceps are entirely unexposed.
He leans closer, speaking beside Phainon’s ear. “You’re awfully quick to concede the upper hand to me,” His voice lowers, amused. “Is this your place, Phainon? A prince’s toy?”
Before Phainon can answer, Mydei shifts to the other side, his smile returning as he lets Princess’s voice slip effortlessly into place. “Or a princess’s toy?” He bites the shell of Phainon’s ear. “Which will it be, my sweet servant?”
Phainon is quiet for a moment. Then, very softly, he says, “Does it matter?” Phainon turns his head just enough to look at him. His expression is unbearably sincere. “If you want me to kneel before a prince, I will. If you want me to adore a princess, I already have.”
The answer is so simple. He had expected embarrassment, perhaps a flustered denial, maybe some attempt from Phainon to regain the upper hand. Instead, he gets sincerity.
Mydei has no defense prepared for that. So he does the only thing he can. He lets Princess take over.
“Very well,” he says, slipping effortlessly back into her voice. “Be good. Scoot over.”
Phainon scoots over without a word, making space on the edge of the kline. Princess settles beside him, close enough that their thighs press together, and then leans into Phainon’s shoulder again. Her fingers trail along Phainon’s collarbone before gently turning his face toward hers.
“I think I know exactly what to do with you.” She reaches for the oil, and pours a large amount directly onto Phainon’s cock, staring down openly. It is… large. She is privately unsure what they must have fed him in Aedes Elysiae for it to be like that.
She shifts onto her knees beside him and presses her bare chest forward, pectoral muscles flexing as her sternum closes in on his length. Her thick breasts squeeze together around Phainon’s cock, the warm skin sliding up and down experimentally in a slow rhythm of muscle compression.
“Myd– Ah, what–”
The sensation is strange at first for Phainon, firm pressure from all sides. Each glide sends a wave of warmth through his body, the oil making every movement slick. Even though he is the one being touched, he feels as though he has no control at all, transfixed by the intensity of her expression, how powerful she looks doing something so lewd. His hands twitch at his sides. He wants to touch, but he doesn’t dare without permission. Princess’s breasts glisten with oil, each flex sending ripples through slick skin. He doesn’t even realize she has shifted until suddenly—
Her hand wraps around Phainon’s cock. Not between her chest anymore, but around it, firm and direct when deft fingers slide up and down, slick from oil as she begins to jerk him off right beside their still-pressed bodies.
A soft moan escapes her. “Mmh, feeling good?”
Phainon can’t speak. His breath comes in short, uneven puffs. It shouldn't be this hot, the sound of her enjoying fucking his cock with her chest, but it sends a jolt straight to his core. The fact that she's moaning while stroking him… that this pleases her… His hips twitch forward instinctively, a tiny jerk trying to meet her rhythm.
She only works him faster in response, staring up at him with lidded eyes. It’s how he looks right now, parted lips trembling as he tries and fails to stay silent. How every tiny twitch of his hips betrays just how much this affects him. And then there are those eyes, the bright blue irises wide, locked onto hers.
She speeds up again. Oil-slick fingers curl just right at the tip on each upward drag. Her thumb brushes over the slit once, and then again, as her other hand comes up to gently cup his balls, rubbing them with her thumb.
“Aren’t you pretty like this?” she murmurs, eyes flickering over Phainon’s face. “What would you prefer, mm? Cumming into my fist? Onto my chest? Or…” she pauses, licking her lips. “Into my mouth?”
Phainon gasps hard at those last words.
Into my mouth.
His cheeks burn hotter than they already were. The image flashes behind his eyes—her lips parting around him, her tongue sliding along the head, and suddenly he’s dizzy with need for it.
“Mm– Mouth—” he cuts himself off at a particularly slick stroke, watching how the tip of his cock aligns perfectly with the tattoo under her collarbones.
“What was that?” she asks, grinning.
His fingers curl into the bedding below. “Y-Your– ah, mouth– please, mouth?”
Princess’s grin widens. She loves this. The way Phainon stammers over his words like a flustered schoolboy instead of the noble warrior he usually presents as. Like he too has a different persona, one for her eyes alone. Without breaking eye contact, she leans in, soft lips parting. Oil and precum mix together under her tongue, jerking the head off while her chest and palm work the rest of the length.
The killshot is when she holds eye contact and moans loudly. The obscenity of the sight does Phainon in, his mouth falling open in a groan as he climaxes. He arches off the kline, thrusting forward into that unfathomably lewd body, spasming as ropes of cum paint her tongue, streak across her cheek, and drop onto her oil-slick breasts.
Her hand keeps gently stroking him through the aftershocks, milking every drop of his release for good measure. His chest heaves. His limbs are heavy and immovable. He isn’t sure how long his brain is foggy. The world comes back in slow waves, first the scent of oil, then the warmth of her skin beside him, then finally that smug little stare. Princess looks satisfied. And when she licks her fingers clean of his cum, it does something to him all over again.
He swallows hard.
“Fulfilled your goal of taking my tip, then?” he asks, aware of how stupid he sounds.
Princess raises an eyebrow at his question. She leans in and presses a soft kiss to the corner of Phainon’s mouth—gentle compared to everything that just happened.
“Mhm,” she hums against his skin after pulling back. “More than fulfilled. Although…” she stares pointedly at his lap… where… ah. It is twitching back to life…
“It would be a shame, after all of that effort to prepare me. Does my knight have another round in him?”
Hundreds, his brain supplies. Thousands. I’d shoot blanks and it wouldn’t be enough.
He nods vigorously, leaning forward. “–Of course, how do you want me to—”
She presses a finger to his lips. “Not so fast. I’m in charge here, aren’t I, my servant?”
The word servant hits Phainon like a spark to dry tinder. It’s not degrading, no, far from it. It’s possessive. He falls silent instantly, obeying without question.
Princess smiles at his compliance, his eager nod, the way his body leans forward like a dog begging for treats after being scolded once too often. He could live for that, he thinks. Dedicate his life to that smile, no matter how long he has left.
She traces his bottom lip with her fingertip, watching how he shivers at the touch like even this minute contact is electric after everything. She swings one leg over Phainon’s hips to straddle him properly. Her bare thighs bracket his waist; oil-slick skin meets warm muscle. Her hands slide up his chest, pushing gently until he lies back fully against the cushions beneath them.
Then she leans down and kisses him, and with it comes the unmistakable flavor of salt and musk. Phainon’s breath hitches when he realizes it is their mingled taste, his release still faint on her tongue, her lips now pressing against his. Like a secret shared only between them, the evidence of everything that’s happened passes from one mouth to the other in a slow exchange.
She hums into the kiss again, pleased, and licks lightly at his lower lip before diving back in. Phainon melts into the kiss like he’s dissolving. One of his hands drifts up slowly to cradle her jaw, thumb brushing along a cheekbone while their lips move together.
The oil makes everything slicker than usual, the slide of skin on skin smoother than silk of the abandoned dress, and Phainon can feel every shift of Princess’ thighs against his hips with electric clarity.
She reaches down between them after a moment, pausing the kiss to whisper against his lips.
“Inside, my Deliverer?”
It sends a pulse of heat through him. He nods.
Princess smiles against his lips and kisses him once more before shifting lower. She reaches down. Her fingers wrap around him gently as she lines herself up. And she sinks down.
The oil helps greatly, easing the way, but still, the fullness makes her eyelids flutter shut. She pauses halfway when she feels Phainon tense beneath her from sheer restraint, his jaw clenched. Even through the discomfort of the stretch, she finds pleasure in how he holds back for her. She loves that this is hers to give. Every inch she takes is a new kind of overwhelming for them both, but he doesn’t move. Just lies there beneath her, hands resting lightly on her hips, thumbs tracing small circles.
She continues sinking down at her pace, and when she finally bottoms out, fully seated on him, the stretch makes both of them gasp. Her head tilts back when she feels fullness bloom deep inside. She’s full of him now, inner walls pulsing.
Phainon wants to kiss every inch of her face. Wants to roll them over and worship every part of her, but he doesn’t.
Meanwhile, a realization hits her. He really is large, not just in length, but girth. The stretch is undeniable now that she’s fully seated, her body adjusting to accommodate him completely.
“Why are you so… big?” she groans before she can help it, hips rocking gently.
His cock twitches. “You like that I’m big, right?” Phainon’s voice comes out low. He presses a palm flat against her stomach, right where their bodies meet. “I can feel myself inside you,” he murmurs, wonder colouring every word.
Her hands brace against his chest as she begins to move, rolling her hips languidly to find a pace that suits her desires.
“Just– Pay attention.”
He does. Every time she lifts herself, riding him like it’s an artform, those muscles flex obscenely. The stockings stretch taut over her thighs, accentuated by the thin straps of the garters crossing just above her knees, even more provocative now. Every nerve in her body seems to register the sheer size of him, how completely he fills her. Deep and throbbing where they’re joined.
Phainon’s hands move, one sliding up to cup her chest, his palm warm and heavy against the softness there. His fingers gently squeeze, kneading before thumbing over a nipple. The other hand drifts down and wraps around her, giving a slow stroke in time with her rocking hips.
Her nails dig into his shoulder as she tries to shake his hand off, hips stuttering mid-roll. “Didn’t I tell you,” she breathes, voice tight with pleasure and irritation both, “to just watch?” She glares down at him through half-lidded eyes, lips parted.
Phainon doesn’t flinch under her glare. His hands stay right where they are, thumb still lazily brushing over her chest, while the other strokes in time with her hips. “I am p-paying attention. You didn’t, ngh, say I couldn’t touch.”
He swallows hard when she rolls just right, a particular angle that makes them both gasp. Phainon’s throat constricts on a swallow. If anything, it makes Princess grow bolder, beginning to ride him in earnest.
“Mhh. This is one way to get you, ah, quiet,” she laughs.
Their rhythm finds its pace, her movements becoming more fluid, more confident. He can feel her body adapting to his size now that she's fully seated; she moves with growing ease, hips rising and falling with confidence.
His hands remain on her hips, guiding her gentle movements. He grits his teeth, the effort of holding back almost too much. She’s so warm, so wet and tight around him. Every time she moves a current of pleasure runs through him, threatening to break his control. He feels a bead of sweat trickle down his temple.
“You feel so good,” he breathes, voice ragged. “Please, don’t stop.”
She laughs. “Oh, Deliverer,” she teases, “you’re so eager. Just want to let me use you, hm?”
His nod is almost frantic. “Yes,” he pants, “use me however you want.” His hands tighten slightly on her hips, helping guide her movements. “I— ah, exist to serve your pleasure, Your Highness.”
Her eyes flash at this declaration, before they flutter shut again, a moan escaping her lips.
“Fuck. I want to feel you for days.”
Before he can respond, she pushes his torso down onto the bed, her hands holding his shoulders in place.
“Be good for me,” she commands softly yet firmly as she starts to ride him again with renewed vigor.
Phainon lies beneath her, hands now powerless at his sides, palms flat against the cushions. He looks up at her, this vision of contrast: smudged makeup that only serves to accentuate her features, blond hair tumbling wildly around her shoulders, delicate stockings clinging to powerful thighs. A warrior’s body with the grace of a courtesan, a walking contradiction that sends a surge of desire through him. He wants to be good, to follow her commands. The feeling of belonging to her, of being at her mercy, is intoxicating.
Princess is lost in sensation, his thickness sliding along every nerve ending inside as she angles just right. Every thrust downwards feels like a reward for those nights at the tavern spent fantasizing. Cock rubbing against his abdomen, she knows it won’t be long before she comes undone around him.
Her hips pivot as she grinds down on him harder now for emphasis while she speaks, voice laced with power and playfulness. “You know, ah, some might say a princess needs a crown.” She leans forward slightly, her eyes locked onto his. “And right now, you are mine.” Her voice drops to a sultry whisper, “My throne, my kingdom, my subject.”
A plea escapes Phainon’s lips as she continues to ride him with increasing fervor, her words sending a thrill down his spine. “Please, Your Highness,” he begs, voice strained with desire and restraint. “I need… I need to…” His hands clench the sheets beside him, knuckles turning white. “May I, please?”
“Come for me, Deliverer,” she purrs, nails digging into his shoulders. “Let me feel you.”
Phainon lets out a long, guttural moan, his body tensing as hot waves pulse through him at her command, cumming inside her.
She milks him with rhythmic pulses as her own orgasm crashes through her soon after. With a shuddering breath, her eyes flutter closed as she lets out a throaty moan, her head falling back, golden locks cascading down like a waterfall as she paints his abdomen white.
It takes a moment for them to recover. Princess of Castrum Kremnos relaxes back into Mydei, collapsing atop Phainon’s chest with a tired huff. Phainon’s arms close around him, laying chest to chest as they both come down from their highs. Phainon’s heartbeat is still rapid beneath his ear, matching hers in its slowing rhythm. Proof that his stamina is on par.
Phainon presses a kiss to the top of Mydei’s head without thinking, then another to his shoulder. The oil between them has cooled slightly now, making their skin sticky where it clings. One hand strokes lazily up and down the curve of Mydei’s spine, tracing idle patterns over his tattoos.
“Mydeimos,” he whispers, his voice a reverent rasp, “you were incredible. That was… I have never…” He searches for words but finds none adequate enough.
“Thank you,” Mydei responds in his deep voice, propping himself up on an elbow to look at Phainon. “You were quite something yourself. And while I appreciate the wandering hands,” he smirks slightly, “next time they wander without permission…”
Phainon, chuckling softly, rolls them over onto their sides instead. “No duels tonight,” he murmurs, tucking a strand of hair behind Mydei’s ear. “I don’t think you have the vitality left in you, after all of that.”
Mydei’s expression sours. He grabs Phainon’s cheeks with a hand, and Phainon is suddenly grateful that he isn’t wearing his gauntlets. “Are you trying to goad me? Do you think I won’t challenge you right here, just because you’ve seen me in a gown?”
Phainon stammers. “Not at all, I only meant–”
“Scoundrel,” Mydei interjects, squishing Phainon’s cheeks, making him look like a guilty fish. “Getting red again, are you embarrassed now that you’ve finished inside me? Or is it—” He pauses, eyes flicking down. He clenches down gently over the cock still inside him, preventing cum from spilling out over his sheets. “What. Are you getting hard again?”
“Wait, I just—” Phainon starts, but the prince’s hold on his cheeks tightens, silencing him. Phainon swallows hard, trying to maintain his composure under the intense gaze. “Okay. I am, but you cannot blame me when you cut such an attractive figure when you yell at me! I-It will go away itself, I promise. In fact, perhaps we should clean up and—”
“Again.”
Phainon’s eyes widen. “What, Mydei?”
“Fuck me again. See if you still think my stamina is lacking when I’m done with you, Deliverer.”
Phainon swallows.
“Very well, Your Highness…”
All sense of time has been lost.
Mydei, now devoid of his poor, ruined accessories and adorned only in his tattoos, finds himself bent over the wall.
His breath fogs up against it. The sound of wet flesh slapping against flesh echoes through the room, punctuated by his muffled moans. His legs tremble, knees threatening to buckle under the relentless pounding he’s receiving.
Phainon’s hands grip his hips firmly as he powers into him from behind. Mydei can’t help but let out another string of profanities, interspersed with Phainon’s name, as he braces himself against the wall, drool trickling down his chin, marking the stone with every thrust.
“You– aah, you– how are you still–”
Phainon’s words are punctuated by his own ragged breaths, his grip on Mydei’s hips tightening as he pulls him back onto him with each thrust.
“Shh, don’t try to fight it, my prince. This is what you wanted, mm? You take my cock so well, we should’ve been, ah, doing this the entire time.”
Mydei’s response is a strangled sound. Any legible argument dies on his lips, replaced by another string of ah ah ah’s as Phainon snaps his hips forward, hitting just the right spot. The prince’s body arches, his knuckles white from gripping the wall for support. While laying with his equal in strength and stamina seemed a good idea, he realizes he has made a grave, grave mistake.
When Phainon comes to, his legs are entangled with another’s. It all comes back to him immediately, like he’d been reliving it in his dreams, his mind unable to conjure something sweeter.
He looks down. Mydei is snoring softly into his chest. He was wrong. Maybe there is something much sweeter.
After some time spent watching the prince sleep, Mydei also rouses awake, mumbling something before he reaches to rub his eyes open. After he’s done, he plants his hands on Phainon’s sides, looking up at him. “What a crazed fan…” he mumbles, before yawning.
“Good morning! You haven’t, um… Done this with any other audience members, I presume?” Phainon asks, unable to bear the thought.
Mydei sits up and stretches out his arms and shoulders. It is immensely distracting and he knows it. “Naturally,” he yawns, or maybe she yawns, as the tone is once again somewhere in-between. “Every devoted admirer receives the very same treatment. I maintain a meticulous schedule.”
Phainon stills, making an admirable effort to appear entirely unmoved. “You keep a schedule beyond our shared one? An… intimate schedule?”
“Mm.”
“Oh. I understand.” He does not. He is planning acts of violence unbefitting of a public servant. “That would explain it. You are exceedingly popular, as it stands. I had simply assumed…” He runs a hand through his hair. “Forgive me. It is outside my purview.”
Mydei watches him for another moment before the corners of his mouth begin to lift. “You are quick to become jealous.” He sighs before allowing himself to collapse sideways, coming to rest against Phainon’s shoulder, burdened by the world’s densest Deliverer. “No, I have not done this with any other audience members,” he mutters into the sun tattoo. “I rather doubt anyone possesses stamina comparable to yours.”
Phainon releases a slow breath, one hand disappearing into his own hair. “Very well,” he says at last, rubbing the back of his neck. He is so immensely pleased he will have to remember to place offerings at every altar he can think of, later. “In that case, last night I realized something rather obvious.”
“Hm?”
“Well… We’ve already been living as though we’re courting, at least to Okhema’s standards,” Phainon continues, a little more confidently now that the thought has finally found words. “We’ve arranged our lives around one another in every respect save the one that ought to have been the simplest.” His thumb brushes idly over Mydei’s knuckles. “Therefore, if it would hardly change anything, why not make it the one that counts as well?”
Mydei studies him for a long moment before letting out an amused breath. “Have you already forgotten your own duties?”
“My duties?”
“You are the Deliverer.”
“And you, the Crown Prince? Shouldn’t this assist my argument? You’ve found the time to learn cosmetics, choreography, costuming, and an entirely separate manner of speaking.” His hand rises almost without thinking, thumb catching the faintest trace of crimson gloss still lingering at the corner of Mydei’s lower lip. He rubs it away gently. “I do not imagine finding time shall be my greatest obstacle.”
Mydei’s gaze follows the movement of that thumb. “You are rather persuasive, as they say. Fine.”
Phainon’s smile widens.
“But,” Mydei adds quickly, pointing a warning finger at him, “if you insist upon involving yourself in this corner of my life, then you ought to learn about it properly.”
“Hmmm… What was that?”
Before Mydei can repeat himself, Phainon has rolled them over. He settles comfortably atop the prince as though he belongs there, resting against Mydei’s chest with every intention of remaining.
“I said,” the prince repeats, “you are clueless. Your understanding of the artform ought not be tainted by... whatever transpired here.”
“Tainted?” Phainon asks, tilting his head to look up at him.
“Tainted.” Mydei folds one arm behind his head, the other resting lazily across Phainon’s back. “Though I found your previous explanation of drag... slightly endearing, if entirely unnecessary, I believe you erred in several respects.”
Phainon leans down, pressing a quick kiss against Mydei’s chest before settling back into place. To think, not long ago, that very chest had been… not the time to think about that.
“I apologize. Please, tell me more, Lord Mydeimos.”
Golden eyes narrow. “Desperate for my voice?”
“Always.” Phainon doesn’t even pretend to be embarrassed. “Please tell me whatever you wish, Mydei, and grant my ears the holiest—”
“—Pathetic,” Mydei scoffs, though the hand finding its way into Phainon’s hair entirely undermines the insult. His fingers comb idly through the white strands before he continues. “To begin with, when you insisted that drag is not performed merely to convince others that one is a woman, you were closer to the truth than most. Yet you still approached it as though there exists one reason to perform at all.”
He glances toward the wig resting upon the bedside table.
“There never has been. Among Kremnoans, performance has long been intertwined with ritual. But there have also always been those who discovered that changing one’s appearance made it easier to speak truths that ordinary life demanded remain unspoken. And for some others, it is simply an extension of what is already presented.”
For as long as Mydei continues speaking, Phainon listens without interrupting.
It comes as no surprise that Phainon returns to the tavern, the following week when Princess is slated to return. Phainon would, of course, never stop Mydeimos from performing.
However, if Mydeimos plans to continue performing to an audience that clearly desires him, Phainon is going to be there to ensure nobody comes up with any unscrupulous ideas when Princess jokingly flirts with them. That is his lover, even if to the audience it is merely a running gag that the Deliverer attends the shows.
Cipher is already occupying her usual station behind the bar when he arrives. At this point, Phainon isn’t certain whether she genuinely enjoys the tavern or simply delights in watching him embarrass himself within it. Either way, it is a bizarre circumstance in which to meet one another. He had expected their eventual acquaintance to come from the Flame-Chase. Instead, they spend an unreasonable amount of time discussing wigs.
“You’ve been staring at the stage for the last five minutes,” Cipher observes without looking away from her cup. “Thinking of getting up there yourself?”
“Not at all. It’s only… how did I not realize sooner? Now that I know, it seems painfully obvious. His height. His voice. His uncomfortable familiarity with Kremnos and with the ongoings of the city.” He shakes his head, almost laughing at himself. “I spent weeks speaking with both of them before I put the pieces together.”
Cipher snorts into her drink. “Pfft. The power of Trickery, Deliverer.”
Phainon glances at her. “Trickery?”
She swirls the amber liquid idly around her cup. “Did you truly believe a wig and a few cosmetics could fool an entire city?”
He had, admittedly.
“I suppose not.”
“It isn’t an illusion in the way most imagine,” Cipher taps two fingers lightly against her temple. “A familiar voice becomes merely… similar. The obvious answer never quite manages to arrive.”
Phainon thinks back. Princess laughed exactly like Mydei at his most open. She folded her arms with the prince’s characteristic impatience, something even a skilled impersonator might struggle to incorporate naturally. Those unusually golden eyes narrowed in precisely the same way.
Phainon had noticed every one of those things. He simply… hadn’t thought to connect them, until the moment it was impossible to ignore.
“The more popular Princess of Castrum Kremnos became, the more eyes she’d attract. Eventually someone was bound to recognize something,” A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “Thankfully, the little prince ran into me.”
“Then why tell me now? Because I already solved it?”
She looks at him over the rim of her cup. Should she even be drinking on shift..?
“Do you know what that means?”
Phainon shakes his head.
“Most people would have gone their entire lives without seeing through the blessing,” Cipher laughs softly. “You managed it anyway. A testament to all your wasted yearning, I suppose. Honestly, Deliverer, you might need some hobbies other than following the little lion around. Did you have fun watching me collect his clothing like an obsessive husband that day?”
Phainon nearly chokes. “That was not why I was there.”
“Mm.”
The word husband lingers unpleasantly in the back of his mind. Or perhaps not unpleasantly, and merely far too large. He still finds himself stumbling over lover on the rare occasions Mydei calls him that. Even partner carries a newness to it, as though speaking the word aloud might diminish everything it had taken them to arrive there. Husband belongs to an altogether different future, one neither of them can reasonably promise while Amphoreus still demands so much of them.
And yet… He cannot bring himself to object to the thought itself. Only its timing. If such a day were ever to come, it would be because they had carved that future out with their own hands. A future where Mydei would never again need to divide himself into the people’s prince and the tavern’s princess. Where he could walk onto a stage beneath any name without fear or concern of what anyone else might think.
Phainon smiles faintly into his drink. “I wouldn’t be opposed to the idea. But please, keep that a secret as well… just between the two of us.”
Cipher’s grin turns positively predatory. “That’s two favors, Deliverer.”
There is another notable guest in attendance. Krateros occupies a table near the back of the tavern with all the enthusiasm of a man attending his own sentencing. Convincing him to come had required an insane degree of enthusiasm, but now he silently watches Princess sweep onto the stage beneath a shower of crimson petals. Watches the audience laugh themselves breathless. Watches her answer every joke about Kremnos with another that only someone raised within its walls could have conceived.
The references are precise, the ceremonial dress exaggerated but unmistakably rooted in true tradition, the expressions pronounced with irritating accuracy that someone familiar only with common would struggle with. Princess is not making a spectacle of Kremnoans. She is making a spectacle for them. When that registers, the rigid line of Krateros’ shoulders eases by a fraction. It is the closest anyone present is likely to witness to visible astonishment.
By the time Princess’s set draws to a close and another queen prepares to take the stage, Krateros rises from his seat and makes his way toward the bar. Phainon excuses himself from Cipher and turns just as the man comes to a halt beside him.
Krateros clears his throat.
...Ah.
That was where Mydei had learned to do it. Arms folded as though delivering a military report rather than commenting on a drag performance, Krateros speaks with the same grave seriousness he might reserve for anything else.
“The performer’s recounting of the Kremnos Festival was surprisingly faithful. The historical references were likewise acceptable.” Krateros pauses, as though weighing each successive word against the possibility of physical discomfort. “So long as no one develops similarly creative interpretations of His Majesty’s good name, I see no reason to pursue the matter further.”
He inclines his head once, apparently considering the issue settled. Then he leaves. Phainon sees him out, and watches him disappear through the tavern doors, momentarily at a loss.
He returns to his seat just in time for Princess’s final bow. Crimson petals rain through the tavern once more. The applause is deafening. He cheers as loud as he can, and locks eyes with gold for half of a second.
Princess dips into one final curtsy before gathering the glittering folds of her skirts and disappearing through the curtains backstage. The tavern erupts into applause once more, patrons already calling for her return before the next performer has even reached the stage.
Phainon waits. It would not do to have half the tavern notice the Deliverer immediately abandoning his seat the moment Princess vanished from sight. He gives it a respectable count of several heartbeats before rising from his chair.
Cipher catches his eye over the rim of her cup. Phainon inclines his head once in farewell before slipping away from the noise.
There will always be voices raised against Princess. There will always be those convinced a performer ought to speak less boldly, laugh less loudly, occupy less space than she does.
They are welcome to present those grievances to the Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos. Phainon has every confidence in how that conversation would end.
The corridor beyond the stage is quieter, filled with little more than muffled applause bleeding through timber walls and the rustle of costumes being prepared for the next act. He follows the familiar route without hesitation now, past stacked crates and abandoned props, until he reaches the dressing room at the end of the hall.
He smiles to himself. Then, without knocking, Phainon slips inside. The door slides shut behind him.
A few days later, Mydei finds himself crossing the lower district alongside Phainon after a lengthy meeting. Their conversation has drifted from logistics to lunch, with Phainon insisting there exists a bakery nearby that produces pastries Mydei must try in order to attempt them for himself, to Phainon’s benefit. Mydei remains rather unconvinced.
They have scarcely reached the familiar square before a pair of feminine voices call out.
“Lord Phainon!”
Two somewhat familiar young women beneath the awning brighten immediately upon spotting him.
Phainon smiles and raises a hand in greeting. “Oh, good afternoon!”
He walks over, so Mydei follows.
“We did not get the chance to greet you at the last show!” one of the two says. Mydei’s steps falter almost imperceptibly. What is this talk about a… last show?
Phainon, meanwhile, answers with the composure of a man discussing the weather. Which, in this city, is always the same.
“Ah. My apologies. I spent rather longer at the bar than I’d intended, occupied in conversation with a friend.” A faint cough. “And... I had to leave somewhat early that night, so I could not stay for the next show.”
“We noticed!” one of them laughs. “But Princess seemed happy to have you there.”
“Really? I am pleased to hear it.”
Mydei’s eyes drift sideways. He studies Phainon’s profile for a long moment.
Then the two women finally seem to notice that the Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos is standing directly beside him. Their excitement redoubles. “Hello, Lord Mydeimos!” one says, while the other says “It’s wonderful to see you.”
Mydei inclines his head politely at them. “Good afternoon. And, likewise.”
One of the women clasps her hands together. “Since you are here, Lord Mydeimos, we have been wondering… Have you ever attended one of Princess of Castrum Kremnos’ performances?”
Mydei does not so much as blink. He gets flashbacks to a certain white-haired man with eerily similar questions. “No,” he replies evenly. “Though I have heard quite a bit about her.”
Beside him, Phainon suddenly develops a profound interest in the paving stones.
“Oh, you truly ought to go!” the second woman says eagerly. “As a Kremnoan yourself, I’m certain you'd appreciate the humour. And…” She trails off, eyes flicking towards her companion.
Mydei tilts his head. “And what, exactly?”
One of the young women begins twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “Well,” she says. “It is only ever said in jest, of course.”
“Entirely in jest,” the other quickly agrees. She smiles sheepishly. “But there is rather a popular joke among the regulars that nobody has ever witnessed the Prince and the Princess in the same room.”
Phainon coughs into his sleeve so abruptly that it almost sounds painful. Beside him, Mydei puts considerable effort into keeping both gauntleted hands exactly where they are.
“I see,” he says evenly. “That is rather humorous.” Mydei observes.
Phainon coughs again. There is a peculiar warmth spreading across the Deliverer’s ears that Mydei refuses to investigate, if only because he has already done so, to a crowd’s delight.
The two young women beam. “Regardless of that, you really should attend a performance someday, Lord Mydeimos. Lord Phainon here has grown to adore them, himself.”
Mydei smiles with all the serenity that is never expected of him, yet increasingly common these days.
“Perhaps,” he grants. “If our schedules should ever align.”