Archive of Our Own

The Grove of Epiphany was a place spoken of with a kind of reverence. Even among the most arrogant salons of the capital — the ones where young nobles argued metaphysics over spiced wine and tried to out-cite each other in ancient languages — the Grove held an air of mystery. It was old, older than any of them deserved to touch, and filled with minds that shaped the world in quiet, terrifying ways.

Not just a university, not truly. The Grove was closer to a sentient cathedral of thought, tucked into the folds of a forest that didn’t exist on any public map. It moved, it breathed, and once summoned to it, you were never quite the same.

Lord Cyren Velmaris, third son of House Velmaris and graduate of a neighboring academy, famous but less so, had waited years for this. He had studied, schemed, and risen through academic ranks faster than most of his peers, all for a sliver of a chance to be chosen. A chance to study here, even briefly, was no small privilege; the Grove did not entertain mediocrity. So when he followed Anaxagoras, one of the revered Seven Sages of The Grove of Epiphany, down the corridor of the east wing, he kept his back straight and his nerves hidden behind a well-practiced smile.

The halls were more beautiful than he’d imagined.

Sunlight poured in through the skylit arches, filtering through suspended glass runes that refracted faintly shifting symbols across the pale stone. The glyphs spun slowly, echoing whispers in languages no longer spoken aloud. Everything was quiet — not silent, but purposeful, as if the walls themselves had decided to listen.

“I hope the walk wasn’t too long,” said Anaxa, voice warm and even. “Some of the visiting scholars get turned around. The Grove likes to rearrange itself when it’s bored.”

Cyren chuckled, careful to keep it light. “I rather enjoyed it. The architecture feels alive.”

“It is,” Anaxa said simply. He didn’t smile, but there was an approving tilt to his head. They continued.

They stopped at a tall, vine-framed door of pale, grainy wood, marked only with a small sigil etched into the frame. The wood pulsed faintly under Cyren’s gaze, as if recognizing Anaxa's presence. The air around it was warmer.

Anaxa gestured for him to go in.

Cyren stepped inside.

The office was a blend of chaos and elegance — shelves bowed under the weight of mismatched books and scrolls, crystals hummed faintly on the corners of a desk scattered with notes, and three plants seemed to be competing for dominance in the same pot near the window, yet nothing felt disordered. It was the sort of space where genius lived and didn’t need to apologize.

The scent inside was unusual: ozone, aged paper, mint, and something faintly metallic. A spell in progress, perhaps. Or simply the residue of too many brilliant thoughts in one place.

Anaxa gestured to the armchair across from the desk and seated himself with a practiced ease, the robes of his Grove appointment pooling elegantly at his sides. Even without the formal title of Sage, he had presence — a calm gravity, like a still pool that could drown if you looked too long into it.

Cyren sat, adjusting his sleeves with what he hoped was casual grace. “Thank you again for agreeing to meet with me, Professor. I know your time must be…”

“Don’t,” Anaxa said, a slight quirk to his mouth. “You’ve already said thank you three times. Any more and I’ll suspect you’re buttering me up for a recommendation letter.”

Cyren flushed. “Force of habit.”

Anaxa’s eyes sparkled — not with laughter, exactly, but with something more reserved. A private amusement, like a smile only half-offered.

“I read your thesis abstract,” Anaxa said, reaching for a marked scroll and unrolling it with a graceful flick. “You’re attempting to reconcile Empyreal Transmutation with symbolic logic models.”

“Yes,” Cyren said, trying not to fidget. “I believe there’s a deeper pattern beneath the transmutation cycle — a linguistic or ritual coding that’s been overlooked.”

“It’s an ambitious claim.” Anaxa tapped the scroll once. “The Circle of Seven in the old texts doesn’t usually play well with modern frameworks.”

“That’s precisely why I want to try,” Cyren said. “The Circle’s been treated as immutable for centuries, but if we start thinking of it as a dynamic construct—”

“You’ll have to restructure half of the accepted resonance theories,” Anaxa finished.

There was a beat of silence.

Then — a slow, pleased nod. “That would be fascinating.”

Cyren felt a flicker of pride rise in his chest, chased quickly by something sharper. Recognition. From Anaxa. The man who’d published the defining analysis of sentient spellforms before he reached his mid-twenties. The Sage whose work required reading across every magical university that mattered. And now he was looking at Cyren like someone worth listening to.

Cyren leaned in, just slightly. “Your paper on affective resonance shifted how I thought about intent-coding entirely. I almost scrapped my original thesis after reading it.”

“You wouldn’t be the first,” Anaxa said, dryly. “One poor apprentice tried to challenge it in an open lecture once. She broke down halfway through and apologized after.”

“I’m not planning to challenge it,” Cyren said, with a smile that bordered on flirtatious. “I’m planning to build on it.”

Anaxa didn’t flinch, but his brows lifted — the first real expression that wasn’t purely academic.

And then, just as the air began to shift—

The door creaked open with an ease that suggested this happened often.

“Professor,” a voice said — casual, deep, velvet-edged — “you skipped lunch again.”

The man who entered did not look like he belonged in the Grove.

He was tall, absurdly so, with broad shoulders framed by a tailored coat of midnight black that hung open like a cape, the inside lined with silver thread that caught in the light. His hair was dark but glinted faintly indigo at the ends where it curled behind one ear, and a constellation of fine rings dotted the cartilage. His boots were scuffed like he hadn’t bothered to change them since stepping off a stage. In his hand was a small paper bag.

Cyren stared, confused.

It took him several heartbeats to connect the face to the name, but once he did, it became impossible to ignore.

Phainon. That Phainon.

World-renowned model. Face of the famous Chrysos Heirs. Muse to a dozen fashion houses, walking contradiction of elegance and arrogance. His name had graced the covers of fashion and arcane culture magazines alike. There were entire courses in cultural semiotics that had analyzed his imagecraft. There had been posters of him in nearly every café in the capital. Cyren had assumed most of the rumors were exaggerated — no one could be that beautiful and that successful and walk into someone’s office like they were delivering a sandwich.

And yet, here he was.

Phainon made no move to acknowledge Cyren as he approached the desk. “You didn’t respond to my messages, so I guessed you were locked in your office all morning.” He set the bag down neatly in front of Anaxa. “Eat this before you faint in a corridor again. That was dramatic, even for you, Professor.”

Anaxa didn’t protest. He looked up at Phainon with that same calm expression he wore in lectures, though there was something else beneath it. Familiarity, maybe, if not tired amusement.

“Not in front of company,” Anaxa murmured.

Phainon turned his head then, slowly, like he'd just now realized they weren’t alone.

His gaze landed on Cyren — flat and unreadable — and remained there.

“Oh,” he said. “Didn’t see you.”

Cyren blinked. “I… wasn’t being quiet.”

Phainon didn’t answer. He simply turned back to Anaxa, slipping his hands into the deep pockets of his coat as if the interruption had never existed.

“Anaxa,” he said, deliberately formal in a tone that was anything but, “you still have two more hours until your next class. You have exactly that long to eat this and hydrate.”

Cyren’s brow twitched. Anaxa? No honorifics, no distance, and certainly no Professor, which was how everyone addressed Anaxa in formal settings. Even any form of nickname was rare, practically forbidden. Cyren had heard from more than one awestruck peer that the Sage hated being addressed so familiarly. He dismissed students who got too comfortable. Even the Grove’s senior staff don't dare utter his name in public.

So why was this man—this model who has no reason to be here—using it so casually?

Cyren glanced between them. Phainon hadn’t even sat down, just loomed beside the desk like a sentry posted on instinct, and Anaxa didn’t look remotely bothered.

Are they close in age? Cyren wondered. It was hard to tell — Anaxa was timeless in that strange, luminous way that the oldest magic sometimes made people look. But now that he looked at Phainon properly… yes. He’d heard a rumor once: that Phainon had been a student at the Grove long ago, before his modeling career swallowed him whole, and before the beauty eclipsed the brilliance.

They must’ve known each other back then.

That doesn’t explain this, Cyren thought, watching Anaxa pull the food from the bag like it was the most natural thing in the world. A tightly wrapped rice cake, still warm. A small bottle of herb-steeped water. Nothing extravagant — but clearly made with care.

Phainon watched him open the package with a strange intensity.

“...You remembered the mint,” Anaxa said.

“You like mint when you’re overstimulated.”

Cyren sat back, unsure of what expression his face was making. “So, you... check his schedule?”

Phainon looked at him, finally — and smiled. It wasn’t friendly.

“I’ve had it memorized for years.”

Cyren swallowed. “That seems… excessive.”

“Only if you’re not the one keeping him alive,” Phainon said.

The silence that followed was sharp-edged. Not dangerous, exactly, but charged. Like someone had cast a silence spell and forgotten to lift it.

Anaxa, still unbothered, opened the bottle and took a sip. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” Phainon said, still watching Cyren with the vague curiosity of someone examining a problem he’d already solved. “Just making casual conversation.”

Cyren stood, slowly. He didn’t remember deciding to, but the air had gotten thicker, somehow. Less hospitable.

“Thank you again for your time, Professor,” he said, turning to Anaxa and ignoring Phainon’s very obvious proximity. “I’ll send my revisions as soon as I—”

“Yes,” Anaxa said mildly, “do.”

Phainon didn’t move out of the doorway. Cyren hesitated, then maneuvered around him with all the grace of someone trying not to brush against a stormcloud. Phainon didn’t even blink. Just let him squeeze by.

As the door clicked shut behind him, Cyren let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

What the hell was that?

He’d walked into a meeting expecting intellectual mentorship. Maybe, if he was being honest, the start of something more. Anaxa had a reputation — distant but not unreachable, magnetic but principled, and Cyren knew how to be charming when he wanted to be.

But what he hadn’t prepared for was the man who brought him lunch.

A world-famous model with cheekbones sharp enough to cut, eyes like steel, and a familiarity with Anaxa that felt... ancient. Intimate. Territorial.

That wasn’t a colleague, Cyren thought. That was someone who knew what he looked like when he was tired. Who knew what flavor calmed his senses. That was someone who didn’t knock because he didn’t need to.

And for the first time since arriving at the Grove, Cyren felt something unfamiliar.

He wasn’t just behind on his reading.

He was out of his depth.

Hyacine knew two things for certain.

First, that Anaxa had no idea how attractive he was.

Second, that it was ruining everyone’s lives.

Take tonight, for example. They hadn’t even reached the restaurant yet and the man trailing alongside them was already glowing like he’d been chosen by prophecy. Mireas Velren, heir to Velren Silk & Spire, son of a merchant lord whose money could fund an opera house and burn it down just for fun.

And right now, he was striding a little too confidently beside Anaxa, speaking with the smugness of someone who had never been turned down before.

Hyacine walked just behind them, pretending to be more interested in her gloves than the ongoing monologue.

“...and then I told the trade council, if they wanted guaranteed delivery through the Ebonwater straits, they’d need to match my father’s tariffs,” Mireas was saying, smiling like a man used to applause.

Anaxa made a soft noise that could’ve been interest. Or indigestion.

Hyacine resisted the urge to kick the back of Mireas’ heel.

When they reached the front of Virellion, the lanterns outside were already lit — soft golden orbs strung from carved beams, catching in the wind like captured starlight. It was understated, warm, and elegant, just like its owner.

Hyacine paused outside the door to smooth her skirt and gather her patience.

She was the one who had suggested this place, after all, and she knew full well what she was inviting.

Mydei’s going to have fun with this one, she thought grimly.

Inside, the restaurant was already half-full. Laughter and the clink of glasses filled the air, and faint instrumental music played from somewhere unseen. The scent of fire-roasted herbs and citrus glaze lingered in the air like an expensive spell.

They were led to a table near the inner courtyard — private, dimly lit, surrounded by flowering vines that shifted gently with the breeze.

Hyacine chose the seat across from Anaxa. Mireas, of course, slid in beside him.

She watched Anaxa settle with that same graceful composure he wore like a second robe. He didn’t fidget, didn’t blink too much, just folded his hands lightly on the table and gave the merchant heir his attention.

A gift Mireas absolutely didn’t deserve.

“So,” Mireas said, propping his chin on his hand. “You never answered my question earlier.”

“Which one?” Anaxa asked.

“If you’d ever consider doing guest lectures in Astrenelle. I know at least three academies that would kill to host someone like you. No offense to the Grove, of course, but… the capital has the influence.”

Hyacine raised an eyebrow. “Is that before or after the duels?”

Mireas gave her a passing glance. “Just an expression.”

“Shame,” she murmured. “I think you’d look great with a sword through your ego.”

Anaxa’s expression twitched.

Hyacine called it a win.

Mireas ignored her and kept going. “You’re wasted here, honestly. The Grove doesn’t celebrate its figures. It reveres them, sure, but there’s no… spectacle. No grandeur. Someone like you—” and here he leaned in “—deserves more.”

Anaxa’s brow furrowed slightly. He opened his mouth to answer—

And that was when Mydei appeared.

He moved like spilled light. All quiet confidence, gold-threaded sleeves, and the faint scent of citrus and cloves.

Mydei didn’t walk through his restaurant, he arrived. He made every other figure blur at the edges. And the moment he stepped into the room, something shifted—not loudly, but with intention, like someone had drawn a curtain between stages and signaled a scene change.

Hyacine saw Mireas straighten the second he laid eyes on him.

Which made her smile. Because oh, now he was worried.

Mydei rarely emerged from the kitchens unless it was for personal friends, important political figures, or—more commonly—Phainon and Anaxa. Hyacine had never seen him bother with visiting aristocrats. That he was here now, brushing flour from his sleeves and approaching their table, made the entire air go sharp with expectation.

“Professor Anaxa,” Mydei said, voice a low purr, “what a surprise.”

“Not an unpleasant one, I hope,” Anaxa said with a small smile.

“Never,” Mydei said. “You’re always welcome.”

Hyacine saw the way his eyes flicked across Anaxa’s face, scanning for something—tiredness? tension? She didn’t know. But Mydei had that way about him. Like he measured people in ways no one else noticed.

Then his gaze slid to Mireas.

“And you’ve brought company.”

Mireas rose slightly from his seat, offering his hand. “Mireas Velren. Velren Silk & Spire. I’ve been meaning to come by for years.”

Mydei accepted the handshake with one hand, graceful and brief. “I see.”

“And this place truly lives up to the name,” Mireas went on, too brightly. “The aroma alone could bankrupt a lesser man.”

“I suppose that’s flattering,” Mydei replied, tone unreadable.

Hyacine, sipping her water, watched the merchant heir begin to sweat.

“Any particular preferences tonight?” Mydei asked. “Dietary needs? Allergies?”

“No allergies,” Mireas said. “I can handle just about anything.”

Hyacine saw Mydei’s mouth twitch. It might’ve been amusement. Or something colder.

“Perfect,” Mydei said, with honeyed sweetness. “Then let me offer a selection. Something new. Rare. On the house.”

Anaxa looked up from his glass. “You don’t have to do that—”

“I want to,” Mydei said, still looking directly at Mireas. “For someone with such a refined palate.”

Hyacine crossed her legs and bit her tongue. She would have cheered if it wouldn’t have ruined the moment.

“Anaxa,” Mydei added, now speaking to Anaxa with the kind of warmth that made fireplaces jealous, “would you prefer the sea-thistle risotto or the evening plum course?”

“The risotto,” Anaxa said without hesitation. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“It never is,” Mydei said gently. And with that, he gave a small bow and turned to return to the kitchen.

Mireas watched him go, brows faintly furrowed.

“I didn’t realize the owner was so… involved,” he said after a moment.

Hyacine arched a brow. “He only comes out when it matters.”

“Oh,” Mireas said, clearly assuming he was the reason.

Anaxa, to his credit, said nothing.

Twenty-five minutes later, the dishes arrived—brought by servers in careful intervals.

First, a shared citrus-glazed starter with spell-etched herbs. Then, a delicate ice-laced salad with frozen lavender drizzle. Mydei’s signature pairings, executed to perfection.

Then came the main course.

And this time, Mydei brought it out himself.

One plate. Set down carefully in front of Mireas. Pale silver fish sliced thinly over a bed of arcane rice, garnished with tiny translucent petals and a glaze that shimmered faintly under the light.

“I wanted something special,” Mydei said, standing beside Mireas like a gentleman serving royalty. “It’s an orexian moonfish, cold-dressed. Rare. Magical in the right light. I do hope it agrees with you.”

Mireas, oblivious, beamed. “Sounds incredible.”

Mydei turned to Anaxa and Hyacine. “I’ve also prepared your favorites. They’ll be out shortly. For now—enjoy.”

He stepped away before anyone could protest. But Hyacine swore she caught the faintest flicker of a smirk as he left.

Mireas dug in immediately.

Anaxa picked at his salad.

Hyacine didn’t touch hers. She was too busy watching Mireas like a hawk watching a swan try to drink tar.

He chewed once. Twice.

Paused.

Tilted his head slightly.

Hyacine saw it hit. The exact moment the balance of the dish revealed itself to be, not a bold culinary experiment, but an artfully veiled disaster. The glaze had just enough sweetness to drown the salt, the salt just enough sharpness to mute the citrus, and the texture of the fish was... soft in a way that felt intentional, but not edible. The kind of soft that made you question how fresh it actually was, even if you knew it must’ve been prepared just moments ago.

To the untrained eye, it was plated like perfection. To the mouth? Doom in four delicate bites.

Mireas, ever committed to the illusion of poise, swallowed.

Hyacine smiled over her wine. There it is.

“Mm,” Mireas said faintly. “Interesting.”

“Interesting how?” she asked sweetly.

“It’s… layered,” he said, voice straining. “There’s an… undertone I can’t quite place.”

“Is it despair?”

He gave her a startled look.

She leaned in. “Because it seems like it tastes like despair.”

Mireas tried another bite. Slower, this time. He chewed carefully—too carefully.

Anaxa glanced at him, brows faintly furrowed. “Is it alright?”

“Oh, yes,” Mireas lied. “It’s… bold. Very… forward.”

Hyacine could barely contain her delight. She knew this dish. Not by recipe—Mydei had never served it publicly—but by principle. It was a petty, meticulous kind of wrong. A dish designed to look expensive, taste just off enough to disorient, and just refined enough that complaining about it would make you sound like the problem.

It was genius.

It was sabotage, dressed in silk and served with a smile.

And Mireas had no idea how to react. He held out for two more bites.

Hyacine admired the commitment. Really, she did. The man had clearly trained himself for banquets and state dinners, for powdered cheeses and burnt meatball pâté, but this was a different sort of challenge. This was a dish that knew how to wear a tuxedo while punching you in the throat.

By the fourth bite, he was visibly sweating.

Anaxa, ever polite, took a small sip of wine and glanced over. “You look pale.”

Mireas reached for his water, nodding too quickly. “Just a little—heat. The spices. Stronger than expected.”

Hyacine blinked at him slowly. “It’s a cold dish.”

“Ah. Yes. Still,” he said, trying not to gag. “Very… striking.”

He pressed a napkin delicately to his lips like it might hold his soul inside.

Then came the breath hitch. The little cough. The way his pupils dilated like his body was preparing to stage a coup against him. And then—

“I, ah,” Mireas stammered, rising from his seat with all the grace of a man about to flee a crime scene. “Apologies. I think I’ll—just step outside. Some air.”

“Would you like me to—?” Anaxa began.

“No,” Mireas said too quickly. “No, please, stay. Enjoy. I’ll—be back shortly.”

He turned. Walked three steps. Then broke into a half-stumble, half-jog toward the front door.

He nearly collided with a server.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Hyacine stared at the now-vacant chair. Slowly turned her gaze to the open kitchen arch.

Mydei, leaned one shoulder lazily against the frame, met her eyes across the restaurant. His mouth barely moved, but the look he gave her was unmistakable.

Well?

She tilted her glass in mock salute.

Success.

Mydei’s eyes warmed. Just slightly.

Then he turned his attention to Anaxa. “Should I box up the rest of his dish?”

Anaxa didn’t even look up from his plate. “Let it rest in peace.”

Later that night, as the restaurant emptied and lanterns began to dim, Hyacine and Anaxa lingered for tea—Mydei having joined them after his staff had locked up and vanished into the Grove’s shadows.

“Was it really necessary?” Anaxa asked mildly, pouring hot jasmine into delicate cups.

“Deeply,” Hyacine replied.

Mydei didn’t answer. He just plucked a grape from the fruit dish between them and chewed it like he’d earned it.

Anaxa sipped his tea. “You two enjoy being cruel.”

“It’s not cruelty,” Hyacine said. “It’s culinary curation.”

“Assassination, more like.”

Mydei gave Anaxa a look. “You let him bring a suitor. I let him leave with regrets. Balance.”

“Fair,” Hyacine said brightly. “Next time, I want to help with the garnish.”

By the next morning, Mireas Velren was holding court in a marble-tiled salon, recounting his tale to anyone who would listen.

Rumors travel fast in the capital, but complaints travel faster—especially when they come from someone with pockets deeper than sense.

“That cursed man poisoned me,” Mireas said, for the third time. “Deliberately. With some horrid cursed fish. I paid a fortune and he served me sludge with flower petals on it.”

Several nobles nodded along vaguely, but one woman blinked. “You mean Mydeimos? The Mydeimos? With the hands?”

“Yes, him!” Mireas snapped. “Don’t let the smile fool you—he’s dangerous. Vindictive.”

The room fell quiet.

A young lord leaned back into his chair, one brow arched. “You’re saying the man who makes rainbow fruit for orphans hexed your dinner on purpose?”

Mireas bristled. “He did it with intent. Calculated. He made me sick.”

“Didn’t you say you had a strong stomach?” another asked innocently.

“I do!”

“Then maybe it wasn’t the dish,” someone murmured, sipping tea. “Maybe it was just you.”

That got a laugh.

By the end of the week, Mireas had stopped mentioning the incident entirely.

And Virellion? It gained six new reservations from minor nobles who were now convinced Mydei was not just a prodigy, but possibly a culinary god with a dark side.

Everyone wanted to be special enough to be served something personal.

Mydei never confirmed anything.

But when Hyacine passed by the restaurant a few days later, he nodded at her from behind the glass, sleeves rolled, ringed fingers dusted with powdered sugar.

She winked.

And if the new dish on the specials board was called Velren’s Folly, well—

That was just an inside joke.

Castorice had seen Phainon model fur coats in fifty-degree heat without breaking a sweat. She’d seen him shut down invasive interviewers with one sentence and charm billionaires into buying the same silk scarf in three colors. She had even seen him knock over a champagne tower with his elbow, then laugh so gorgeously no one noticed the floor was sticky for an hour.

But none of that compared to the sheer, bone-deep satisfaction on his face as he annotated a teenager’s love poem in red pen like it was an academic crime.

“You didn’t have to bring a pen just for this,” she said, arms crossed, watching him skewer the poem line by line.

“I didn’t bring it for this,” Phainon replied without looking up. “I keep it here. Behind the third panel in that radiator.” He tilted his chin toward the scuffed old fixture lining the hallway. “Just in case.”

She stared at him. “That’s... really specific.”

“I’ve needed it four times now.”

“Four that I’ve seen.”

He paused. “Fair.”

They were standing just outside Anaxa’s office, nestled in one of the quieter wings of the Grove’s sprawling campus. The corridors here had a kind of quiet dignity to them — tall windows with heavy curtains, creaky wooden floors, and long halls lined with dark bookshelves and too many portraits. The only sounds were the occasional shuffle of papers, a door closing far away, and the ticking of a nearby wall clock that hadn’t been reset since spring.

Next to the door sat a small lockbox with a brass plaque, neatly labeled: For inquiries, clarifications, and correspondence. Sign your name.

It was simple, unsupervised, and very, very abused.

Officially, it was meant for students who had follow-up questions about lectures or scheduling concerns — Anaxa being notoriously difficult to catch in person thanks to his workload, invitations from visiting departments, and his tendency to vanish into research for days.

Unofficially, it had become a dropbox for poorly-disguised crushes.

This morning, apparently, was no exception.

Phainon cleared his throat. “‘To gaze into your intellect is to awaken the sleeping sun within my chest—’”

“Disgusting,” Castorice muttered.

“‘—and find myself eclipsed in the brightness of your wisdom.’” He made a face. “Is he trying to date him or worship him?”

Castorice leaned against the wall and snorted. “This is giving ‘graduation speech written at 2 a.m. after crying.’”

“I could forgive that,” Phainon muttered, circling a line aggressively, “but the sun metaphor repeats three times.”

She tilted her head. “You’re taking this very personally.”

“I take bad writing very personally.”

He circled another sentence — not once, but three times. “This metaphor doesn’t even know what it wants to be. ‘The fragrance of your presence burns like starlight’? What does that mean? Is he combusting? Is he crying? Is he smelling stars?”

“To be fair,” Castorice said, “you’re talking about a nineteen-year-old with a minor coffee addiction and unmedicated infatuation.”

“That doesn’t excuse the use of ‘ephemeral nectar.’”

She barked a laugh.

Phainon switched hands and started underlining again. “Why do they all write like they’re proposing to a sculpture?”

“Because Anaxa is terrifyingly composed and talks like a walking dissertation,” she said. “People don’t know whether to flirt with him or submit a thesis.”

“He doesn’t like being flirted with.”

“No. But he also doesn’t stop it. Which is worse.”

Phainon frowned then scrawled a comment in the margin: Pick one: desire or existential dread. Not both. That’s my brand.

Castorice squinted at the parchment. The handwriting was small, elegant, a little stiff — like someone trying too hard to make their penmanship impressive. She caught the faint scent of something too sweet — probably perfume spritzed onto the paper. Gross.

She could already picture the boy who wrote this: blazer one size too small, hair combed and re-combed until it looks greasy, and a dream of seducing one of the most unreachable scholars in the Grove’s history.

“You know,” she said, “he might’ve just been earnest.”

“I don’t care,” Phainon replied without pause.

“Ever?”

“No.”

“You’re such a tyrant.”

“I’m a curator.”

“Of what? Emotional trauma?”

“Of quality.”

She rolled her eyes. “You could’ve just left it in the box.”

“I’m elevating it.” He added one last note across the top: See me after class.

Castorice stared at it.

Then stared at him.

Then laughed so hard she nearly bent double. “You’re impersonating a professor now?”

“I’m providing structured feedback.”

“That’s psychological warfare.”

Phainon began folding the letter with meticulous precision. “If they insist on writing to Professor Anaxa, they should be prepared to be peer reviewed.”

She pressed her forehead to the wall for a second. “You are so lucky he finds you charming.”

Phainon looked pleased. “I know.”

She watched him smooth the folded letter flat, slide it into his coat pocket, and then adjust his scarf like nothing had happened.

“Are you going to tell him about it?” she asked.

“No.”

“You think he’ll find out?”

He smiled. “Eventually. When Mydei hangs it behind the bar.”

Castorice blinked. “Wait—he’s framing it?”

“I’m taking it to him right now.”

They turned to the door to Anaxa’s office which was unusually slightly ajar. Anaxa rarely left it unlocked unless he was expecting someone—or expecting trouble.

Castorice stepped inside behind Phainon, the soft creak of the door announcing them. The room was cool and dimly lit, the curtains half-drawn to block out the harsh midday sun. Papers were stacked with surgical precision on the desk. Three pens were perfectly aligned beside a steaming cup of untouched tea.

And seated calmly in one of the chairs—legs crossed, hands folded, completely at ease—was Mydei.

He looked up as they entered, gaze landing on Phainon first.

“Morning,” he said softly, voice like a calm flame. “You’re late.”

Phainon didn’t look even remotely apologetic. “Anaxa’s not here yet.”

“I said you’re late,” Mydei said. “I’ve been waiting for ten minutes. I even made time in the prep schedule.”

“Didn’t know I was on it.”

“You always are.”

Phainon rolled his eyes, then walked to the opposite side of the room and casually took a seat across from Mydei, folding his coat back as he did. Castorice leaned against a bookshelf near the door, arms crossed.

“You’re both insane,” she muttered.

“Yes,” they said in unison.

Then, Mydei’s eyes flicked down to the slightly crumpled page in Phainon’s hand.

“What’s that?” he asked. His voice was mild. Curious. But Castorice had known Mydei long enough to catch the undertone—anticipation, bordering on delight.

Phainon passed the paper over wordlessly.

Mydei unfolded it slowly. The scent of whatever perfume had been used hit the air again—overripe, sugary, clinging. He read it silently for several long seconds. The room filled with the sounds of distant campus chatter and the quiet ticking of the old clock above the door.

Then Mydei looked up.

“...This,” he said, blinking once, “might actually be the worst one yet.”

Phainon didn’t smile. But the corners of his mouth curled.

“I know.”

“It starts out breathless and somehow gets wetter,” Mydei said, flipping the paper as if checking for a hidden second page of metaphors. “Also, did he quote one of Anaxa’s lectures in the middle of the second stanza?”

“Verbatim,” Phainon confirmed.

“Dear gods.”

Castorice walked over and tapped the red annotation. “He left ‘structured feedback.’”

Mydei read the marginalia. Then burst into a quiet, mirthful laugh—shoulders shaking once, his hand pressed against his mouth to keep it controlled. “‘Pick one: desire or existential dread.’ That’s criminal.”

“It’s constructive,” Phainon said.

“It’s slander with penmanship,” Mydei replied.

“You’re framing it, aren’t you?”

“Of course I’m framing it,” Mydei said, already reaching into his bag for the small sketchbook where he planned his interior layouts. “It deserves preservation. For study.”

“You’re not going to hang it anywhere obvious,” Castorice said.

“I never do.”

They didn’t stay long—Anaxa was running late, probably holed up in the archives again—and Mydei had to return for dinner service anyway. So when Phainon suggested they go to his restaurant early and share a bottle of wine before the tables filled, no one protested.

Virellion was quiet when they arrived. The pre-dinner lull. Servers prepping, soft music playing, and the last few sunlight streaks turning the floor into gold. Familiar. Luxurious. A little too beautiful for what would soon become an arena of microaggressions, passive flirting, and ill-disguised romantic sabotage.

Mydei’s private table was already set for three.

Phainon didn’t even ask for a menu. He just sat and leaned back like he owned the place, while Castorice poured the wine herself.

“You really should make a shrine for these,” she said idly, swirling the glass. “A gallery wall. ‘Past Failures of Grove Courtship.’”

“Too obvious,” Mydei said, appearing behind her with a small plate of smoked olives and thinly sliced manchego. “The fun is in making them hunt for it.”

She blinked. “You already hung it up?”

He handed the plate to Phainon and nodded toward the bar. “You won’t see it right away. You’d have to stand at the exact edge, past the gin bottles, and tilt your head left.”

“That's diabolical.”

“That's curation.”

Phainon hummed, sipping his wine. “Anaxa’s going to spot it eventually.”

“I’m counting on it.”

Castorice narrowed her eyes toward the bar. From this angle, she saw nothing—just the shelves, the hanging glasses, the clean line of liquor bottles catching the last of the sun.

But she believed him.

Somewhere, in that gleaming array of reflections and crystal, a poem was dying a slow, public death—read only by those clever or cursed enough to notice.

She raised her glass to them both.

“Alright,” she said. “To crimes of taste.”

Phainon clinked his against hers. “To red ink.”

Mydei just smiled—quiet, pleased, and not even pretending to be innocent.

It had been a lovely evening.

Tribios had spent the last hour winding down from a dreadful political brunch—endless conversation about infrastructure with men who thought metaphors were dangerous—and she’d taken refuge in one of the quieter parts of the city: the tucked-away district where the cobblestones were uneven and the wine lists long.

She wasn’t expecting to see Phainon and Mydei.

But there they were, seated at a small wrought-iron table outside Cendrée, one of those places with dim lights and ivy crawling up the windows. Phainon looked like a painting in motion—jaw sharp, sleeves rolled, coat draped on the chair behind him. Mydei sat across from him, hands calm around a coffee cup, his expression softer than usual, like someone caught in the middle of something almost tender.

A rare pairing in public. Rarer still when it looked like this.

Tribios approached with a slow smile. “You two out on a date?”

Mydei looked up. “Coincidence.”

Phainon didn’t even blink. “Fate.”

She sat anyway. “Is Anaxa late?”

“Trapped in work,” Mydei said.

Phainon smirked faintly. “Or avoiding us.”

Tribios gave them a look. “You know he’s probably at that place he likes. The one with the twenty-five page menu and the chairs that look like birdcages.”

“He wouldn’t go there without us,” Mydei said.

Which was the moment when Phainon turned his head, casually, absently, across the street.

And stopped.

Tribios followed his gaze instinctively. And froze.

There, through the tall glass windows of Arovale, bathed in warm gold light, sat Anaxa.

With someone.

The woman across from him was striking. Blonde in a sharp, elegant way. Pale blue jacket tailored within an inch of its life. The posture of a diplomat and the smile of a seductress. Her earrings glittered as she leaned forward—closer—and said something low.

Anaxa tilted his head slightly. He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t pulling away, either.

Mydei set down his glass with more force than necessary.

Phainon had gone very, very still.

Tribios blinked. “...Do either of you know who she is?”

“Lady Salis,” Mydei said. His voice was flat. “From the Eastern Trade Coalition.”

“She’s powerful,” Phainon murmured.

“She’s rich,” Mydei added.

“She’s touching his wrist,” Phainon growled.

Tribios stared. “That’s it? She touched his wrist and now we’re about to commit a felony?”

“She reserved Arovale. That place takes months to get into.”

“She’s laughing,” Mydei said under his breath.

“She’s showing teeth,” Phainon added.

“She called him Naxa just now.”

Tribios gaped. “Wait, did she really?”

“I can read lips,” Phainon hissed.

Tribios glanced back toward the warm, too-pretty interior. Lady Salis was saying something animated now, hands moving, the kind of story that people tell to make others feel seen. And there was Anaxa—stoic, thoughtful, polite.

And if you didn’t know him, you might even think he was interested.

“Okay,” Tribios said slowly. “Let’s breathe.”

“She’s offering him dessert,” Mydei said.

Phainon stood.

Tribios sighed. “Oh no.”

“She asked if he likes saffron mousse.”

“Phainon.”

“We’re going over there.”

“No, we’re—”

“He hates saffron mousse,” Mydei said darkly, rising too. “And she didn’t ask. She ordered it for him.”

Tribios looked between them.

And then, a long, slow blink. “You know what? Sure. Hell yeah.”

They entered like they owned the place.

Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just together—a trio that moved like they’d already paid the bill, tipped generously, and rewritten the menu.

Tribios smoothed her coat, the silk lining whispering against her arm, and gave the hostess a warm smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Oh, we’re just here for drinks,” she said. “Some friends are already dining.”

The hostess blinked. “I see. Do you have a—?”

“We’ll seat ourselves,” Mydei said, brushing past.

He didn’t wait for a reply.

Phainon followed, jaw set. He wasn’t wearing his usual smile. In fact, he looked like someone entering a battlefield disguised as a fine dining establishment.

Tribios offered the hostess a small, apologetic wave.

Then turned, and caught up.

They moved through the restaurant with quiet intent, dodging servers and stepping around golden floor lights like ghosts with a grudge.

And then there they were: Anaxa and Lady Salis, seated at a table tucked near the back window. Candles flickered low. Wine glasses half-full. Anaxa sat with his usual posture — straight-backed, unreadable — while Salis leaned in with a confidence that could fracture egos.

Tribios watched Phainon’s mouth tighten.

Mydei’s fingers twitched once, as if itching for a knife. Or a corkscrew.

They chose a table close — too close to be coincidence — with a perfect diagonal view of the dignitary’s profile.

Phainon sat first. He didn’t even glance toward Anaxa, but his whole body tilted just a fraction, the way wolves shift in the grass before a pounce.

Mydei remained standing. “Drinks?”

“I’ll have the house white,” Tribios said, sliding into her seat. “And a view of the chaos.”

Phainon didn’t answer. He was already watching the waitstaff.

Mydei flagged down a server and ordered something in a voice so gentle it felt pre-apologetic. Then he sat.

“Plan?” Tribios asked.

Phainon’s eyes glittered. “Subtle escalation.”

“And if subtle fails?”

Mydei glanced toward the wine rack behind the bar. “Then we escalate.”

The first blow was unintentional — or it looked unintentional.

A waiter carrying a tray of saffron mousse passed by their table just a little too close. Phainon extended his arm. Stretch. Yawn. Swipe.

The mousse wobbled. The tray tilted.

One of the delicate glass cups toppled, landing in the lap of a man two tables down — who leapt up with a shout, bumping into another waiter and sending his own drink splashing sideways.

Lady Salis turned. Just slightly.

Anaxa raised an eyebrow.

Phainon sipped his wine.

Mydei didn’t even blink.

“That,” Tribios said, “was art.”

They weren’t done.

Five minutes later, Mydei excused himself. Returned shortly with a bottle of red.

And promptly spilled it.

Right at the table beside Salis.

The stain bloomed across the white linen like a bruise. Napkins fluttered. A server rushed over. Anaxa looked up again—his gaze lingering now.

“Oops,” Mydei said flatly.

“Oops,” Tribios echoed, half-laughing.

Salis narrowed her eyes, lips pressing together. She said something to Anaxa—quiet, clipped.

And then she stood.

Approached their table.

Tribios braced.

Salis stopped beside them. Looked between them slowly. Her smile returned, but this one didn’t reach her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said politely. “Are you three acquaintances of Professor Anaxagoras?”

Phainon looked up, stone-faced. “... You could say that.”

Mydei was silent.

Tribios offered her a diplomatic smile. “We’re very… protective.”

“I noticed.” Salis’s eyes narrowed then turned towards Anaxa. “Forgive me, but I can’t help feeling your friends are trying to murder me.”

A pause.

Then, calm as a library closing bell, came Anaxa’s voice, drifting across the room.

“They get like that sometimes.”

Salis turned, startled. Anaxa had left his table and approached quietly, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.

He nodded at Tribios. “Good evening.”

She raised her glass. “Lovely restaurant.”

Phainon and Mydei remained seated, stone still.

Salis cleared her throat. “I think I’ll take my leave.”

No one stopped her.

She walked out with as much dignity as she could muster, heels sharp against the polished floor.

Anaxa watched her go.

Then turned to the three of them.

Silence.

Then, “Did you really pull the fire alarm earlier?”

“Unconfirmed,” Phainon said.

“I didn’t even touch it,” Mydei muttered.

Tribios lifted her glass again, smiling wide. “I just came for the drinks.”

After Lady Salis left, the restaurant breathed again.

Not loudly. Not with applause or drama. Just something soft—like a room unclenching, like everyone deciding they didn’t have to keep performing anymore. Conversations resumed. Servers glanced warily in their direction, unsure whether to flee or offer another wine list.

Tribios watched Anaxa step closer.

He moved like the calm in a storm’s eye: composed, deliberate, and unknowable.

He looked at them—at Phainon, at Mydei—and said nothing. Just stood there, for a moment, as if measuring the weight of what had just happened. His gaze passed over the half-spilled bottle, the empty mousse dish, the evidence of at least one extremely calculated red wine disaster.

Then he pulled out the chair beside Tribios and sat down.

She blinked.

He didn’t ask permission. He didn’t glance back at the table he’d abandoned nor did he mention Lady Salis.

Just sat, crossed one leg over the other, and said, “What are we drinking?”

There was a beat of silence.

Phainon reached for the bottle, refilled Anaxa’s glass with the elegance of a man who definitely didn’t just sabotage a foreign diplomat.

“It’s the 1943 red,” he said.

Anaxa lifted the glass to his nose, then tasted it. “Too warm.”

“Your fault for being late,” Mydei muttered.

Tribios coughed into her sleeve to hide the laugh.

Anaxa didn’t argue. He set the glass down. “Did she know?”

“Know what?” Phainon asked innocently.

“That she was being stalked,” Anaxa replied.

“Not until the mousse,” Mydei offered.

Anaxa’s mouth twitched. Not a full smile, not quite.

“I hope you realize you’ve committed at least two minor diplomatic offenses,” he said.

Mydei shrugged. “Only if she files a report.”

“She won’t,” Phainon added.

“Because?”

“Because. She’s proud, and we’re not worth it.”

That made something flicker in Anaxa’s eyes. Something Tribios couldn’t read.

But he didn’t respond for a long while.

Instead, he picked up his glass again and leaned back—just slightly, just enough for the candlelight to brush the sharp line of his cheekbone. He looked at Mydei. Then Phainon. Then Tribios.

“You three,” he said quietly, “are exhausting.”

Tribios lifted her glass. “You’re welcome.”

Phainon glanced away, jaw tight.

Mydei still wasn’t smiling.

And Anaxa, for the first time in hours, looked a little less composed. A little less untouchable.

There was a question sitting on the table between them. Not spoken, not asked. Something about why. Why they did it. Why they cared. Why it mattered so much if someone else touched his wrist.

But no one said it.

Instead, Anaxa took another sip of the too-warm wine and said, “Saffron mousse. Really?”

“It was a tactical choice,” Phainon murmured.

“She didn’t even get to taste it,” Mydei said, a touch of regret.

Tribios smirked. “Shame.”

Anaxa sighed.

And then — finally, faintly — smiled.

Just a fraction. Just enough.

Enough to make Phainon relax slightly in his chair.

Enough for Mydei’s shoulders to settle.

Enough for Tribios to think, Well, that was something.

The rain had just begun — thin, half-hearted, the kind that clung to your sleeves instead of falling properly. Castorice adjusted the collar of her coat and slowed her pace as she and Hyacine turned the corner past the Grove’s west courtyard.

“Ugh,” Hyacine muttered, wiping water off her glasses. “Remind me why we didn’t take the train?”

“You said you needed air.”

“Right. I hate myself.”

They were only a few minutes from Virellion, and the yellow-orange glow of its front windows was just beginning to peek through the trees lining the cobbled street. The scent of basil and woodsmoke drifted faintly into the damp air — comforting, familiar.

But Castorice stopped walking.

Hyacine bumped her shoulder. “What now—?”

Castorice was already looking across the street.

There, tucked into a covered patio beneath warm lantern light, was a small café — one of the quiet ones meant for private meetings, the kind of place people went when they didn’t want to be seen.

Which made it worse.

Because Anaxa was seated at a corner table, half-turned toward a woman they didn’t recognize — someone refined, younger, confident. She had her hand curled loosely around a cup of tea. He was… smiling. Not faintly. Not politely.

Laughing.

Soft and open and real.

Hyacine’s words caught halfway out of her mouth. “Oh.”

They watched him lean in just slightly as she said something. Not the way he did when trying to be polite. This was genuine. His hands weren’t clenched. His posture wasn’t stiff. He looked — for once — like he wasn’t waiting for the conversation to end.

He looked comfortable.

Hyacine exhaled through her nose. “Well.”

Castorice stared a moment longer. “That’s a new expression.”

“He’s not trying to get away,” Hyacine said. “Or redirect. Or pretend he doesn’t understand the tone.”

“Nope.”

“He’s… enjoying himself.”

Castorice muttered, “Disaster.”

They stood there a little too long. Long enough to feel like they were eavesdropping just by breathing.

From the next crosswalk down, a flash of red scarf caught Castorice’s eye.

Phainon.

He’d just come around the far corner, walking slowly, distracted. His gaze lifted toward the same café and then froze. She watched it happen — the moment he recognized Anaxa, and the woman, and the closeness.

His steps faltered.

Then he turned sharply and walked the other way without another glance.

A few beats later, a figure stepped out from a nearby bookstore doorway across the street — tall, dark-haired, waiting under the awning.

Mydei.

He wasn’t looking inside the café, but the way his eyes stayed on the soft flicker of lantern light said enough. Castorice couldn’t tell how long he’d been standing there, but she could tell that he’d seen.

And neither of them walked into that café. Not this time.

Hyacine noticed both of them. Her shoulders tightened. “Gods, no wonder it’s raining.”

Castorice finally stepped back from the edge of the sidewalk. “We should keep moving.”

Hyacine hesitated. “You go ahead.”

Castorice blinked. “What?”

“I just remembered,” Hyacine said quickly. “I left something in my office at the Grove.”

“You did not.”

“I might’ve.”

“You’re doing the awkward escape thing.”

“I’m managing my emotions like a responsible and mentally healthy adult.”

Castorice raised a brow. “By running.”

“I prefer the term withdrawing strategically.”

But the edge of her voice said it all.

Castorice didn’t argue.

They’d all just watched the same thing — Anaxa leaning into someone who wasn’t them — and no one was ready to sit in a room together afterward.

“Fine,” Castorice said. “But don’t vanish. We’re talking about this eventually.”

“I’ll be at the Grove. Probably retrieving my forgotten item. Possibly crying my eyes out.”

Castorice smiled faintly. “Right. I’ll text you if he kisses her.”

“I’m not that strong.”

They parted at the corner.

And as Castorice turned toward Virellion, the glow of the restaurant felt a little less warm than usual.

It was early evening — so warm inside, cold outside, and the place hadn’t yet filled. The lighting was low and gold and gentle, the way Mydei always kept it before the dinner rush.

Castorice turned her collar up against the mist, the edges of her coat catching faint raindrops as she made her way down the familiar street. Warm yellow light glowed through the restaurant’s windows — soft and muted, the kind of welcome you could walk toward without thinking. It had always felt like a small sanctuary. A place between worlds.

Tonight, it felt like a confession booth.

She stepped inside.

The warmth hit her first — not heat, not comfort. Just warmth, static and strange, like it was trying too hard to be inviting. The usual soft music that curled through the room during prep was missing. There were no plates clinking in the kitchen. The room sat still, like someone had turned down the volume on life itself.

Only two staff members were visible: one server wiping the corner tables, and someone rearranging wine bottles behind the glass wall of the kitchen. No customers yet. Just her.

She took her usual seat at the bar — not the one closest to the kitchen, not the one with the better view of the room. The one where she could lean back and disappear if she needed to.

And then the door opened, revealing Mydei.

He moved like steam — slow and soundless. His coat was half-damp from the rain, hair curling slightly where the drizzle had touched it. He passed her without a glance, the hem of his sleeves dragging raindrops onto the polished bar.

No nod, no greeting, not even the usual quiet, “Evening.”

Just stillness.

He stepped behind the bar with the practiced familiarity of someone who built the space himself, and in a way, he had. This was his. All of it. The lighting, the layout, the quiet grace of the place — but tonight, even he didn’t seem to belong in it.

He picked up a cloth, turned a glass, and began wiping it slowly. Too slowly. Not with the ease of habit, but with the absent rhythm of someone needing to do something, anything, just to keep his hands from trembling.

Castorice didn’t interrupt, and merely watched as he folded unused napkins, checked the spice shelf that hadn’t needed restocking, opened the staff tablet, and clicked a few buttons.

And then, quiet as breath, said to the air:

“We’re closed tonight. Paid.”

There was no announcement. No warning.

Just a decision, spoken like the end of a sentence.

The staff didn’t argue. They’d seen this look before. Mydei didn’t get angry. He didn’t raise his voice. But sometimes he got… final. And when he did, you didn’t question him.

They began packing up, wordless. Someone in the back turned off the prep station’s lights, but the dining area’s light and air-conditioning remained on.

Castorice leaned one elbow against the bar and watched him.

He still hadn’t looked at her.

The front door creaked again.

And this time, the presence hit like a perfume commercial walking into grief.

Phainon.

He was wrapped in a red scarf too stylish for this weather, coat draped across his shoulders with the ease of someone who had assistants to dress him. His hair was perfect and his skin luminous. He looked like a man with nowhere better to be, but in the most beautiful way possible.

He smiled when he walked in. “Darling,” he spoke with practiced charm, turning to Mydei, “you always get here first.”

But his eyes were dead.

Mydei didn’t look up.

Phainon’s shoes echoed against the tile — too loud for a place this quiet — as he approached the bar. He slid onto the stool like he’d done it a hundred times, and maybe he had. Here, where silence always met him like an old friend.

He sat.

Paused.

Then dropped the act.

The model vanished like smoke.

All the charm fell from his shoulders in one breath.

And he didn’t look at Castorice when he said, low and dry: “Whiskey.”

She turned her head slightly. “You don’t drink whiskey.”

“I do now.”

Mydei didn’t answer. He just reached for the bottle. A quiet click of the stopper, the gentle pour, the clink of glass against the bar.

Phainon took it and downed half.

He didn’t cough. Didn’t flinch.

Just stared ahead, as if bracing for something only he could feel coming.

Castorice exhaled slowly. “It’s not poison, you know.”

“I know.”

“You don’t even like the taste.”

“I’m not drinking for taste.”

That landed heavier than she expected.

Mydei finally looked up from behind the counter. For a moment, his expression shifted — not surprise, just recognition. Like watching someone reach the exact same page in a book you’d been stuck on for weeks.

Neither of them said anything.

The room settled into a new kind of quiet — denser, sharper. Not absence. Just pain made visible.

Soon, the bell above the door gave a soft, weary chime.

Hyacine entered with the kind of energy people usually reserved for breaking bad news — a smile stitched just a little too tight, a flicker of forced light in her eyes. Her shoes tracked faint raindrops across the tile, her scarf half-undone as she scanned the quiet room.

“Good evening,” she offered, in a voice too bright for the way the air felt. “How are my favorite catastrophes doing?”

No one answered.

The silence didn’t just fall — it had already been sitting there, waiting for her.

Castorice turned just enough to look at her. Phainon didn’t even flinch. And Mydei, behind the counter, didn’t stop wiping the same spot on the bar.

Hyacine stood at the entrance for a second longer, hand still gripping her bag strap. Then she sighed — not disappointed, just resigned — and stepped fully into the room. The door clicked shut behind her like punctuation.

“Well,” she muttered under her breath. “That’s a record.”

She slipped out of her coat with a little more care than usual, draping it over the back of a barstool like she was easing herself into enemy territory. Then she slid onto the seat between Phainon and Castorice, resting her forearms gently on the counter.

“I’ll have juice,” she said, voice quiet this time. “Please.”

Mydei moved instantly. Not just because she’d asked, but because doing something, anything, was better than this silence.

He turned, opened the fridge with steady hands, poured orange juice into a chilled glass like it was sacred. He slid it across the counter with the kind of care he usually reserved for dessert plates.

“Thank you,” Hyacine murmured, and took a sip.

For a moment, the clink of the glass settling back onto the counter was the only sound in the room.

Castorice watched her set it down with precision — like she was stalling.

And then she turned, just enough to glance sideways at Phainon. “Whiskey?”

His head tilted, eyes still trained on the half-empty glass in front of him.

She asked again, gently this time. “You don’t drink whiskey.”

He didn’t reply at first. His jaw shifted.

“I do now.”

Hyacine didn’t react. She took another sip of her juice and leaned her elbows onto the counter.

“What happened?”

Phainon exhaled slowly, like a tire losing pressure. “I saw him.”

“That’s not new.”

“He was smiling.”

Hyacine’s brow furrowed slightly. “You’ve made him smile before.”

He shook his head. “Not like that.”

That gave Mydei pause.

For a fraction of a second, his cloth froze against the edge of the glass he was cleaning.

Phainon wasn’t done. His voice was softer now — not vulnerable, but frayed. “He wasn’t trying. He was just… happy.”

No one said anything for a moment.

Then, voice quieter than her usual lectures, Hyacine asked, “And that broke you?”

Phainon’s lip curled, but not into a smile. “It wasn’t us.”

There was no anger, just ache.

The kind of ache you only carry when you realize you’ve been waiting for something you never said aloud — and someone else got there first.

Mydei set the glass down. He didn’t look at them. “I thought he was waiting too.”

Hyacine blinked. “For what?”

“For one of us to say it.”

Castorice exhaled. Her voice cut in, dry and level. “You both thought he’d stay unclaimed out of principle?”

“I thought…” Phainon trailed off.

Mydei finished it for him. “I thought we had more time.”

Hyacine swirled her glass slowly, watching the juice cling to the sides. “So you waited. And now you’re both upset that someone didn’t.”

“No,” Mydei said.

But it was a lie.

Castorice tilted her head. “If you wanted him, why didn’t you say anything?”

“He had too much already,” Phainon murmured. “Too many eyes on him, too many things expected. If I added myself to that—”

“That was his choice to make,” Castorice interrupted. “Not yours.”

Phainon stared at his glass.

Hyacine turned to Mydei. “You?”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

The fact that he’d closed the restaurant hours early, in complete silence, said more than words.

They sat with it — the weight of not saying something soon enough. The air was thick, like it had swallowed every declaration they never made and now refused to return them.

Mydei busied himself wiping the countertop again.

Phainon poured himself a little more whiskey but didn’t drink it.

Castorice folded her arms across the bar and looked between them, voice almost conversational. “You know what’s funny?”

No one asked what.

She said it anyway. “You’re both staring like someone stole him. But no one did. He just… moved forward, while you stood still.”

That was the cruel part.

Anaxa hadn’t chosen someone over them. He had just chosen.

And it hadn’t been them.

Hyacine rubbed her temples. “We could’ve done something.”

“We still could,” Castorice said.

Mydei’s voice came low. “No.”

They all looked at him.

“No more interruptions,” he said, not quite to them. “No more sabotage. No more notes in the box. No more dishes made wrong. No more whiskey. No more hiding behind what we pretend is care.”

Phainon’s jaw tightened.

Hyacine just asked, “Then what?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

And somehow that was worse.

Because Mydei always knew.

Castorice sighed. Not dramatically. Just… exhaustedly.

The kind of sigh that sounded like it had been kept inside for a long time, like maybe it was the last thing keeping her ribs from caving in.

Hyacine tilted her glass, letting the last of the juice wash across her tongue before setting it down with a soft clink.

She looked between the two men — Mydei, still gripping the cloth in a way that made her worry it might tear, and Phainon, who was silent in the worst way: the kind of quiet that comes after you realize the performance is over and you’re still standing in costume, alone.

“Well,” she began, softly, “since we’re saying things we’re not supposed to say—”

Mydei didn’t move, Phainon didn’t blink, and Castorice didn’t interrupt.

“Do either of you remember,” Hyacine continued, voice steady now, “how Anaxa never made time for anyone outside the Grove?”

She didn’t wait for an answer.

“Except for you two.”

Mydei’s hands went still.

Phainon finally looked up.

Hyacine’s tone remained calm. “You both chalked it up to coincidence. Convenience. But it wasn’t.”

“Hyacine,” Mydei warned, voice low.

She ignored it. “You know how many invitations Anaxa gets in a month? I used to help manage his correspondence. Some days he had thirty unopened letters by noon. He never replied to most. But if you asked him to dinner—”

Phainon flinched.

Hyacine pressed on. “—he made time.”

“I didn’t ask often,” Phainon murmured.

“You didn’t need to,” she said. “He always noticed when you were in town. Always cleared his evening. Always ended up somewhere close.”

Mydei didn’t say anything.

So Castorice added, “And you. He came here three times a week. And don’t you dare pretend that it was about the food.”

Mydei’s jaw clenched.

“It’s a twenty-minute walk from the Grove,” Castorice went on, voice clipped now. “He passed three other cafés on the way. All of them are closer. All of them are quieter. But he came here. Every time. And waited. Even when it was busy. Even when it was raining.”

Hyacine folded her arms. “I saw him once, standing in the entry during a thunderstorm. Your host offered him a table inside, but he refused. Said he’d wait for you to finish your prep.”

“I didn’t know that,” Mydei muttered.

“He made sure you didn’t.”

They let that sit and let it sting, because it was supposed to.

Hyacine stared into her empty glass. “You think he’s hard to read. Aloof. Above it all. But he’s not. He was never hard to read. He just… needed someone willing to actually see.”

Phainon was still staring at his hands. “He’s quiet about his wants.”

“No,” Castorice said. “He was loud in ways you both ignored.”

Mydei finally broke the silence.

His voice was rougher now. “He hated when people called him by his name.”

Phainon blinked.

Mydei’s gaze didn’t lift. “He corrected them. Every time. Said it was improper. Said it was disrespectful.”

Hyacine nodded. “He made that clear.”

“He never corrected me,” Phainon said quietly.

Castorice looked up. “That’s because he didn’t want to.”

Phainon opened his mouth. Closed it.

Mydei leaned back from the bar and turned toward the shelves behind him, as if looking anywhere else might stop the words from burning.

Hyacine’s voice softened. “He let you in.”

“You had a name for him no one else got to use,” Castorice added. “You had a place in his schedule no one else could touch. And what did either of you do?”

Mydei turned slowly. “We… waited.”

Hyacine nodded. “And now he’s not waiting anymore.”

It wasn’t a judgment.

It was just the truth.

The room fell quiet again.

But this time, it wasn’t paralyzing.

This silence was different — not the kind you drowns you, but the kind that comes when you finally let the wound breathe.

“I should’ve said something,” Phainon muttered.

“You should’ve,” Castorice agreed.

“I thought…” He paused. “I thought if I didn’t name it, it wouldn’t break.”

“And you?” Hyacine asked, looking at Mydei.

He didn’t respond right away.

Then, finally, “I thought he deserved someone better.”

“That’s not your choice,” Hyacine said.

“It was mine.”

“And now?”

Mydei’s voice didn’t shake. But it was quiet. “I still think he does.”

That silenced them.

Not because they disagreed — but because it was honest. Mydei had always been the steady one. The grounded one. But here he was, all rough edges and worn-out restraint, admitting what none of them could carry: that maybe love wasn’t always something you got to earn. Sometimes it was something you had to choose.

Even if you didn’t feel worthy of it.

Castorice pushed her empty glass away. “You know what’s the worst part?”

No one answered.

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand.

“I think Anaxa was willing to wait forever. He just needed a sign.”

“... And we never gave him one,” Phainon said.

Hyacine leaned back, arms crossing. “So the question is… what now?”

No one had an answer.

And outside, the rain finally stopped.

The Grove of Epiphany never truly quieted — not even at dusk. Lanterns flickered to life along the stone corridors, their light catching the worn gilding of archways and mosaic floors. Laughter and debates still echoed faintly down the halls, but the further one walked into the Scholar’s Wing, the more reverent it became. Tonight, the quiet had a purpose.

Anaxa was scheduled to give a lecture.

He did so rarely, only when prompted by the internal board, and only as required by his post as one of the Grove’s Seven Sages. His subjects were never sensational; his tone was never warm. And yet, the seats filled every time.

The topic on the official flyer was simple:

“Continuity and Disjunction: Emerging Patterns in Post-Imperial Historiography.”

Dry, by most accounts, but the atrium still buzzed with quiet anticipation.

Some of the excitement came from Anaxa himself — elusive, famously brilliant, and painfully handsome in the kind of way that made students forget to take notes. The rest came from the entourage seated near the back, where four high-profile guests had drawn more whispered attention than the lecture itself.

Phainon — former top student of the Grove, now international model and media darling, was seated like he didn’t belong in a single row of chairs, all long limbs and impeccable posture.

Beside him was Mydei, ever silent, dressed plainly by his standards — still looking like something carved from myth. The owner of Virellion needed no introduction.

Flanking the two, Castorice, fashion icon in her own right, leaned back with an amused sort of grace, and Hyacine, internationally recognized doctor and known former assistant to Anaxa, tapped her fingers against her program with the impatience of someone who had been through this before.

Together, they looked like something out of a forgotten story — all power, poise, and quiet tension.

The attention didn’t faze any of them. It never did.

But Phainon did lean over once to murmur something low to Mydei, who gave no outward response except for the briefest twitch at the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t uncommon for them to arrive together. It was becoming less rare for them to leave that way, too.

They were not defined, but they were something.

And tonight, they were all here for him.

When Anaxa stepped out onto the stage, the atmosphere in the hall shifted immediately. He wore Grove robes, charcoal-gray with high silver trim. His posture was unhurried. His hands, steady. His hair pulled half-back in a way that felt ceremonial but practical. There were no papers in front of him — only a slim notebook, left closed.

He began without a preamble.

“The concept of disjunction in post-imperial records,” he said, “is often treated as incidental. A lapse in recordkeeping. A political void. A failure of narrative control. But I propose that it is deliberate. And that the act of erasure is not only meaningful, but self-defining.”

The audience leaned in.

Anaxa’s voice was not loud, but clear. Measured. Like each word had already been translated from thought to articulation without needing revision.

Hyacine tilted her head a little. Mydei remained still. Phainon, though he appeared relaxed, was frowning — just slightly — as if trying to parse something unspoken beneath the surface of Anaxa’s phrasing.

“This is his research,” Hyacine murmured, mostly for Castorice. “The one he refused to publish last quarter. He said it wasn’t ready.”

Castorice arched an eyebrow. “Then why share it now?”

No one answered.

And so, the lecture continued.

There was nothing overtly strange about it. Anaxa cited texts, disputed interpretations, and offered a new framework for considering the intentional silences left by former empires. His language was sharp but never unkind. His cadence deliberate, but never indulgent. He commanded the room without theatrics.

Still, something was different.

Phainon shifted once in his seat. Then again.

Mydei hadn’t moved at all.

Toward the end, Anaxa paused.

He looked down — not at his notes, but at his hands. Then lifted his gaze again to the audience.

His tone changed, just barely.

“Gaps in record are often treated as voids. But I would argue they are not hollow. They are filled with the weight of what went unsaid. With intention. With hesitation.”

Something in Phainon’s jaw went tight.

“They contain choices,” Anaxa said, “that were never made.”

There was no transition. No formal end.

Just one last remark, offered with no change in posture.

“I will be in the northern cloister garden until midnight, should anyone wish to challenge what wasn’t said here.”

He closed his notebook, and left. Not a bow. Not a dismissal. Not even a final word to the Grove moderators waiting by the side doors.

Just the sound of quiet footsteps, fading into stone.

The hall didn’t stir, not even after a full minute passed.

Then someone sneezed. A student somewhere on the left asked, too loudly, “Was that the end?” Another shushed them. A few others began to murmur with uncertainty.

Still, no one moved.

Except for Phainon, who stood up — suddenly, but not urgently. He didn’t look at anyone.

Mydei was beside him a second later.

Neither had spoken since Anaxa left.

Then, finally, Castorice rose to her feet as well — but not before reaching across to gently nudge Phainon’s wrist, just once.

“Well,” she said.

She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to.

The look she gave them said everything. Something between tired fondness and pointed expectation. As if she were not just nudging Phainon, but the universe.

Hyacine stood next.

She stretched her arms overhead, catlike, and gave a sigh that was far too theatrical for the atmosphere. “You know,” she drawled, “for a man who spends most of his time avoiding people, he’s oddly good at drawing crowds.”

Phainon didn’t reply. Mydei didn’t even blink.

But they both turned — and they both walked.

They exited the hall without another word, flanked by two women who had seen far too many versions of this same story. The hush of the atrium trailed behind them like a closing curtain.

The Grove’s northern cloister garden was quieter than it had any right to be.

The air felt suspended, held between breath and speech — not quite waiting, not quite ready. The lanterns cast uneven light through the columns, catching on wet leaves and ivy-covered stone. Everything smelled faintly of honeysuckle and rain-hung marble.

They walked without talking.

Mydei slightly ahead. Phainon just behind.

No one tried to stop them. No one asked why they were there. By now, the Grove was used to their presence — and to the fact that when either of them moved with purpose, no one interrupted.

They turned a final corner, and there he was.

Anaxa.

Standing at the far edge of the garden, framed by old stone and silver light. His robes were untouched. His posture was the same as it had been on stage — composed, sharp-edged, unreadable.

But he wasn’t performing anymore.

He wasn’t teaching.

He was just… waiting.

A small table was set to the side of him, three chairs around it, a lantern burning low. A tray sat at the center, with a worn teapot and three simple porcelain cups — the kind used in Grove faculty lounges, not personal gatherings. The kettle seemed to have been here long before they arrived.

He didn’t look up when they stepped into the garden.

But he spoke, quietly, “you’re late.”

Phainon halted, just a step behind Mydei.

He didn’t reply. Not immediately.

Neither did Mydei.

They crossed the courtyard slowly, one after the other, until they reached the table. The sound of gravel underfoot was the only thing breaking the silence.

Mydei sat first. Careful. Deliberate. His hands rested, empty, on the edge of the table.

Phainon followed a breath later, more hesitant, but not uncertain.

Anaxa didn’t sit.

Not yet.

He didn’t turn around when he said, “If you’re going to tell me anything, do it now.”

Phainon folded his arms. “So who was she?”

Anaxa blinked, half-glancing back. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“The girl,” Mydei clarified. “The one at the café.”

“Ah.”

He finally turned, expression unreadable, then leaned back against the bench’s curved edge like he was already tired of this conversation before it even began. His hand rose to rest against his temple — not defensive, just deeply unimpressed.

“She’s my sister’s friend,” he said plainly. “We were forced to catch up.”

“Catch up,” Phainon repeated.

“Yes,” Anaxa replied. “You know, the ancient art of being guilted into socialization under the guise of familial duty.”

Mydei still looked unconvinced. “She touched your wrist.”

“She was trying to stop me from paying the bill. Which I still paid, for the record.”

Phainon narrowed his eyes. “You were smiling.”

“I’m capable of social niceties,” Anaxa replied flatly. “Sometimes I even laugh.”

Mydei raised a brow. “You leaned in.”

Anaxa stared at them both.

Then, slowly, he covered his mouth with one hand.

And laughed.

Not mockingly — just lightly, dryly, like someone finally giving up on reasoning with two ghosts who’d haunted themselves.

“Oh, for Cerces’ sake,” he muttered. “You thought I was on a date.”

Mydei looked mildly offended. “You looked like you were.”

“Because I had half a glass of wine and was seated in public?”

“You smiled,” Phainon insisted, still somehow soft.

“It’s been known to happen.”

“She was looking at you like she was in love,” Mydei said.

Anaxa sighed. “Yes. And I spent most of the evening deflecting her questions about my ‘ideal partner’ while trying not to name either of you out loud.”

Silence.

Then—

“Wait, what?” Phainon said, voice higher than usual.

Anaxa stepped away from the bench and walked to a nearby stone basin, scooping a bit of water to rinse his hands — a habit more than necessity.

“She asked if I was seeing anyone. I said no. She asked if I wanted to. I said…” He paused. “Something vaguely poetic that probably gave me away.”

Mydei’s voice was almost too quiet. “What did you say?”

“I said I wasn’t sure,” Anaxa answered. “But that the idea of having two people in your life who know you better than you’d like — and love you anyway — sounded like the kind of trouble I wouldn’t mind.”

Another pause. Another breath of wind curling through the archway.

“I was tipsy,” he added quickly. “Very slightly. But enough.”

Phainon blinked like he couldn’t believe this was happening now, of all times.

Mydei didn’t even breathe.

Anaxa glanced back toward them, then leaned against the stone pillar, expression unreadable. “She asked if I was in love. I said I thought I was. She said she hoped they were worth it. I said they were infuriating and dramatic and reckless and brilliant. And then we talked about weather patterns for twenty minutes so I wouldn’t say anything else embarrassing.”

“…You were talking about us?” Mydei asked, barely audible.

Anaxa didn’t even flinch. “Obviously. I don’t make a habit of pining over strangers.”

Phainon exhaled like he’d finally let go of a tension that had been twisting in his ribs for weeks.

Mydei’s fingers curled slightly, like they weren’t sure whether to reach out or retreat.

The garden was still for a moment, and the tension came back with Anaxa’s unresolved portion of their confrontation.

He looked at them both, eyes cold only in precision — the kind of gaze that weighed truth against expectation, and didn’t flinch.

Then, without any premise, he said, “I’m not waiting anymore.”

The words landed like a stone in still water.

Phainon didn’t move. He didn’t breathe.

Mydei, across from him, finally blinked.

Anaxa reached for the kettle — already warm — and poured them each a cup of tea with the same mechanical precision he used when annotating research. Each cup was placed neatly in front of them. Each motion was precise.

Still, he didn’t pour one for himself.

Then, just a little softer, “but I’m not leaving either.”

The tea steamed between them.

No one drank.

The lantern’s glow flickered against the rim of porcelain.

Phainon looked down at his hands, jaw tight. Mydei remained perfectly still, the only sign of tension in the subtle curve of his fingers near the cup.

Anaxa sat last.

Not in either of the other chairs — but slightly off-center, across the both of them.

He laced his fingers together, elbows resting on the table.

“If you want to speak,” he said, “now would be the time.”

Neither did.

Yet.

The quiet pressed in — not suffocating, but thick. Dense with things unsaid.

Phainon’s voice, when it came, was low, “you left in the middle of your own lecture.”

Anaxa didn’t smile. But there was something like amusement in his eyes.

“It was finished.”

“Your audience didn’t know that.”

“They were never the audience.”

A pause.

Then, gently — like someone testing the edge of something sharp — Mydei asked, “and who was?”

Anaxa looked at him, and held his gaze.

“You already know.”

It was a fact, not a question.

Phainon’s hand tightened around the cup, still untouched. He looked away first. Mydei didn’t.

The air between the three of them trembled with history — years of sidelong glances, half-formed words, missed chances, and too much silence. And here it was again, but different.

Closer.

Stripped bare.

Anaxa didn’t lean in.

He just sat there. Present. Unflinching.

“There are things,” he said carefully, “that I didn’t want to say without knowing you’d hear them. Not just… listen. Not just nod. Hear them.”

Neither of them moved.

Mydei’s gaze didn’t shift. He sat with the steadiness of someone used to being misunderstood — the kind of stillness you earned from letting others speak first, even when you knew they wouldn’t understand.

Phainon, on the other hand, was far from still.

His fingers tapped once, twice, against the porcelain rim of the cup. Then stopped. He exhaled through his nose. Looked away. Looked back.

“We were listening,” he said finally, his voice quieter than usual. “We always have.”

Anaxa tilted his head just a fraction. “No,” he said. “You were watching. Waiting. But not listening.”

“We didn’t know what you wanted.”

“You never asked.”

That shut him up.

Phainon leaned back slightly in his chair, rubbing his fingers together like he was trying to work out a knot he couldn’t reach. He looked to Mydei, but Mydei was still focused on Anaxa — not confrontational, but waiting. Always waiting.

Anaxa glanced between them. When he spoke again, it wasn’t sharp. It was careful. He always was, when it mattered.

“I’m tired of being waited on like I’m a storm.”

Phainon blinked. “What?”

“You act like getting too close means I’ll pass through and ruin everything.”

Anaxa’s tone didn’t change, but something in his posture softened — just a little. The drop of a shoulder. A shallower breath.

“I won’t. But I might leave if you keep treating me like I will.”

Mydei’s voice, when it came, was barely audible, “then what do you want?”

Anaxa looked at him. The words didn’t come easily — not because they weren’t there, but because they felt too old, too worn down by the weight of never being spoken.

“I want you to stop protecting yourself from me,” he said. “Both of you.”

Phainon let out a quiet, incredulous laugh. “You’re one to talk.”

“Yes,” Anaxa agreed, without flinching. “I am.”

That surprised them both.

Anaxa leaned back in his chair, finally lifting his own teacup — not to drink, but to hold. His fingers curled around it slowly, like the warmth might help him stay grounded.

“I’ve spent so long pretending I don’t notice. The looks. The… gestures. The way you take turns showing up like you’re on rotation. Like there’s some unspoken rule that if one of you hovers close enough, I’ll pick you.”

Phainon flushed, eyes narrowing slightly.

Anaxa continued before he could interrupt.

“I never asked you to fight over me.”

“We weren’t—” Phainon started.

“You definitely were,” Mydei said.

It was quiet. Not accusatory, just plain truth.

Phainon closed his mouth, then opened it again, “yes, but not in the way that you’re thinking, professor!”

Mydei only gave him a frown, and Anaxa promptly ignored him.

“I’m not a prize,” Anaxa said. “And I’m not going to be a secret either.”

Another pause.

Then, softly, “I’ve always known you weren’t just friends. I didn’t mind. I still don’t.”

Neither of them answered.

Mydei looked down at his cup. Then lifted it to his lips. Then set it back down, untouched.

Phainon swallowed, hard.

“So what are we supposed to do?” he asked, voice low. “Name it? Say it out loud like that fixes anything?”

“Yes,” Anaxa said.

That made Phainon laugh again — bitter, this time.

But it wasn’t derisive. It sounded like surrender.

“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered.

“That’s not news.”

Phainon rubbed a hand over his face. “Do you have any idea how hard it’s been trying not to love you?”

Anaxa blinked.

Just once.

Then set his cup down, very gently.

“Then don’t try so hard,” he said.

There was a long silence.

Then Mydei spoke, so quiet it almost got lost in the wind:

“Is it… too late?”

He didn’t say what for.

He didn’t have to.

Anaxa looked at him, and the answer was clear in the way he did it — no hesitation, no guard, just that rare softness he kept buried under dry words and quiet exits.

“No,” he said. “But it will be, if we keep pretending we don’t know what this is.”

Phainon let his head drop back against the chair, staring at the stars. “I didn’t think you’d ever say it.”

“I didn’t think you’d ever stop waiting for me to.”

Another silence followed, but this time, it wasn’t tense.

It was full — of heat, of history, of the almosts they’d been orbiting for years. No declarations. No grand gestures.

Just the weight of three people who finally saw each other clearly, and chose to stay.

Mydei reached forward — not for Anaxa’s hand, not even for Phainon’s — but for the kettle. He poured a second round of tea without asking.

Phainon chuckled under his breath and accepted it, his fingers brushing Mydei’s as he took the cup.

Anaxa didn’t smile, but he didn’t look away, either.

And this time, he poured one for himself.

Hyacine had read every single footnote of Anaxa’s newest paper, and yet somehow, sitting here in the Grove’s Grand Atrium, it felt brand new.

The second lecture was never meant to happen — the first, held weeks ago under the late summer sun, was a one-time engagement requested by the university’s advisory board. But apparently, one of the nation’s most well-regarded scholars had challenged the paper in print. Ridiculous, really. The woman barely understood the methodology. Still, the Grove loved nothing more than a little scholarly spectacle, and so here they all were again.

Hyacine sat near the front, one row above the reserved section where press and invited figures mingled. Mydei and Phainon were impossible to miss — Phainon in his unbothered slouch and silent designer drama, Mydei in a crisp vest and dark rolled sleeves, hands folded calmly like he hadn’t nearly poisoned a man for blatantly flirting with Anaxa in front of him three weeks ago.

They hadn’t spoken much since that night in the restaurant. Not the way they used to. Something had shifted — not shattered, not broken, just… moved. Or maybe stilled. There was a peace to them now that felt both deliberate and earned.

And Anaxa?

Anaxa was magnificent.

He stood before a crowd of nearly three hundred with the ease of someone addressing a room of three. Composed but impassioned, fingers tracing the edges of his lecture notes like punctuation marks. His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. Every word landed clean.

And every now and then, as he turned to the projection or adjusted his glasses, his gaze flicked to the side of the room.

To them.

To his seat, Hyacine realized — the one Phainon always took. And then once more, to the center, where Mydei sat with his arms crossed, nodding every so often like he already knew what was coming.

The suitor arrived halfway through.

Hyacine didn’t even need to turn around. You could smell the perfume before you saw her.

Lady Visette — socialite, heir to a major pharmaceutical guild, widely rumored to be some statesman’s secret daughter, and once voted Most Eligible in one of the less reputable aristocrat magazines. She was stunning, of course. Clever. Confident. The sort of woman your parents begged you to marry if she so much as looked at you.

She had also been very, very persistent.

Anaxa had turned her down publicly, privately, politely, and without a single pause in tone. She, in return, had sent imported wine, custom-bound editions of his publications, handwritten letters, and on one horrifying occasion, a watercolor painting of the Grove's library with the caption: “Where my heart remains, awaiting your return.”

Hyacine had watched Phainon crumple it like a napkin.

And Mydei? Mydei had sent back the wine unopened — with a little note that said: “He’s allergic to olives. Do your research next time.”

Visette had not spoken to Mydei since, nor has she ever dined at Virellion again. Mydei would say it’s not a loss, and truthfully, it wasn’t.

Today, though, something was different.

No intercepted letters. No passive-aggressive refusals. No “misplaced” gift boxes rerouted to the student archives.

Which meant—

“... She thinks it’s fair game now,” Hyacine murmured aloud.

Phainon didn’t flinch. Neither did Mydei.

They just sat there.

Hyacine watched Visette take her seat — not far from Anaxa’s line of sight — and watched her wave. Anaxa gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, the kind he gave to dozens of colleagues. Then he returned to his notes, eyes drifting right past her.

The lecture ended twenty minutes later to thunderous applause.

People stood. Cameras flashed. Someone in the back shouted for a photo, and Anaxa did what he always did — quietly deflected and stepped off the stage through the side exit before he could be cornered. Phainon and Mydei didn’t follow. Neither did Hyacine.

But Lady Visette did.

She slipped out fast, heels clicking with unbothered confidence.

Hyacine counted the beats in her head.

One... Two... Three...

Then turned to the two men still seated like they were waiting for a second show.

“So,” she said lightly, “not going to stop her this time?”

Phainon didn’t answer. Mydei didn’t even look away from the now-empty podium.

Hyacine didn’t know what she expected, watching Visette follow Anaxa past the velvet-curtain door, but she knew one thing: it wouldn’t end well.

She’d seen Anaxa annoyed. She’d seen him exhausted. She’d even seen him, once or twice, genuinely entertained. But never—never—had she seen him waver.

And if Visette thought his silence meant softness, she was in for something worse than dismissal: the truth.

They were still seated when Visette re-emerged.

It didn’t take long.

Less than five minutes, maybe. Long enough for a goodbye. Long enough to hear the word no, maybe twice, maybe three times, in a tone that could chill bone.

She looked… composed.

Too composed.

Her eyes were dry, but her mouth was pinched, and she was walking like someone who wasn’t sure whether to keep her back straight or run. She didn’t even glance at the trio still watching from the rows. Her heels struck sharp, fast, almost brittle across the marble tiles as she passed through the atrium, down the gilded staircase, and out the Grove's grand doors.

Phainon exhaled through his nose. He hadn’t moved the entire time.

Mydei stirred first, lifting a hand to adjust his cuff — an old habit, something to do when his face betrayed too much.

Hyacine tilted her head toward them. “Still not going to say anything?”

Mydei didn’t look away from the door. “She wouldn’t have listened.”

“She never does,” Phainon added quietly.

“And yet, you two used to set fire to the world the moment someone tried giving him a pen.”

That got a smile from Phainon — faint, but real.

“That was before,” he said.

Hyacine raised a brow. “Before what?”

Mydei gave her a look, calm and unhurried, but there was something warm beneath it. Steady. Certain. Like a match that had been burning all this time, waiting for the wind to quiet.

“Before we didn’t need to,” he said.

Hyacine blinked. The shift was so subtle she almost missed it — like realizing a door had been locked all along… and someone had quietly handed over the key.

She leaned back, arms crossed. “You’re not going to explain that, are you?”

“No,” Phainon said, smiling.

Later that evening, the whispers came.

Hyacine overheard them in the faculty lounge, in the student quad, even at Virellion while waiting for tea.

“Did you hear about Visette?”

“She said Professor Anaxa led her on—”

“No way. He turned her down, like, eight times.”

“She must’ve imagined the rest.”

Some were sympathetic. Most weren’t. Anaxa had always been careful, polite, and distant. Never once had he given her reason to believe there was more — not by action, not by omission.

And the gifts? The letters? The watercolor?

Everyone remembered. No one forgot how he’d responded.

So when Visette said, “He made me think I had a chance,” the Grove’s reaction was silence — then, gently, disbelief.

It wasn’t cruelty.

It was just… Anaxa.

You didn’t imagine things about him. He didn’t let you.

The restaurant was closed for the evening, but Hyacine had been waved in anyway. A little nod from the maître d’, a quiet gesture toward the bar. She was expected.

Only two others sat there.

Phainon was in black again, hair swept just enough to seem styled but not fussy. Mydei stood behind the counter in rolled sleeves, drying a glass without much interest in finishing the job. No one was speaking.

Hyacine approached slowly. No dramatic entrance. No greeting.

She just took her seat — the one between them, as always — and set her bag down with a soft thud.

“I saw the look on her face,” she said. “Before she left.”

Phainon didn’t turn. “She needed to hear it.”

“She did,” Mydei said, quieter.

Hyacine glanced between the two of them, feeling again the same air she’d felt back in the lecture hall — the kind that didn’t buzz or crackle or hum, but settled. Like heat after rain. Like something finally decided.

She sipped from the glass Mydei slid in front of her. Peach. Not too sweet. Just familiar enough to remind her she’d had it before.

“So what changed?” she asked, setting the glass down. “You let her get through this time. She gave him another gift. You didn’t intercept the letters. You didn’t poison her wine.”

A pause.

Phainon smirked faintly. “Tempting, though.”

Hyacine leaned back on the barstool. “Well?”

Still, they didn’t look at her.

Mydei was rinsing the glass now. The same one. Phainon was tracing the edge of a coaster with one finger.

Finally, Mydei said, almost offhanded, “Why would we?”

She tilted her head. “Why would you what?”

“Be jealous.”

Hyacine blinked. “You’re kidding.”

He met her eyes for the first time. Calm. Gentle. Certain.

“Why would we?” he repeated. “He’s already ours.”

She didn’t respond right away.

Didn’t need to.

Because just as she turned toward Phainon, the man smiled — not the one for cameras or fans, but the private one. The one he only pulled out when he didn’t think anyone was watching.

He spoke like it was the end of a conversation, not the start of one.

“We’re not chasing him anymore.”

The bar was quiet for a while after that. No declarations. No explanations. Just three people and the space that had always held them.

Hyacine picked up her drink again. Took a small, slow sip.

She smiled.

And this time, so did both of them.