Archive of Our Own

The Eternal Page was a strange place. The world’s gentle hues, illuminated under a sun capable of blazing without scorching as it gave rise to the sweet scents of fresh grass and blossoms adrift on the cool breeze, blurred the edges of their newfound unreality. It was no different than the most beautiful of dreams that Phainon had long lost the right to even wish for, let alone claim for himself. 

The moment he aimed his blade at the very companions he had sworn his life to and their dreams he had taken upon his shoulders, he had ceded the right to stand beside them under the pale light of the dawn. In a tranquil world where they could finally indulge in the rest they all deserved, a tomorrow that he had never been able to make rise but had finally arrived with the shooting star fallen from the vast skies beyond, he alone was unfit for peace. 

He would have been more than content to let his meager existence fade away with the monster that had found a vessel in his hatred. The scorching rage that had burned through his chest with the same searing fury as the innumerable Coreflames, entombed by his contempt so deep within him there was nothing else at his core, was all too hospitable to another being made for Destruction and little else. When he had closed his eyes and the charred remains of his body disintegrated like the dull ashes left behind by disaster, an inferno that had sweltered out of control and scorched everything to the ground with it, the last thing he felt before nothingness was relief. 

Then he awoke. In a land where time stood still when, for lifetime after lifetime, it had moved too slowly as he awaited salvation and yet too swiftly when he could only bide his time against the inevitable. A land where people he had condemned to death walked and smiled and laughed, unburdened by the rising black tide coming to consume them, mad gods striking them down, nor a black-robed swordsman with a corroded blade effaced in golden blood. 

A land where those same people embraced a body that no longer burned at every blink and shuddering breath. In the myriad of places his skin had once been scarred and cracked open—too hot to hold itself together, when the blistering heat of several million suns tore through the thin skin of a vessel made to be whittled down to kindling and set ablaze with the sole purpose of continuing to burn for as long as it took to reach the end of his journey—it had been reforged anew. Pale, unscarred and capable of touch. Of sensation. Of returning an embrace without scalding whoever had dared approach a living star on the cusp of burning out and so desperate to keep burning. 

He couldn’t understand how any of them were capable of looking him in the eye and seeing the Deliverer they had entrusted their hopes, their dreams, their wishes to again and again in vain. As the one who had tormented them, slain them and climbed the mountain of their corpses, only to never reach the peak where he could see the sun over the horizon, he didn’t deserve their smiles in place of scorn. 

“Raise your arms.” 

Obediently, Phainon lifted them and a phantom touch ghosted across his ribs before a swathe of fabric fell to graze along his side. Out the corner of his eye, neatly tied blond tresses bobbed. Past experience warned him not to move his head, let alone his body, but he still blinked away when she straightened. Guilty. Always. 

Aglaea breathed the sigh of a task completed and stepped back. “Relax your arms.” 

He slowly lowered them back to his sides, careful not to displace any of the pins holding the fabric in place. Once he was stood more like a person than a marble statue, Aglaea circled him to the sound of sandals against smooth stone and scrutinised him in the shrewd silence of a citizen standing in the jury, seeking out every damning drop of spilled blood. 

Of course, it wasn’t Phainon standing before the court. It was the interplay of colour, the folds of fabric, and the flattering drape that was under scrutiny. Yet his skin prickled down his nape and every step echoed off the empty room through his ears. That golden blade of hers, a delicate edge that made it all the more lethal, was nowhere in sight. She had no need for it anymore. 

But it would never be far from her grasp when she could always rely on her golden threads. It was no blade but a single thought could take the pins and needles temporarily affixing the fabric in place and send them clean through him in an assault as deadly as the maelstrom of a thousand cuts from her sword. 

Aglaea stopped in front of them and he was too tall for them to stand eye-to-eye, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was gazing up at her lofty figure. Perhaps he always would be. The only time he had done otherwise was when her body, numerous times over, had been left afloat in radiant waters to grow cold. 

Her lips curled into a smile; aloof if not for the crease to her verdant green eyes. “That’s enough. Thank you, Phainon.” 

Garmentmakers lined the walls like soldiers stood to attention, waiting to be deployed, but it was Aglaea’s own hands that plucked the pins to allow the swathes of fabric to fall into her awaiting arms. This sort of thing used to be handled by the garmentmakers—the drab measurements, the minor fitting adjustments, the fretting backwards and forwards in pursuit of perfection—because Aglaea simply hadn’t the time to worry about a fingerwidth of linen. The designs had been her own and she took pride in them, but now she could take her time with them too. 

He couldn’t fathom why it was always him she called back to her tailor shop. 

Although the Eternal Page wasn’t real according to the Nameless and those Geniuses who had come to Amphoreus’ aid, it was as real to its inhabitants as the old Amphoreus. Time was immovable, both dusk and dawn, day and night, sharing a single sky depending on where he looked, but people still slept, ate, bathed and dressed themselves. Aglaea’s were still the finest garments to be found, and an entire world full of people would clear their schedule and rush to the doorstep of her new tailor shop at a moment’s notice. 

Yet the place was devoid of others. Their only company was the daylight of a bright afternoon shining through the open window shutters to illuminate her work: a lovely white chiton embroidered with the same gold embellishing his blue chlamys. The colours were hardly different than the outfit she had designed for him in the very first cycle and every lifetime that came after. The garments befitting his status, she had claimed, as a hero. To be gazed upon. To be idealised and worshipped and loved as the symbol of a reachable tomorrow. 

But if he dared mention aloud that the colours were indiscernible from the ones he used to wear, such blasphemy may spur her to finally claim his head. After all, it used to be her threads that would sense the world around and permit her to see through them. Now, it was her own eyes that watched the light play off the rich dyes. 

Those same eyes that intently gazed upon him even once he had redressed in his own chiton. However, she didn’t sate her curiosity with a spool of golden thread and instead motioned a Garmentmaker to life. It drifted closer, as dignified as its puppeteer, and placed a green box enclosed by golden ribbon into her awaiting hand. 

“Here,” she said with a drop of her wrist, extending the box towards him. “Oat cookies. They were made by my own hand but I have no need for so many. Do tell me your thoughts on them.” 

“Thank you, Aglaea,” he said before thinking, even if his body wasn’t so quick to move to accept. “I’m sure Cipher would greatly appreciate them. Or even Little Ica, if you’re keen to get them off your hands.” 

She stared, thoughts indiscernible beyond the flick of her hand at him once again. “They’re a gift. Cipher has already received hers, as has Hyacine and Ica.” 

His objections ruthlessly stricken down, he had little choice but to accept. “Ah. Then, thank you.” 

The ribbon crinkled but the contents didn’t slide when he took the box in hand. It was heavier than expected; it must have been packed full. The weight sat dead in his pocket as he crossed the busy heart of the Eternal Page, bypassing the fountain where memories flowed like water waiting for someone to have a taste, for the outskirts where golden sheafs sprung from the earth. 

If he went any further, all he would find were flowers and wheat bending in the gentle winds, just like the distant Sea of Flowers and West Wind that had captivated the hearts and minds of Amphoreans yet to cross the River of Souls. 

Out here, there was no sea to be found, yet he so often heard waves lapping below the swaying wheat, or smelled salt in the air that carried the heavy tones of the earth to elevate the sweetness of spring blossoms. It was quieter out here, serene, in contrast to the thriving city behind him. While the majority of Amphoreans had clustered together at the heart of the Eternal Page, some people chose to continue their leisurely life beyond the shadows of high walls. 

Two silhouettes were stark amongst the tall grain and Phainon watched from the field’s edge as they drew nearer until a bark sounded. The sheafs rustled as they parted around an invisible force cutting a line straight towards him. There was something in there, rushing right at him, but he stood his ground. 

A white blur leapt from the wheat right into his open arms. Soft and heavy in his hands. Warm and wet where a long tongue laved at his cheek. 

Phainon laughed and turned his head away before that tongue could end up in his mouth. “Snowy. Yes, I’m here, Snowy.” He lunged for Phainon’s mouth again as though this was a game and Phainon was playing hard to get. “I’m here. You can stop with the licking.”

He lowered Snowy to the ground and he yipped his objections, already rearing back onto his hind legs with his front paws in the air. He begged for attention with wide eyes, perked ears and a wagging tail, as though he were still a puppy, before Phainon could even begin to crouch beside him. It was no different from a long-awaited reunion after an eternity had passed since they saw each other, except their last meeting was only a few days ago. 

The moment his knees touched the ground, Snowy launched himself into Phainon’s lap and began his assault on Phainon’s nose anew. He sank his hands into the thick fur that always had to be trimmed short in the summer or he panted at all hours of the day and night too hot to offer a reprieve. Then he ferociously rubbed at Snowy’s fur riddled with stray golden picked up from his time roaming the fields. 

He swiftly moved his hands back and forth, sometimes petting down the fur and other times scratching down to the skin, hands gliding from place to place so quickly Snowy didn't have a chance to miss them before they had returned. The playfully rough treatment pacified him and he sat back, paws poised on Phainon’s thighs and head thrown back so Phainon could pet down his throat and chest. 

A rustle different from the wind pulled his gaze from Snowy’s content face to the indistinct shadows beneath Snowy’s frantic tail and, finally, their owners. 

Cheeks flush and hairs fallen loose from hours in the mild sunshine and breeze of the bountiful fields cast in a spring afternoon, Audata smiled down at him. “Phainon, you’re home.”

For the briefest moment, it hurt to hear those words from her. It was as fleeting as the image of smoke and darkness rising from the earth to subsume the sun shining brilliantly on the sea and the golden fields, the acrid scent of blood and rot, the feel of a hilt in his hand. A rusty rake. Phainon’s hand. A corroded sword. Khaslana’s hand. It all blended together into one inevitability: a village reduced to ash. The funeral pyre for all those he killed with something like mercy before the black tide or the raging fires could bring their lives to a long and painful end. 

His mother had been no exception. 

The tightness in his chest eased just enough to breathe as he cupped Snowy’s face and rubbed big circles into his jaw while he stared with big, dark eyes that couldn’t understand but, devoid of judgement, offered comfort regardless. “Did you enjoy your walk?”

Hieronymus chuckled. “It’s strange to see so much wheat and none of it harvested. But it’s nice in its own way.” 

No toil. No hardship. No pain. Another gift of the Eternal Page: the most bountiful yield anyone had ever seen, and yet there was no need to harvest it. There was no hunger, need to eat and no cause to starve. Food was abundant and consumed for pleasure rather than survival. 

“We were just on our way back. Will you be joining us for lunch?” Audata asked with gentle eyes that yearned for him to say yes so the three of them could sit around the table of a place she called home, her own and Phainon’s, as though he was still a small boy the same way they were still a young couple. They had never lived long enough to be anything else. 

“I was thinking of going for a walk myself,” he said with a small, apologetic smile as he straightened off the ground. “And Snowy, of course. We can see what lies beyond the pomegranate trees we found last time. Right, Snowy?”

Snowy cocked his head, ears bouncing. Phainon pointed across the wheat fields and his tail wagged with renewed vigour. 

Audata’s smile didn’t falter at the rejection. She only reached for him, upwards because he was so much taller than either of them, and pinched his cheek. The skin didn’t flake and peel beneath her fingers but she may as well have taken a piece of him with her when she pulled away. “Then come home the next time you’re free. I’ll prepare your favourite dishes.”

Hieronymus nodded and clasped Phainon’s shoulder. ”We haven’t had a chance to sit around our new table yet.”

“I will,” Phainon promised and it clung to his tongue. Ashy. ”Oh. Here.” From his pocket, he revealed the green box wrapped in gold ribbon and handed it to Audata. “They’re oat cookies from Aglaea.”

She turned the box over in her hands, thoroughly inspecting like a trick would suddenly reveal itself. “The Goldweaver? We’ll have to send an appropriate gift as thanks.”

“There’s no need to trouble yourself,” he assured her. “Just let me know what you think and I’ll pass it on to her. That will be enough.”

Audata’s lips thinned with consternation but Hieronymus laid his hand atop the box, their fingertips brushed together. “Phainon knows Lady Aglaea much better than we do.”

“I suppose,” she relented with a sigh. “It would be nice to learn more about the woman who cared for our son.” She turned to Phainon. “I’m sure she’s busy but maybe she could find time to have dinner with us.”

Phainon laughed with a shake of his head. “If you extended the invitation, I’m certain she would drop everything to meet you.”

Not merely in passing introductions and the brief exchange, while Phainon stood awkwardly between them, of compliments regarding his upbringing. Besides, time used to be the largest contraint—thousands of years was not enough in the race between the Flame-chase and the black tide. Millions of cycles was not enough to accrue the power to defy fate and set Amphoreus free—but, in the Eternal Page, time was a passing concern as ephemeral as the clouds on the breeze. All concerns were rendered mundane when tomorrow was indistinguishable from today. 

Audata perked up. “We’ll have to be well-prepared. What types of dishes does she like? Does she have any sensitivities that we should avoid? What flavour brews does she prefer?”

Sensing the oncoming interrogation, Phainon hurried to stop her from being swept up in the momentum and anxieties of being the perfect host, “I’ll write it all down for you and pass it on to you another day.”

”That’s a much better idea,” Hieronymus agreed with a knowing and relieved look. 

Audata determinedly nodded but ran a reassuring hand down Phainon’s arm. “There’s no need for you to rush yourself. Take your time. There must be lots of more important things for you to be doing.”

Only a few weeks had passed since they arrived in this place between simulation and reality. Everything and everyone was real as they had always been yet the world beyond was still beyond their grasp, even as it came ever closer.

Important things? Not really. There was remarkably little for him to do and, whenever small problems arose, the others conspired to resolve them before he could get involved. He couldn't recall how he had spent the past few weeks creeping closer to a few months. It had passed in a softly coloured, sweetly scented haze clashing against grim visions of the past seared into him, mind and body. 

The words rolled off his numb tongue anyway: ”All right.”

His mother stood on her tiptoes, the scent of wheat warmed by the undertones of the hearth clinging to her hair and tickling his nose, to press a kiss with soft but slightly dry lips against his cheek. His father also had to rise to leave a kiss against his temple, hand rough where he cupped Phainon’s head from lifetimes of wielding a hoe and scythe. They bid farewell to Snowy with quiet coos and vigorous pats, and then walked in the direction of their home. 

It was just him and Snowy at his side as they roamed the wheat fields. They weren’t endless. Somewhere beyond the curve of the horizon where the people had sprung forth and chosen to settle, trees sprouted from the earth in place of wheat. It was a trek that Phainon had made once in the past when living amongst the sights and sounds, smells and sensations, of so many had become too much for him to bear. 

He was certain that the forest had to end somewhere too but he had no way of knowing what lay beyond. Mountains? The sea? A starless void where the page ended and would never be turned until the book left open upon their existence was emptied and allowed to close? It would be a long journey, although not an arduous one. He was used to pressing onwards with direction and no destination. 

But for now he had a companion at his side who wasn’t accustomed to such lengthy travels. Snowy’s shorter legs had already drained his bounds of energy but he continued without whining. It was up to Phainon to find a nice spot in the shade of the treeline and invite him to rest with a pat to the space next to him. Snowy immediately flopped to the ground and caught his breath with a few quick pants, then squirmed onto his back for belly rubs that Phainon happily gave until the rhythmic scratches lulled Snowy to sleep for a well deserved nap. 

While he waited for Snowy to recoup his energy, Phainon slouched against the tree at his back, gazing out across the sky above the wheat fields. In the distance, the clear blue blended into dusky pinks and stretched into a dark night sky speckled with stars. Unlike the pavilion swirled through with worlds outside of their own, this view housed the constellations that had been painted along Amphoreus’ firmament. It was uncanny to witness time unfurled like an immovable painting, yet oddly captivating. 

If only the sky was as whole as the wheat fields it presided over, it would almost be a return to his youth. Him an unfettered young boy with nothing but a stick for a sword and a shining ideal to guide him, and Snowy his ever faithful companion that would follow him to the ends of the world. To death itself. 

”Big-little Snowy! And Little-big Snowy too!” a small voice shouted over the whispering wheat. 

Phainon lurched upright and Snowy followed suit, rolling onto his front, as a red and white streak flew towards them. A thousand people called him by that unusual nickname—a product of hearing those from Aedes Elysiae refer to him as Little Snowy and his trusty white shadow as Big Snowy, in remembrance of the time Snowy had spent as the larger one between them—so he had an idea of who to expect even before small wings fluttered to a halt and a young girl dropped the small distance from the air to the ground.

Trianne’s cheeks were almost as red as her hair, tossed askew by the rushing winds, but she set a hand on her waist and pointed right at him with the other. Her grin bordered on manic. “Here you are!”

He tilted his head and pointed at himself. “You were looking for me?”

”Mhmm,” she hummed as she frantically patted her fringe back into place over one eye and smoothed her braid down. ”We both were.”

As one of Tribbios’ fragments, hearing the word we where others would use I was completely normal. It was the reference to both that threw Phainon off while Trianne fiddled with her flower-shaped clips to secure them back in place, but he peered over her shoulder and lost the need to ask. 

Wading through fields the same crisp gold as his hair, it was Mydei who had accompanied Trianne so far from the city. The sight alone—of his loose chiton that exposed even more of his chest than usual, while his bejewelled necklace dared his gaze to drift low and remain there, and his trailing red chlamys the shade of blood but also the trees that had once been the companions of a bountiful autumn harvest—made Phainon’s chest stir.

Mydei joined them beneath the branches and Phainon very forcefully averted his gaze from Mydei’s legs that, between his chiton and strapped sandals, were bare. He wore no greaves when there was no need to uphold the image of a warrior prince ready to charge into battle at a moment’s notice. Of course, he had seen Mydei deprived of armour he adorned himself in like jewellery numerous times, mostly in the bathhouse where the metal risked rusting, but it was still unusual to see him roaming in such casual attire. 

When he met Mydei’s eye, his lip quirked into that small smile only distinguishable from his ordinary stoicism by those who knew to search for the subtle softening of his features far harsher than his demeanour. 

It was almost a smirk but edged on the side of too fond, even as he drawled, “Found you.”

Trianne dropped to the ground beside him and Snowy propped his head against Phainon’s thigh to watch curiously as she dusted off the messenger bag slung across her body. A similar bag was hitched over Mydei’s shoulder but his weightlessly  swayed as he stood behind Trianne and leaned his side against one of the tree trunks. 

“How did you know where to find me?”

With Mydei’s arms crossed, his slender fingers curled around his muscled forearms and cut pale lines across his brilliant tattoos. He was barehanded. “We happened upon Audata and Hieronymus. They informed us you were out.”

Trianne fiddled with the clasp on her messenger bag but her fingers were unsteady, face still flushed and body strung with the leftover excitement of her swift flight. A small frustrated noise escaped her as the clasp slipped through her harried hands. 

“Don’t rush,” Mydei said smoothly before Phainon could offer similar advice. 

“But it’ll get cold,” Trianne sulked. 

“The container is born from Anaxa’s mind and Chartonus’ hands, it could never fail to surpass expectations.”

Phainon glanced between the two of them but Trianne was too preoccupied to meet his eye and, although Mydei stared back at him, he couldn’t decipher the meaning behind their exchange. His only reassurance was that it couldn’t possibly be bad news when Mydei’s small smile was visible; in his eyes more than his mouth but Phainon mapped the creased edges and the angle of his lids up to the eyebrow Mydei rose in silent question at what could have him so enraptured. Phainon smiled back and shook his head.

“Ah ha! Here it is!” Trianne sang and whipped her hands out from her bag. 

Grasped between them was a metal box and Trianne held it out towards him with bright eyes and an even brighter grin. The lid reflected Phainon’s distorted face back at him. 

He didn't hesitate to take it from her. The broiling beginnings of the black tide coming to ravage this world as it had done their last could have been contained within and he still would have readily accepted it as a gift. Anything to avoid dampening her spirits. 

It was warm. Not a scorching heat that charred his palms and peeled the skin away but the warmth from a cup of heated wine meant to loosen the fingers on a harsh winter’s day before it was time to set out from the house. 

“Thank you,” he sincerely showed his appreciation for anything she had the heart to give him. She giggled, chest puffing, with pride. Again, he looked to Mydei but all he found was his softened expression that threatened to melt Phainon along with it. He cleared his throat and scratched the back of his head. “What is it?”

”Open it,” she insisted and shoved her folded hands into her lap, as though she needed to prevent herself from following her own command. 

The lid stuck a little but he rested the box in his lap and shook the two halves apart while Snowy’s head bobbed up, nose in the air and eyes transfixed on the item. 

The smell hit him first. Even before he understood what the colours contained within the bland steel box, he knew it was food. Tuna grilled over coals and drizzled with a delectable sauce, flecked with an array of herbs and nestled inside a bed of cabbage and spinach speckled with sliced carrots. Two boiled eggs had been cut into halves and laid beside two pieces of unleavened bread, protected from the sauce by the vegetable layers between them. It still steamed and the scent wafted upwards into Phainon’s nose. 

“De helped get rid of the bones,” Trianne finally burst, unable to contain her sheer excitement any longer as she jumped to her knees to point. “And he told us how to make the sauce. He also cut the herbs really thin because he said it won’t taste right otherwise. But we kneaded the dough and boiled the eggs and arranged the vegetables.”

So Trianne and Mydei had cooked this together. 

“For me?” Phainon asked, voice steadier than his head spinning with too many thoughts that meant nothing at all. 

Trianne vigorously bobbed her head, throwing one of her flower headpieces into disarray again. “Everyone else had their special deliveries already. But Audy said tuna is your favourite.”

As slow as his mind threw that new information into the thoughts clamouring for his attention in an absolute blur stretched from one wall of his skull to the other, he nodded. “I didn’t realise you were so close with Audata.”

Trianne hummed and scratched her cheek. “Well, we aren’t. But that’s what De told us she said.”

Over Trianne’s shoulder, Mydei didn’t hide from Phainon’s scrutiny. He returned it with an unreadable expression that made Phainon all too conscious of his own. What face was he making? What was Trianne seeing in response to the thoughtful gift she was so proud of?

He smiled and felt the corners crack like his skin was dryly flaking away. That was impossible. This Era Nova had taken the broken body of Khaslana, the black-cloaked traitor intent on destroying everything before his body could submit to the Destruction blazing in his hollowed out chest, and restored it to the body of Phainon yet to ascend and take the world upon his shoulders. 

But, all too often, he ached. 

This happened to be one of them: thoughts too light to catch where they seeped through a crack in his skull that had been stitched shut again, but his head so heavy he couldn’t move it away from Trianne’s gleeful, expectant grin. His fingers deadened around the metal box suddenly too scalding to handle and his tongue was just as numb as he tried to scrape off an answer. The right words.

But white darted past him and it took an extra thunderous beat of his heart before he realised those were two fluffy ears and a fluffy head sticking out of the box. 

“Little-big Snowy!” Trianne shrieked and threw herself at him. 

That knocked him from his stupor. “S-Snowy!” 

Trianne’s arms clung to Snowy’s neck like she could somehow force Snowy’s head away when he could flop on top of her and pin her down with little effort. His head came up, mouth and nose smeared with the evidence of his crimes, yet he had the audacity to stare with big, dark, innocent eyes as Phainon wrenched the box away. 

The vegetables were half gone, a few crumbs of the broken egg yolk remained, the bread had fallen out the container in the chaos, and the tuna was completely missing. 

Trianne wailed into his fluffy neck. “Little-big Snowy! How could you? That was for Big-little Snowy!”

Satisfied with his meal, Snowy licked his lips. 

Even Mydei was stunned and blinked at the near empty container. “Your dog… shares your appetite.”

”And my discipline," Phainon dryly finished Mydei’s remark for him, earning a small huff of laughter in response. He set the box aside and Snowy’s head lowered to sniff it but a single disapproving noise and he sat to attention instead, Trianne still sulking on his back. “I’m sorry, Trianne. Snowy should know better.”

Her head tipped back just enough for her eyes to peek through Snowy’s long fur. “It’s fine,” she, clearly, lied. “We can make it again for you. Right, De?” 

Mydei hummed his agreement. “Any time you like.”

Trianne’s smile was visible in the crease of her eyes but her head abruptly plunged back into Snowy’s fur. Her little legs kicked. “But this time turned out really well too.”

“Your skills have grown. Next time may be just as good, if not better,” Mydei said with that unwavering confidence. 

It took another moment for the reassurances to land and her head to pop back up again. “You think so?”

Mydei nodded. “You’re a fast learner.”

Trianne’s head dipped back down. Her wings fluttered with agitation, quick and then abating. Slowly, her arms unravelled from around Snowy’s neck and she let herself slip to the ground where she landed on her two feet, hands propped on her hips and a beaming smile. 

“That’s right,” she declared with a little giggle. “We can make you and everyone else an even better meal.”

”I…” His mouth moved clumsily, belonging to someone other than him. Whoever he was. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Trianne straightened up in a burst of energy, and then swivelled with a stern look at Snowy. “You’ll get some too. So don’t be so greedy next time,” she chided despite the hand rubbed between his ears.

Hearing none of it, Snowy panted and leaned into the head scratches. Phainon watched as Snowy rolled onto his back to demand more and Trianne crouched down to rub her hands all over his stomach while his tail alternated between slapping the ground and her foot. 

He spared a glance over his shoulder, seeking out a shared bemusement and fondness, and how lovely both appeared upon Mydei’s prominent features, only to find Mydei’s indecipherable expression had returned. It was almost as puzzled as it was puzzling. A scrutinising gaze that gave nothing away except that Mydei was looking, searching, for something and believed Phainon held the answer. 

Phainon turned back around and ignored the prickle at the base of his neck, nape tingling like bronze gauntlets were dragging upwards, cutting down to the bone so Mydei might be able to grasp Phainon’s scattered thoughts and parse through them. 

Or perhaps he could already see the truth, even if not the full depths of it: Phainon was the problem. 

Time had no meaning in the Eternal Page but everyone sought to find meaning in the lives they had been gifted anew, whether through strengthening the bonds that had suffered under the stress and constraints of the world’s fast approaching end, learning new skills and improving upon old ones, or indulging in old entertainments that took on different meanings to those who had died and been reborn many times over and now stood beneath a sky waiting to open. 

So they couldn’t remain along the forest’s edge forever, despite how Snowy curled up and fell fast asleep after his long walk, hearty meal and loving pets. Phainon had another appointment to keep and hefted Snowy into his arms for the journey back. While Trianne flew across the wheat fields like sea birds skimmed the water’s surface, Phainon and Mydei walked the plains in quiet conversation barely audible over the rustling wheat parting at their feet. 

Beside him was a Mydei devoid of his armour and weapons, practically languishing in the fields of Phainon’s childhood. He had wanted that for Mydei, for his wish of a more peaceful era to be fulfilled, breaking an endless cycle of Strife and reaching the long awaited end of the needless sacrifice and grief, but he had always thought it too selfish for Mydei’s wish to look like this.

While the two of them had the same event scheduled for later, Trianne sped off alone and Mydei accompanied him to leave Snowy with Audata and Hieronymus before they returned to the city. The streets were thrumming with people all shuffling in the same direction. 

If this were Okhema then their combined knowledge of the city would have let them breakaway from the crowd into the twisting alleyways that unravelled a path to their destination. Unfortunately the city of the Eternal Page had no long history of buildings built and demolished, springing up near overnight and crammed together, interspersed with areas that had been built to a plan. They resigned themselves to the slow shamble and many small collisions as they all made their way down the same wide open streets towards the theatre. 

Since arriving here, Castorice had returned to writing. However, without the need to distance herself from others she had, tentatively and after many conversations of the stress-inducing benefits and disadvantages, emerged from her anonymity. She was no longer the mysterious playwright but the beloved teacher of the audience and actors. 

At the very front of the layered structure, the best seats were reserved for Castorice, Polyxia and the Chrysos Heirs. Not all of Tribios’ fragments could attend—they would need a hundred theatres to hold all of them—but Trinnon waved at him as he took his seat between Mydei and Hyacine. The motion of him returning the gesture drew Tribios’ eye and she smiled at him too with a small greeting nod before the chorus shuffled from the theatre’s wings, marking the play’s beginning. 

One of the old, common critiques leveled against Castorice’s writing had been the human relationships. The characters were often vivid and their interactions anywhere from heartwarming to gutwrenching. While audiences marvelled, laughed at and cried for the world and characters she crafted, they also struggled to enter the world alongside those characters for reasons they often failed to articulate. 

The most poignant attempt had once circulated through more intellectually minded audience members, fellow writers and poets, academics who studied plays rather than simply enjoy them: how can the audience see themselves alongside the characters when the writer themselves is so distant from them? 

He didn’t ask whether Castorice had seen nor heard the criticism for herself and she refrained from mentioning it either. Instead, he had treated her to home-cooked meals until the critics had moved onto the next big conversation topic. 

It was less of a problem now that Castorice had recovered her memories of a cycle before their own, one where she lived alongside her parents, sister, and friends without fearing that her touch would send their souls adrift. And now, once again, she could walk unburdened by the Hand of Shadow. That closeness she had been denied for so long wove itself into the threads of her newer works, crafting grand tapestries previously believed, by Castorice most of all, to be impossible, 

“A toast,” Polyxia said and raised her chalice with a smile that belonged under the sun rather than the depths of the earth where sorrowful flowers bloomed, “to my talented, hardworking sister.”

Castorice’s hand jumped to block her face, already reddened after standing on stage to receive the adoration of her audience and only flushing faster under the praise of her friends and family as she glanced away. “Polyxia…” 

She hummed a laugh. “If anyone can praise you, surely it should be your family.” 

Castorice cast a look more embarrassed than vexed and acquiesced with a sigh. She lowered her hand, falling back into the habit of folding them in front of her to grasp for some comfort and composure. But she blinked from her nerves. “Lo… Phainon,” she corrected her slip of the tongue. “Allow me to get you a drink.”

The eyes of his friends swivelled to him and he stiffened up at the sudden attention, first instinctual and then befuddled when they realised his hand was empty of the chalices the rest of them had partaken in once the celebration had moved to the nearby banquet hall. Even Trinnon cupped one in both hands, harbouring unfermented grade juice rather than wine, for her to fiddle with as she questioningly gazed up at him.

“No need to trouble yourself, Castorice,” he hurried to tell her before she could scurry away to fetch him a drink like a servant rather than the centre of their celebration. “I’m not in the mood. That’s all.”

Her feet, half-turned away, righted themselves. Her brows pinched and her lips pursed into a mild frown. “If you’re certain.”

His smile held under her scrutiny, eyes that harboured the unknownable depths of waters that carried the living away yet never, not for the slightest moment, lost its warmth. No matter how wretched the person that stood before her; something so monstrous it had long forfeited the right to be called human and be given the most gracious death of one. 

It was enough to reassure her and her perplexed expression eased into a slight smile. “Then, I hope you will still raise a chalice in spirit. The original script did receive your heavy input. Let us celebrate this achievement together.”

She was never one for deceptions but his mind still caught on the veracity of her claim only to abruptly recall that yes, Phainon had given some feedback on this play. For one Phainon it had been the first script Castorice had so tentatively shared with him after he found her writing in a hidden corner of the Grove and she had lacked the temerity to lie. He had been apologetic at forcing her to share her work before she was ready, and then honoured when she assured him that she had wanted someone to confide in for some time but was bereft of the courage to ask. 

His flawless memory could recall it. The same as a playwright distant from the characters acting upon a stage within the mind’s eye. 

The conversation had flowed back to its original course as the others offered their compliments but Phainon couldn't bring himself to relax against the column he had managed to so leisurely lean against just moments ago. 

The sun had shone that day. It was the height of summer but the Grove’s abundant shade provided ample relief for the students and teachers who could claim a place for themselves. The time of year ensured the cicadas sang through day and night but the scholars had long equated the noise with Cerces and Mnestia, who may happen to bless a keen enough ear with knowledge; the alternative was being driven even further into madness by the unending drone. The cicadas, the leaves in the faint breeze never strong nor cold enough to cool the perspiration dampening skin and fabric, a growing friendship yet to be sullied by the wheels of Fate spinning forwards and backwards but endlessly spinning because the tapestry of Amphoreus needed to be woven and unwoven for as how ever long he must endure—

An elbow bumped his ribs. “Here.”

A sweet fragrance swirled beneath his nose as the disturbed pomegranate juice swirled within its chalice and settled again, capturing his reflection in the surface held still by Mydei’s hand around the cup. 

“What’s this?” Phainon asked dumbly. They both knew what it was, and that Phainon was truly making a different inquiry. 

“We can share,” Mydei answered, unbothered. 

His earlier attempt to quell Castorice’s concerns had suggested that he wished to avoid a drunken stupor. That wouldn't be an issue when it was Mydei’s preferred juice offered to him. 

“I’ll have to decline such generosity.” Phainon chuckled and it clung to his teeth, sticky like juice but devoid of sweetness. “I’m not thirsty. You should enjoy it.”

That inscrutable expression from earlier now returned to Mydei’s face and the chalice lingered longer than usual before Mydei allowed the rejection to pass, unquestioning and unforceful as he reclaimed his drink. Rather than sip away at it, he swirled his chalice and watched the liquid ripple and sway while Phainon rejoined the conversation, laughing and commenting in rhythm, and ignored Mydei’s inscrutable sidelong glances.

After a few of the Eternal Page’s nebulous notion of days had passed, a message that his new garments were ready for collection recalled him to Aglaea’s tailor shop. He donned them for any final checks but neither of them doubted Aglaea’s craftsmanship even as she adjusted the drape of the chiton where it was cinched around his waist by an embroidered belt, carrying the same stylised floral patterns that Aglaea favoured on her own clothes. The plants reached up towards the golden sun clasped to his shoulder where a blue chlamys flowed like she had scissored through the sky to adorn him in. 

If the vision of it wasn’t enough to convey the quality, the feel of it against bare skin confirmed it. Even towards the world’s end, Aglaea used the highest quality items she could procure. But the vast majority of her clothes intended for him were designed for daily wear and tear or combat; although beautifully embellished, they were practical above all. This was unbelievably soft. Sturdy, but for a spirited celebration rather than battle, and lightly scented as an added touch. 

She brushed at his shoulder but there was no possibility of stray threads or, worse still, dust in Aglaea’s establishment. “How were the oat cookies?”

“The sweetness was perfectly balanced with the crisp oats,” he replied without hesitation. “The size was perfect for finding satisfaction in just the one.”

He couldn't attest to it himself but those were some of the many profuse compliments Audata and Hieronymus had given. 

She didn’t look up from her work. “I see.” 

She stepped back and lifted an elegant hand to her chin. There were no golden threads constraining him, aglow with the power to slice through skin as easily as the finest silk, but her gaze was just as perspicacious without them humming truth and knowledge beneath her fingertips. She had never needed them to see into people’s hearts, if there was such a thing for her to peer into now. 

It was difficult to believe she was surveying her craftsmanship and nothing more. He had experienced that cutting gaze too many times to delude himself, whether as a refugee desperate to assure her of his value as he pledged his life to the Flame-chase or an enemy with the gaping hole through his chest where a naive hero’s heart reduced itself to cinders.

“I have a number of new designs to experiment with. How is a week’s time for you?” 

The abrupt end to their conversation wasn’t reassuring—whether she had or hadn’t witnessed whatever she was searching for, Aglaea was not one to give up. Despite her elegant demeanour and poise of a politician, she was as ruthless as the Imperator she had tumultuously inherited her mantle from and the solitary lion she so often worked alongside if she scented blood in the air—but to draw attention to that would invite questions in turn. So Phainon smiled and agreed, just as he acquiesced to her insistence that he wear the new garments on his way out. 

He was hardly two streets away from Aglaea’s shop before a shrill chirp garnered his attention. It was too close, approaching too fast, for him to turn and brace himself but his attempt ensured he was off-balance when a weight barrelled into his back. He had suffered far worse mishaps on the battlefield and was quick to regain his balance after a couple stumbles only for something to snag his chiton and yank him backwards. 

“Ica?” he cried out his surprise, already knowing the identity of the culprit before he glanced over his shoulder. 

Black, beady eyes blinked back at him as their little wings flapped hard to keep themselves aloft. Between their teeth was Phainon’s chiton. 

“I really wouldn’t recommend that,” he stressed through the neckline hauled back and digging into his throat. 

Aglaea’s garments were robust but they were also completely new. The last thing he needed was Ica deciding it might be worth eating and tearing through the fabric faster than a swarm of moths. She could accept normal wear and tear—she made clothes, after all, and wished for them to be lived in—but such blatant disregard would not be shown equal grace. 

“Ica!” A familiar voice bellowed down the street and he breathed a sigh of relief as his salvation scurried over before Ica and Phainon could incur Aglaea’s wrath. “You can let go now!”

With a muffled chirp, the tension against his throat relaxed and he righted himself then straightened out his clothes. There was a small damp patch between his shoulder blades where the fabric had sat in Ica’s mouth but otherwise no major damage. 

Hyacine snagged Ica in her arms before they could cause more havoc. “Sorry about that,” she apologised with a sheepish smile.  

He shook his head and even reached to pet Ica’s head. “No harm done.”

Despite the clear dismissal of the issue, she perked up, almost tensing, as she burst, “I know! Let me make it up to you. I was reading some medical texts Danny left for me but Ica started getting bored so we’re on our way for a meal. You should join us. It’ll be my treat.”

“I already have plans,” he answered before he could give it a second thought. 

Hyacine stared at him. Waited for him to elaborate, he was just too slow to realise, since he would usually provide the exact details just to make sure his refusal couldn’t be misconstrued as an unfriendly dismissal. 

“Oh really,” she said before he could find a way to explain himself and her shoulders slackened with her disappointment, nose scrunching the same way it did when she was confronted with a particularly difficult patient. Which was usually Mydei or himself. 

“But don’t let me stop you. Not if Little Ica is hungry,” he added with a chuckle and ruffle of their mane, wings fluttering to bob into the sensation. 

“That is a shame. We haven’t had a chance to eat together since we arrived here.” She shook her head with a small laugh, weakening where it blended with something caustic, as she turned her head skyward. “All the time in the world and we still need more in order to connect with one another.” 

Time had always been his greatest foe and ally: he needed more between now and the end, he needed less between now and the arrival of a hero from beyond the sky who would have the heart to care for a place called Amphoreus never before heard of by the universe beyond the stars. He wanted more with those who still, inexplicably, cared for him. He wanted less with those who might inevitably see through the guise of Phainon, repaired and shoved like an ill-fitting puzzle piece into the peaceful place between the past and the next pages, and realise that their care belonged to someone who perished at the end of each cycle and was unable to return with the rest of them. Someone else had deserved this place so much more than himself but the choice hadn’t been his to make. 

“Tomorrow is always waiting,” Phainon said, standing beneath and gazing at the fragmented sky that held yesterday, today and tomorrow. 

There was something shadowing her pinched brow and small smile but it was only once it gave way to a small laugh that dropped joy like a stone spreading rippled across a cold lake did he realise it was sorrow. A look she so rarely allowed others to see when every patient turned to her for comfort through their healing, but one he had seen numerous times in the past when the blazing sun tore through the sky. 

Her smile returned, as clear and bright as a sky promising beautiful warm days. “Then, hopefully, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow it is,” he promised with as much vigour as he could muster, so she wouldn’t see how half-hearted it truly was. 

That was just the beginning of the strange occurrences. When a chill raised the hairs along his nape in the shade of the Slumbering Courtyard, it was not Hyacine who had snuck up on him with another invitation to a meal. 

“Little sunfish,” a monotonous voice droned in his ear and his muscles locked where he sat. Only his heart moved to jump from his chest. 

Thankfully, Hysilens didn’t take offence to his reaction as she rounded the bench to sit in the empty space beside him. Instead, a slight smugness played at the edge of her lips when she tucked her hair behind her ear.

“Hysilens,” he finally greeted her. “Here to listen to the fountain?”

Her gaze drifted to the bubbling fountain at the courtyard’s centre, surrounded by people who cupped the water in their hands and gently bathed their faces in the memories of bygone days. Sometimes there was laughter and other times tears. Depending on the memory revealed to them, people had broken down into hysterics and been forcibly restrained as they screamed and cried out the anguish of losing everything.

Nothing so dramatic had happened today but Cerydra had stationed guards around the courtyard as a precaution. There was no cause for Phainon to sit here. To him, the fountain may as well spill regular water, unrelated to the Remembrance, because everything he had ever done was engrained in his mind as flawless as the rest of this vessel built for Worldbearing and Destruction. 

He could point at each person surrounding the fountain and recount the exact cycles they had perished by his own hand.

Hysilens lingered on the fountain, waters calling to her like the ocean’s song replaced with whispers of the past. She shook her head. “I’m here to extend an invitation.”

His brows rose. “An invitation?”

They weren't exactly close. Chrysos Heirs were born when they were needed yet their eras rarely overlapped and, on the occasions he was born before Law sank to the Ocean depths, Hysilens was already adrift in the nihilism of still waters without waves nor currents. 

“From the Imperator. For a food-eating competition,” she clarified but he waited for the rest of it.

When it became clear she had nothing else to say, he coughed. “That is… Cerydra has taken up unusual interests.”

Usually her interest lay in relation to the rest of the universe waiting with bated breath for Amphoreus to emerge. The Nameless had been kind enough to hand them a copy of their data bank so Amphoreus wouldn't be completely clueless once it manifested and Cerydra had taken to familiarising herself with every possible ally or foe.

This particular interest was no doubt to please Hysilens. 

She was unimpressed by his comment, expression as flat as her voice whenever she wasn’t belting out a siren’s song. “Well? Are you coming?”

“I fear I would make for a poor competitor. I ate just recently.”

“So that’s a no.” Her voice was unchanged, devoid of judgement, but her eyes were as sharp as the instrument she had sharpened into a weapon through bloodshed alone, as ruthless as the sea set to thrash in a storm. “It’s unlike this blue-gold sunfish to give up so easily.”

He scratched the back of his head. “Give her my apologies?”

Apologies and excuses were two of the things Cerydra despised most. She could even accept treachery with a smile—and an execution, of course—so long as it came from a person alight with conviction and ambition. 

But Hysilens nodded and stood, the tapered ends of her dress swaying like a tail. “Good day, sunfish.” Her voice lifted as she spoke, a serene melody rising to the surface like bubbles from the deep sea.

By the afternoon he had relocated from the Slumbering Courtyard to one of the city’s many libraries. There was no particular topic he had in mind as he perused the shelves for knowledge reconstructed from the memory of its creator’s mind and hand. He wasn’t a student rushing to snatch an important text before someone from his cohort with nimbler feet and fingers could claim it for themselves in the lead up to an important assignment. Nor was he a ghost drifting through dimly lit passageways as he burned brighter, hotter, enough to set the dry wood and old parchment alight with a passing skim of his fingertips as easily as a single spark ravaged an autumn wheat field. 

The wooden dowel was smooth and the parchment rough against his finger. Perhaps this one would be a pleasant read to pass the time. Something related to Styxia’s forges. 

Clipped footsteps resounded off the stone. Even dampened by the shelves and scrolls, the gait was unmistakable. As were the shoe’s heels that were designed to strike fear into the hearts of students who heard the approach. 

“Phainon.”

He abandoned the scroll for his next visit and greeted the man beside him, “Anaxa, what brings you here?”

Despite his regained eye, Anaxa still peered at him with a single eye while the other was bound behind an embroidered eyepatch. The stitchwork’s quality was unmistakable but, if asked, the two of them would respond with dry statements that answered nothing or Anaxa would simply make his point with an alchemical bullet. Supposedly, the eyepatch gave him better aim. 

“Come with me,” Anaxa said, as curt as his abrupt turn, striding back the way he came. 

It seemed Styxia’s forges would have to wait. 

Attached to the library was the research facility the Grove’s scholars and students had taken up as their own. Centred around the city’s largest library, the entire district had been adopted as the educational hub for the Grove but also unaffiliated scholars from various city-states who had never attended due to personal or geo-political reasons. On one of the few occasions Phainon was called to the building, he had spotted Mydei conversing with some Helkolithists and Kremnoans. 

Heads swivelled at the sound of Anaxa’s footsteps and terror struck the faces of those who hurried to clear his path. Unless Anaxa’s demeanour had changed during the short walk over, his expression wasn’t so sour that everyone should fear for their lives. It had been cold. Clinical. The face of someone gazing at a lowly worm or other pest locked up for their latest experiment. Which was standard when his students and colleagues had yet to impress him. 

Upon their arrival in the open air theatre designated as Anaxa’s classroom, the seats were already empty. He undisturbed waltzed to the higher seat reserved for the professor while the others sat on the surrounding stone benches. Although the place lacked the ever present foliage shading the Grove, there was some nostalgia at the sight of Anaxa stood tall at the centre of his classroom. 

He was no longer Anaxa’s student. In fact, he had renounced Phainon many times over. Back when he was still lucid enough to hold a conversation and naive enough to try reason when miserable bloodshed had proven itself much more efficient. The insatiable curiosity and unwavering rationality Anaxa prided himself on instilling within those brave and foolish enough to question the world’s essence had been another casualty, burned away with the rest of Phainon’s mind until it was unrecognisable from the sharp mind of a Nousporist. 

God complex. Apathy. Martyrdom. Did Anaxa intend to lecture him? It had been a long time but it was equally pointless now as back then, even if it was rendered such by different reasons. Amphoreus no longer needed Phainon’s sacrifice. The one accomplishment of his life, which had amounted to nothing but endless failures, had been the resolve to hold on just long enough for a true hero to arrive. Someone without his many inadequacies. A real hero who could climb his mountain of failures and find success.

The Nameless, Mem, and the countless people beyond the sky who had lent their aid were the reason Amphoreus had gained a chance at a real life beyond Irontomb’s calculations. 

“The Lotophagists have shown time and again that sharing the same meal encourages bonding. It implicitly suggests to both parties that they share values and experiences, and not just mere food,” Anaxa droned on, dully reciting from memory information that had little interest to him other than context. 

This was, to put it mildly, not the lecture Phainon expected. It was worse as tension loosed down his spine, chilling and heated at once, pulling his muscle and bones in two separate directions. Yet he hummed and nodded along like the attentive student, the captive audience, he could shamelessly admit he seldom was during his days at the Grove. 

From his own seat, Anaxa picked up a bronze serving tray. The contents were obscured by the domed cover. “If this applies to humans then surely this applies to similarly communal and intelligent animals. Which is why I concocted this,” he declared and lifted the covering with a subtle but proud flourish. 

Red cubes were stacked in the centre, each side smoothed out yet maintained the grains of a material that crumbled with little effort. 

“That…” Phainon blinked again, harder, as though his eyes were still singed so dry the world was a blur of colours, double vision, and delusions. “That’s red soil.” 

Anaxa clicked his tongue. “It bears the appearance and smell of red soil. I’ve recreated it down to the way it flakes and crumbles. It also contains for humans the exact nutritional value regular red soils contains for a Dromas when accounting for the needs of a human body. The only thing that differs is the taste.”

He wasn’t cackling like a madman so this wasn’t the final results of a grand experiment undermining the very foundation of Amphoreus’ logic and beliefs. But if Phainon asked why he would most certainly be left to stare down the gaping maw of a gun. 

As a scholar and educator, Anaxa rarely spoke without purpose. A conversation, just as an experiment, could end without fruitful results but there had to be direction to it. So the explanation laid in his preamble. 

“You wish,” Phainon tentatively began, “to enhance the bond between human and Dromas by appearing to share the same food?” 

The lines of his face tightened, which was usually a precursor to his impending headaches and sharpened tongue ready to cut through an unfortunate victim’s self-esteem. “Obviously. But the taste of red soil doesn’t have much appeal. It’s a matter of whether this facsimile of it will.” 

The red soil sat, silent and menacing, on the bronze platter. Phainon could admit that he had eaten red soil on several occasions but those were usually stakes, challenges or when a home reduced to ashes and life of wandering left a gnawing hunger in his stomach. He would never be eager to repeat the experience but especially not now.  

He tore his eyes away from the red soil. “You want me to eat that? Surely…” He swallowed, bobbing throat feeling far too exposed beneath Anaxa’s pointed gaze, but he scratched along his collar where the skin suddenly itched. He cleared his throat. “Surely, it would be best to test whether dromases would accept the food as a substitute. Perhaps the smell of it is different in ways undetectable to us. There’s no point perfecting the taste if you may need to change the composition.”

It was such flimsy reasoning it wouldn't surprise him if Anaxa shoved the red soil substitute into his mouth just to silence his poorly crafted rhetoric. He suppressed the urge to squirm under Anaxa’s attention, the kind of focus he gave to alchemical circles searching for the one brushstroke that was slightly off, as though Phainon were still deserving of a place as his student and not his executioner. 

But the lid fell back over the platter with the resounding rattle of metal scraping along the inside of his ears. 

“A fair point,” Anaxa relented rather easily yet Phainon didn’t dare question it as he reached beneath his coat to reveal a scroll. The same one Phainon had taken an interest in earlier. “Then you’re free to return to the library for now.”

Eager not to waste Anaxa’s time and risk a change of mind, Phainon took the scroll and quickly absconded from Anaxa’s classroom. Since he had his reading material in hand there was no need for him to enter the library until he was ready to return it and he found a quiet corner of the Grove’s temporary accommodations instead. 

Without the rustling leaves overhead and underfoot, the ambience wasn’t quite the same. However, just the shuffle of scrolls, the quiet chatter of people both befuddled and exhilarated, and the muffled footsteps of their signature shoe soles made to suppress the noise of everyone hurrying in search of the next big frontier of knowledge—it was all so reminiscent of his many times as a student. 

The scent of aged parchment unaccompanied by the waft of smoke and soot. The smoothness of it beneath his fingertips capable of touch without the ache of charred skin and flesh. The clarity of the handwritten ink now that his eyes weren’t dried by his own scorching body temperature.

Once he finished with the scroll detailing Styxia’s famous blacksmithing techniques for a bronze drinking vessel unique to the city, named Phagousa’s Cup, he returned to the library to trade for something new. Still on Styxia’s forges, but focused on the metalwork that evolved with their fishing industry. Then a recount of a unique case that began with the invention of a new dish featuring a single fish species that soared to unprecedented popularity and resulted in overfishing to near extinction until a royal edict prohibited their fishing, possession and sale. 

The library’s records were unimaginably vast and these were a mere fraction of what had been salvaged and stored away in the Eternal Page. The rest were scattered across various libraries but even this one was enough to keep him occupied for so long his back and eyes strain, squinting at parchment from the passably comfortable chair he had claimed as his own.

A fair amount of time passed but he couldn’t say much more than that. He was nowhere near as attached to the concept of time as the other Amphoreans—who measured out quints, hours and days to segment the unchanging eternity they had found themselves in. It gave them structure when they no longer thirsted, hungered and tired like before, and fell to them more out of habit than force. But, for him, it was nothing new to lose those sensations. The burdens of the living. The consequences and proof of life.

“Oh, deliverer boy,” a voice crooned and a gust of wind almost swept his scroll from the table if he hadn’t snapped his arm down, pinning it in place, as the chair opposite him rocked with the table. 

Despite the disruption, he smoothed his scroll back into place and greeted her amiably, “Cipher. What a pleasant surprise.” 

She sniggered to herself, setting her elbows on the table and cupping her cheeks, eyes wide and pupils narrow. “Lying through your teeth, huh?” 

“What? No. Why would you thi—“

“Calm down. It was just a little joke.” Her tail swayed behind her, much too pleased with his overreaction. 

But he really didn’t want her to misunderstand. It was a pleasant surprise for her of all people to seek him out when she had a habit of running and hiding. She rarely offered her time to those she deemed unworthy of it—out of habit, avoiding almost every encounter that each brought risk of her lies collapsing into the harsh truths underneath, and out of nature as a sly, slippery feline—unless she was planning a scam. 

He surreptitiously patted his pocket. It was still there but the rattling coins gave his anxiety away and Cipher’s grin sharpened. 

“Let’s play a game,” she suddenly declared, ears twitching along with her nose despite her tail stiffened behind her. “Who can yawn the longest. How about it?” 

There was definitely some sort of scheme and Phainon ran a hand through his hair, disheveled by the whirlwind she had brought with her. “Where did you even hear of a game like…”

But Cipher opened her mouth in a gaping yawn, sound and all as she shut her eyes and stretched her arms overhead. Phainon’s body responded with a yawn of his own, jaw cracking and eyes slipping shut. He wasn’t even tired. The exhaustion he had existed with for so long, gnawing through him from the inside out as the heat from millions of suns tore away at him, had been soothed with the rest of his wounds when he woke up here: a place where fatigue vanished with the refreshing winds. 

It was strange but he kept yawning like the tiredness accumulated over millions of lifetimes, splintered and cobbled together to keep the flame alive, had been assuaged but never quite healed. Even now. Even here of all places. At the end of everything when he had been reduced to ashes and hands more benevolent than his own had sifted through them to pierced him together again. 

Still, he retained some basic etiquette and covered his mouth. But something lightly smacked the back of his hand. 

His eyes lurched open. Something round and dark bounced off the table, rolling to the edge and over it. Cipher’s tail darted out and then disappeared again, taking the thing with it. 

“Was that a grape?” 

Cipher blinked back at him. “Was what a grape?” 

“The thing you just threw at me.” 

”What thing? There is no thing.” She shook her head with a loud, beleaguered sigh. “But if you want grapes I have some right here.”

He had no idea where she stored things when her outfit left such little room for bulky items and showmanship, yet her empty hands disappeared from view and reappeared with a bunch of grapes dangled from their stem pinched between her fingers. Each grape was large and perfectly round. The flawless skin glistened in the daylight through the library’s windows. 

“Come on. Try them,” she purred from deep without her chest, smooth like oil greasing the wheels of her scheme. “They’re sweet and crisp. The best in the whole city. I could charge some pretty coin for these but I’m willing to spare you a couple free of charge.” 

Phainon’s brows pinched. “You know, the library prohibits food. If the librarians found out they would toss you onto the streets without a second thought.” 

Cipher stared and, slowly, tilted her head. Then she groaned and flopped onto the table, one arm bending to catch her slumped face while the other remained staunchly upright with the grapes still in hand. She muttered something under her breath. It was too quiet to be intended for him to hear—but it was still about him. Whatever remarks she had now about him being goody goody failed to usurp a place amongst the most scathing words she had levelled against him, from a heroic thief to a murderous villain—so he returned to his scroll while he was free from her attention. 

It was a brief moment before she propped her chin on her forearm, cheeks and lips squished into a pout. “So you won’t eat any.”

He wryly smiled. ”It would be inconvenient if I were thrown out of here along with you. I’d have to sneak back in every time I wanted something to read.” 

“Ha,” she laughed but it lacked the usual manic edge, even as she rocked herself upright with enthusiasm. Her lips curled with a wicked grin. “They would have to catch me first.”

In another sudden whirlwind, she disappeared. The chair rocked and tipped backwards, hitting the floor loud and echoing above the chaotic flutter of parchment. Phainon winced and glanced around but there were no disparaging eyes that he owed an apology so he rounded the table to right the chair before returning to his reading. This time without interruption. 

When he reached the end of the shelf, it was time for a break. The next section was on the evolution of Styxia’s military metallurgy so he would doubtless return soon but a fresh mind would allow him to admire each innovation in full.

Under the eternal light the city streets appeared no different than when he sequestered himself in the library. If he kept his eyes away from the ribbons of darkness stretched across the pale sky it was as though he were back in Okhema, wandering the streets to lend a helping hand to everyone in need of one, reassuring them that their faith in the Chrysos Heirs and the Flame-chase wasn’t in vain.

The Deliverer. 

Just the title made his shoulders ache and his mind haze with fatigue. It was a role he had taken with pride and determination, hatred and hope, and committed himself to with a heart that held the ideal of a hero. Over and over. Unaware that he would achieve nothing on his quest to save everyone who had lost and would come to lose everything once the sun and sky came crashing down beneath the black tide. He wished to fulfil the wishes of others and see their happiness aglow under the new dawn. 

The fear he had suppressed, deep in his heart, guarded behind the shining idyllic heroism, was that he wasn’t worthy of such a role. While everyone wished to find their own happiness and meaning once authority was wrested from the old gods to create a new world, until that day came all their wishes called out for the hero who could deliver them to that long sought after future.

Those hopes had been misplaced after all. He had deceived everyone into believing he alone was capable, he was special, he was the one who would make their dreams into reality so long as they entrusted their wishes to him. Instead he ripped those wishes from their chests and made their bloodied Coreflames his own so he could turn today back to yesterday. 

He sharply turned to the city outskirts. Towards the empty wheat fields, the vast forest, and whatever lay beyond them. 

The sky was too bright. The wind too cold where his skin burned hot. The scent of flowers too suffocating. The pulse of his heart, like a flame beating, a sun flaring, too loud. 

No, that sound was—

“Phainon.”

A hand grasped his shoulder. A gentle graze. He flinched anyway.

Castorice flinched, too, backing away a couple steps with bright eyes dimmed when they dipped low. Embarrassed. Ashamed. As though she had ever done anything wrong when all she yearned for was to walk hand-in-hand with others. 

It was him. He was the problem. He had been long before they all arrived here and that hadn’t changed just because his body was no longer crumbling away with every ragged, rattling breath whistling through his hollow chest. 

“Apologies. I was… lost in thought,” he said through a stiff jaw. Weak. It was weak because he was weak. 

Behind her, Tribios pushed Polyxia’s wheelchair while Tribbie floated along in front of her so she was within Polyxia’s easy line of sight as she chatted away. Whatever conversation they had been engrossed in had ended as they all looked at him like he were fraying apart before their eyes. 

Castorice shook her head, perfectly recomposed except for her hands clasped politely in front of her. “Not to worry.” But she didn’t seem to know what else to say as she nibbled her lip, fingers folding together. 

“We were talking about Cassy’s next work.” Tribbie flew over and rested her hands upon Castorice’s shoulder. They were almost eye level as she smiled at him. “Now we’re going to eat golden honey cakes.”

”You should join us,” Tribios offered and Polyxia nodded encouragingly. 

With newfound resolution, Castorice clutched her hands to her chest and nodded. “I’m looking for more perspectives on… wandering,” her voice quieted at the end as she turned away to gaze towards the horizon. “Solitude. Loneliness. Isolation. I could only really consider my own inescapable predicament and the way characters felt or acted in song and on the stage. So I want to know and understand how it felt for others to be free and confined. To be alone.”

She spoke with such sincerity, as though those words were meant for him. To understand and to be understood, to be lonely, required humanity.

He smiled and chuckled, scratching the back of his head. “You’ll be better off speaking with others rather than me.”

Castorice’s lips thinned but it couldn't hide her crestfallen face. 

“Besides,” he swiftly added, “I already ate earlier.”

“We can share. You know how I can struggle with portion sizes,” she offered back just as fast.

Oftentimes he used to see her looking from a distance at certain food establishments or scrolling through videos on her teleslate, and would invite her to eat with him. Sometimes her hesitance came from a fear she wouldn't like the food or be unable to finish and unintentionally offend the cook, in which case Phainon could happily devour his meal, her leftovers and more. Most of the time she simply lacked the confidence to come so close to others. 

He shook his head. “You have plenty of people to help you, Castorice. I’m sure you’ll be all right.”

Oddly enough, she smiled, as gentle as she always had been. Only her hands had been different but, when she reached out, hesitating in the air before committing to the act, they carried the same softness they always should have as she laid a reassuring hand upon his arm. “Yes. Everyone is incredibly supportive. Even when I worry I may be a bother to them.”

”Cassy could never bother us,” Tribbie insisted and leaned their temples together, pale purple and red strands melding. “It’s important that we always stick together! It got us this far.”

“Indeed, Lady Tribbie.”

“Cassy!”

Tribios and Polyxia had the decency to muffle their laughter but Castorice’s pointed ears reddened at the tips as she mumbled, “Apologies. I meant: yes, Tribbie.”

Tribbie giggled. “Better.”

“I’m sure Tribbie will have no problems finishing your honey cakes for you if needed,” Phainon added and she confirmed it with an enthusiastic nod. 

“That’s very generous of you, Tribbie.”

Tribios smiled at him and it was the smile of all her fragments, mellowed with age but unmistakably the same. “Where are you headed to next?”

“I was thinking of visiting Audata and Hieronymus.”

They must miss the person they still thought of as their son. Snowy probably missed him too. 

”What a shame we aren’t going the same direction,” Polyxia said, sounding genuinely mournful despite sharing so few conversations. 

Tribios chortled behind her hand. “Polyxia keeps mentioning her desire to sit around a table with you.”

Despite such a stunning betrayal, Polyxia was utterly unruffled as she tucked her ear behind her hair, untinted by the colour that came so easily to her sister. “It’s only natural. Castorice praises you so highly.”

“Then we’ll be sure to gather another time,” Phainon promised.

The same as Tribios and her fragments, Polyxia’s smile was similar to that of her family. As twins, they carried themselves so differently but their smiles were alike: gentle with a muted yet undeniable warmth, the type capable of bringing the kindest death to those still human. “I would like that.”

When they parted ways, Phainon followed the paved roads out of the city onto the trodden paths that bordered the wheatfields, shadowing the earth when they swayed in the wind, bending in an oncoming golden wave but never breaking, and Phainon could have sworn a young girl’s voice called to him—come play. Come listen. Come find heroes, monsters, and a wonderful romantic story—from somewhere beyond the horizon from which she would never return. 

The house of Audata and Hieronymus was only a short walk away where they waited for a boy who had died and been reforged too many times to come home again whole. He veered off the beaten path and waded through the wheat. The winds of the Eternal Page only blew westwards and pushed against him, sending the wheat rippling and bristling against his bare arms, scratching so he could dye them the most resplendent gold that had been returned to his hollowed and cremated veins.

He heard two children laughing and a dog barking. He smelled the earth beneath his feet. He saw the wheat swaying like there was someone just ahead, just out of his grasp, but it was just a trick of the wind and he found nothing, no one, by the time the fields gave way to the forest. 

He wasn’t out of breath. He should have been. Snowy hadn't been here to force him to slow. He was without a companion. Alone. Which meant there was nothing to stop him from going further. The wheatfields appeared boundless from the city walls but even they ended. If he pressed forward, what would he find beyond this point?

A glimpse of red shifted out the corner of his eye and he tensed on instinct for a threat he had failed to grasp. But it was a familiar red that pushed a low hanging branch aside and stepped over the low shrubs. They both paused as golden eyes and slitted pupils caught hold of him. 

Mydei returned to himself and his mouth sharpened into a smirk. “Found you.” 

“What are you doing out here?” Phainon asked, too forceful, but he couldn't take it back and sand down the edge.

He shrugged and slipped his finger beneath a strap over his shoulder, drawing attention to the bag slung across his shoulder. “The situation has settled in the city. I have more freedom to do as I please.”

That answer was just like Mydei: duty came first, the bluntness of an unobscured truth, and nothing other than Mydei following his own path and principles. I want to be is what Mydei told him when asked why he was lingering in this place no one other than Phainon visited.

“And you?”

Phainon blinked and his brisk stride through the wheatfields hadn’t winded him but his throat had grown dry from their simple conversation. “What?”

“What are you doing out here?” Mydei threw the question back at him with an arched brow. 

The truth of it was too shameful for him to tell, especially not Mydei, who always stood his ground and never retreated even as he ordered those behind him to flee to safety. His cheeks burned at the idea of voicing the nebulous answer to the question he had to ask himself in search of rationality to replace the instinct and emotion that had burned bright and faded fast. What had he been doing?

“Exploring,” Phainon blandly answered and then mustered himself to theatrics so Mydei could believe he was interacting with another healthy, whole person. “We’ve been here for a few weeks now. Don’t tell me you aren’t even slightly curious about what else this world has to offer.”

“All right then. Let’s go,” Mydei declared without missing a beat in their rapport

Phainon didn't have the chance to ask him to elaborate before he turned his back and trudged deeper into the forest. Only when it was clear there were no footsteps in tandem or echoing his own he stopped and glanced over his shoulder at Phainon. He had yet to move at all.

Mydei’s brows pinched and relaxed again. “Did the journey here tire you out?”

In normal circumstances, it would have been a little insulting for Mydei to think such a short trek had fatigued him. Here, in a place where exhaustion was just another memory of the past, he would have presumed it was sarcasm or a backhanded compliment from anyone else. However, because it was Mydei who asked and eyed him with a subtle purse to his lips that looked oddly like genuine concern, he had no doubts it was as sincere as Mydei always was. 

So Phainon laughed in a short exhale under his breath. “Don’t make me laugh, Mydei.” And the next words came even easier, like muscle memory, like well-worn sandals, like they were right even if everything else about him was wrong: “Let’s see who tires first.” 

He tipped his chin back at such a blatant challenge. “Fine by me.”

The forest was as long as the wheatfields. Perhaps longer. It was difficult to discern when neither time nor fatigue served as accurate measures. At least he got to watch the sun—at dawn, at midday, at dusk—sink through the leaves in splotches of light that played with the shadows across Mydei’s face. The softness of dawn gentled the sharp cut of his jaw. The brightness of midday gleamed in his eyes and melted a king’s riches into honey, thick and sweet. The dimness of dusk deepened the reds and blues of his clothes and jewels, accentuating his pale skin and bright hair and his long lashes against the undershadow of his eyes. 

Two specks of gold in the low light, practically aglow, as they peered back at Phainon. He cleared his throat and glanced ahead at the trees identical to the many they had passed. He couldn’t stay away for long and turned back to Mydei only to be ensnared by the mirth creasing his eyes and crooking his lip. 

Neither of them spoke but Mydei’s shadowed features were dangerous as he tilted his head. Like what you see? 

Phainon swallowed, dry, like ash deadening his tongue and clogging his throat. But he took Mydei’s invitation for another look, tracing the tattoos like a path leading him upwards. Mydei’s sandals strapped along his strong calves, his chiton teasing the bottom of his chiselled thighs, his muscular arm left uncovered by his chlamys, his exposed throat fluttering with a living pulse, his soft lips, his proud nose, his eyes on Phainon and daring him to look away. 

Yet Phainon raised his hand flat and let it waver through a middling gesture. So-so. 

Mydei scoffed but didn’t argue. Phainon had already given the truth away, practically freely. That long look had been answer enough. 

They didn’t speak much on their wanderings. Phainon occasionally pointed out a particularly interesting tree or beautiful flower. Mydei sometimes remarked on the state of the sky or weather. The majority of their trek was spent in silence but it was comfortable. Both peculiar and pleasant to have a companion on this trek in a single direction with an aim yet no destination. 

Even when they returned to a pocket of daylight it soon faded again. Not with an oncoming night, in which case Phainon could have seen the dazzling starlight in Mydei’s eyes, his jewellery, his skin—more god than mortal.

Instead, a glimpse through the canopy revealed grey skies that opened soon after. Rain poured down upon them and their startled eyes met for a single moment long enough to drench Phainon’s bangs to his forehead. They took off in the same breath blooming white in the chilled air and they sprinted through the storm.

Each flash of gold, weaving in and out of the trees, in his peripheral vision was akin to lightning. The thunder reverberated inside his ears, crashing with his beating heart pumping blood and the thrill of an unspoken race and his heavy footfalls against the sodden earth that never became slippery even as the canopy thinned and vanished entirely. 

The forest gave way to a mountainside. It loomed large with no shadow nor discernible pass through the rise too steep to climb. A warm hand snagged Phainon’s wrist. Mydei darted ahead but refused to leave Phainon behind as he rushed towards an opening broken into the stone. A cave. 

They slipped into the safety of shelter one after another. Yet Mydei didn’t release Phainon’s wrist even as he backed into the cave wall and caught his breath. His palm was smooth, his fingers slender, where his uncalloused hand wrapped around Phainon’s wrist and he was sure that Mydei could feel his new heart, woven from tissue and memory since the Coreflames that had long incinerated the old one, lashing as quick as the rain struck the earth. 

Water dripped from Mydei’s dampened, darkened hair. A droplet rolled down his temple, following the curve of his cheek and the cut of his jaw to his bobbing throat. Breathlessness, exhuastion—such things had been stripped away from them in this place between the living and dead. It was nonsensical that Mydei was breathing hard, chest rising and falling beneath the drenched garments clinging to him, as though he were winded. Unless Phainon was mistaken and he alone had lost the caveats that came with being alive. A human, and not a corpse charred beyond recognition. 

Mydei pushed his bangs back, exposing his high forehead, as he glanced at Phainon to survey his condition, yet paused where their hands were still connected. He waited for Mydei to let him go, to watch those fingers more suited to music, poetry and scholarship than violence relinquish Phainon’s hand made for destruction and ruin in a manner that would ruin him far worse than a blade ever could. 

Instead, Mydei’s thumb—gently. Tenderly—caressed the jut of bone and Phainon sucked in a sharp inhale hidden by the rain. Chest empty and aching, he was still breathless. 

“We’ll wait it out,” Mydei decided but spoke too softly to be a command. It was a suggestion and Phainon eagerly nodded. 

A little further into the cave, too deep for the stray rain to find them under the guidance of a strong wind through the open mouth, they sat in wait for the storm to pass. There was a respectable distance between them as Mydei propped one leg up to rest his forearm over and Phainon crossed his legs, but it was irrelevant when his wrist was still loosely clasped in Mydei’s hand. 

Neither of them commented on it. They simply sat in silence as Mydei’s thumb brushed over Phainon’s hurrying pulse point. Upwards. He pressed the centre of his palm and his fingers twitched in response, half-closed before opening again. He dragged his thumb across the callouses at the base of his fingers and then the ones along each finger from years upon years of holding a sword. 

The same sword he had plunged through Mydei’s back. His weak spot, entrusted to him just so he could take that faith, temper and quench what remained of Dawnmaker’s edge in it, and turn his trust and his wishes against him to strike a fatal blow. How many times had his hands been drenched in gold? It was an easy question. As many times as they had both lived, Phainon had been the one to kill Mydei. 

And yet…

Mydei’s fingertips pressed against his own and glided downwards, sliding over each calloused bump and drifting into the gaps between Phainon’s fingers without intertwining but so, so close. 

Water glimmered in Mydei’s lashes, eyes and expression unreadable as he dragged his gaze from their unjoined hands to Phainon’s face. “We should eat.” 

Phainon’s hand lurched but Mydei splayed his fingers to hold him down as his eyes narrowed, sharpening, akin to a predator that caught the scent of bleeding prey. 

He leaned closer to pin him with the weight of his hand and stare. “Unless there’s a reason you’ve been avoiding food like its poison.”

If Phainon ran, Mydei would chase him. If Phainon diverted him with excuses, Mydei would cut them down. There was nowhere for him to hide when they were sat near shoulder-to-shoulder in a cave tucked away in complete wilderness. He was trapped. Mydei had outmanoeuvred him. 

Of course he had realised over the past few days that everyone had deduced the truth behind his deflections and excuses. They had simply been too kind to push through his wilful ignorance and allowed their offers to stand like a door with no locks. So they had let Mydei strike last, every bit the patient hunter of his epithet. 

Phainon turned away from those eyes, always accompanied by reds and golds, like the vivacious autumns of his hometown. Like the rising sun—a new dawn. He fixed his gaze upon the rough stone wall and steadied himself with a deep breath. 

“Cycle seventeen,” he kept his voice even. Composed. Not a single fracture line to betray him. “My body, used to confine one hundred and ninety two Coreflames, began to strain.” 

Most of his time had been spent idle in the long stretches between Chrysos Heirs being born, raised, and felling Titans just so he could wrest away the glory earned by his former companions, closer than friends and family but now stood opposed as his enemies. Although his topmost priority was to stall Irontomb’s birth, his second priority had been to avoid loss of life. If negotiations failed then he would steal. He bided his time through millions of years, lurking in the shadows and waiting for his chance. If that slipped through his fingers then that Coreflame would be bathed in gold. 

But so much languishing began to take its toll. His sanity degraded quicker than his body: time would vanish like smoke, he would suddenly awaken in places with no memory of how he arrived there, he would gaze upon the vast world and its people that had once enamoured him only to feel nothing. 

The physical changes surfaced just as insidiously. He had been wandering the forests when he chanced a look upon still waters and witnessed the skin beneath his eye cracked open. It could have been innocuous if not for the sun’s radiance blazing through the thin skin imprisoning it within. 

He knew the damage wouldn’t heal. Even if he took a needle and thread to the wound, the stitches would simply burn away and leave the puncture wounds behind. So he scrounged up a mask to hide the disfigurement. Other than that… 

“The most I could do was let my mind and body rest to stave off the damage.”

To close his eyes and let his consciousness drift away, unconcerned with the things he had done and would have to do once he returned to the waking world—it was a reprieve he didn’t deserve but there was little else he could do. He couldn’t even atone with nightmares of the lives he had seen ruined, by his own hand or an inevitable end, because he no longer dreamed.

“I was resting in a cave smaller than this. Somewhere I thought no one could possibly find me and disturb my rest.” He shook his head and smiled, a small thing that still pulled the corner of his lips as though the skin were cracking and peeling, preparing to burst open at the seams and spill scorching light. “But you managed to stumble upon me somehow.” 

Light hair and bright eyes, adorned in bronze and red and gold. His groggy mind, alerted to a presence nearby, had known it could be no one else except Mydei. A relatively young version of him but old enough to roam the wilderness without supervision, even if it would be some years before he would go on to claim Strife’s Coreflame. Before he would perish at a once trusted hand. 

The smells had come next. It was difficult to detect fragrances beneath the remnants of smoke and ash that clogged his nose but the enclosed air of the cave filled with the scent of warm herbs and spices. Strong ones. 

When Myde had approached and he made no moves to escape. The way Mydei blocked the only entranceway had been a convenient excuse to linger in his presence without the need to draw his blade. 

This Mydei had likely yet to meet that cycle’s Phainon because there was no stunned recognition in his face when he crouched down and glimpsed the face beneath the hood, half-covered by a mask. Or, perhaps, he had already lost any resemblance to the person he had once been. 

He must have appeared like a true wretch to have garnered Mydei’s pity but he didn’t say anything as he set the food down and left without a word. Mydei hadn’t needed to rouse him with words. He understood the things left unspoken because, no matter the lifetime, Mydei was still Mydei. Even if he wasn’t the Mydei that he was granted the honour of walking side-by-side with. 

Eat, gather your strength, then stand up. 

Although he had no need to eat, it was a habit built over a lifetime that had lasted many more. Freshly baked bread, Okhema’s mellow wines, mulberries in spring and apples in autumn—they were familiar comforts. They tasted like the homes he had left behind many cycles ago, and the echoes of it he continued to destroy.

Humans ate and he had to remember how that felt before he lost himself completely.

He had known the food was warm. Fresh. Yet he had held the bowl and felt nothing because his body, his blood, gold replaced with the blazing fury of the sun, was infinitely hotter. But it had been made by Mydei for him so he dutifully scooped it up. 

In his mouth he had tasted nothing. Food had been reduced to ash on his tongue, seared until it scarred, unable to taste anything ever again. 

Yet he had refused to let any go to waste. He ate even as it stole his strength away. Every mouthful that should have been delicious, had once brought an uncontrollable grin to his face, found the cracks of his fractured mind and clawed them open. 

Then he had stood up and left behind the evidence of the last meal he would ever eat. 

Mydei’s hand tightened around his own but Phainon smiled, as carefree as he could manage because Mydei deserved better than to be punished for trying to help someone in need. “I never did thank you for that.”

“It wasn’t an action that required thanks,” Mydei gruffly dismissed him. 

Phainon laughed through his nose and tipped his head back against the stone; its rough bumps and edges were as grounding as Mydei next to him. He shook his head. “I lived as many lives as Khaslana as I did Phainon. Yet every Phainon melted away as a mere drop in Khaslana’s existence. His joy and his contentment, his fear and his despair, his heroism and his love—they were all subsumed by the Destruction. Only rage and hatred remained. And the faintest spark of hope.” 

Phainon, The Deliverer, the young boy with a hero in his heart, had been a sacrifice. That was what it meant to shoulder the mantle of Worldbearing: bear this world until the pale dawn breaks. 

Khaslana was merely the corpse left behind. An effigy made to be set alight and replace the sun he couldn’t make rise. A being that had shed its humanity because there was no space for a human heart amongst the fury of innumerable blazing suns. 

Perhaps the thing he had become now was no different. Eyes dried until the world was reduced to a blur. Ears rattling with the crackle of fire and bowing wood snapping under the heat. Nose full of smoke and soot. Skin pulled taut until it cracked and broke away like fired pottery and charred wood instead of flesh. Tongue scarred and coated with ash only able to taste the golden flames he had already devoured and sought to devour him in turn.

“When I first awoke in the Eternal Page, I saw the sky clear above, heard the courtyard’s fountain bubbling, smelled the flowers and the wheat, and felt the touch of the gentle winds.” If he closed his eyes, he could recall in perfect clarity that moment of triumph, shock, confusion, trepidation and so much more he couldn’t hope to name everything so tightly wound inside his chest it had almost collapsed. “It all happened at once. So fast I could hardly comprehend it.” 

Yet, until now, he had yet to taste anything. While the rest of his senses had been bombarded with the proof he had somehow lived, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to make the decision of opening his mouth and welcoming a taste that may never come. It was a test, and he had always feared failure. 

“So what if nothing’s changed?” he whispered beneath the rain that soaked the earth and eroded stone but could never wash away his actions nor regrets. 

What if there are things he simply can’t get back. Not even an Aeon capable of restoring the universe could return everything—every sense, every emotion, every claim to humanity—that he had relinquished. 

But Mydei’s eyes were alight with all the fires of war and passion that Phainon had extinguished and yet they came blazing back to life, yet his voice came steady with resolve. “So what? If nothing has changed then I’ll make you foods by shape and texture. How it sounds fresh off the fire and feels to hold with your hands. The sight and smell of it when I set it down in front of you to eat. Every day, from now until the end, I refuse to let you go hungry.”

Phainon’s fingers twitched. It wasn’t an attempt to shake Mydei off and flee. He simply didn’t know what to do with himself under the weight of Mydei’s sincerity, like a familiar cloak that kept the winds and rain at bay. 

“If you…” He swallowed, hoping to wet his parched throat but it swiftly dried again, a little itch where the words crawled from his throat. “If you speak such words, you’re practically welcoming misunderstanding into your home.” 

But Mydei huffed a small, near disbelieving laugh. “Understand me however you choose.” 

Again, it was neither brash nor offensive. Mydei truly meant to leave that decision to him. Like a supplicant when it had always been Phainon bringing demise and Mydei offering him salvation. 

So Phainon intertwined their fingers and Mydei inhaled, low and long, before he squeezed their joined hands. While Phainon had picked at old wounds healed with grafted skin, curious whether blood or sunlight would spill forth, they had gotten closer, drawn together as inevitably as they always had been. Lifetimes as comrades, rivals, lovers, partners who exchanged vows at the altar—they were bound to one another by something greater than even Mnestia’s threads. Sometimes it wound itself as a pair of golden rings and sometimes not but the unbreakable bond always connected them, pulled them in, with emotions that should never be harboured by a dutiful crown prince nor the flawless vessel of deliverance. 

If Phainon decided, just like those lifetimes where they remained trusted companions despite yearning to cross the line they had drawn between themselves, that love was beyond what he could give Mydei, what he could accept from him, then Mydei would accept that and treat him no different for the rejection. Phainon didn’t question if he was worthy of such deference—from Mydei of all people. Who seized fate and circumstance that constrained him, struggled against it, and found his own way—because he already knew what Mydei would tell him. 

Even if they were made to endure another small eternity of recurrences, Mydei would entrust his one and only weakness, his life, to Phainon. Whether he felt he deserved such an honour or not. Always. 

Somethings truly never changed and the final distance between them shrank away to nothing. 

It was Mydei kissing him back, gentle and fond. Mydei’s bright and narrowed eyes before they slipped entirely closed. Mydei’s warm, soft lips against his own. Mydei’s fragrant bath oils layered above his natural musk. Mydei’s quiet exhale barely audible over the rain as they broke away. 

Both of them were breathless. 

Phainon panted, lungs simmering and heart thundering but neither burning in the way that had been so utterly inescapable even once they were reduced to ash. For the very first time since he had greeted the end and returned them to the story’s beginning, since he arrived in this place where he had stagnated beyond the story’s end rather than anticipate a wholly new beginning, he felt alive. 

Human as he licked his lips and tasted pomegranate. 

Mydei followed the movement, eyes darkening, and he gripped Phainon’s hand tighter. But it was Phainon’s hand that cupped the back of Mydei’s neck and urged him back in for another kiss while Mydei went along without resistance nor restraint. They were a little harsher, more desperate, as Phainon licked the seam of his lips, pleading for entry, and Mydei playfully retaliated with a nip at his bottom lip but allowed him entry. 

His tongue dragged over the roof of Mydei’s mouth, across the back of his teeth, and down Mydei’s own tongue. He tasted him everywhere and the saliva pooled in Phainon’s mouth as the ravenous hunger awoke from wherever it had laid dormant within him. 

He scrambled onto his knees, breaking the kiss for a single quick inhale, before he descended upon Mydei again. His weight tipped back into Phainon’s hand at his nape, neck and back arching to meet Phainon looming over him, as he dragged their joined hands to brace behind him but the other grabbed Phainon’s ribs, his waist, his hips to tug him closer. Closer. Until their rain soaked clothes pressed together and their body heat bled through the cold. 

It was just like always. A spontaneous kiss on the training grounds that knocked their teeth before they recovered and tried again, a little slower but still clumsy. A secretive kiss in the shadows of alleyways and banquet halls when neither of them were certain whether this, whatever this was between them, should be exposed to the public eye always honed upon their few weaknesses. An ardent one in their tent upon a military expedition or inside their private chambers, marriage or otherwise, with no one else as witness to how their passions melted them both down into something more pliable than marble statues dedicated to pursuits larger than themselves. 

They parted with a wet sound neither could mistake for the rain and Phainon welcomed the ache flaring through his chest as he took in Mydei’s reddened cheeks and mouth shining with the saliva stringing between them, broken once Mydei licked his lips. 

“We should eat,” Mydei said again, breathy and a little reluctant, but Phainon mindlessly agreed. If Mydei had commanded him to jump off a cliff then Phainon should have obeyed. Quicker than normal anyway. 

They righted themselves but their position was still far from respectable as Phainon squirmed his way to sit between Mydei’s legs and lean against his broad chest kept dry beneath his chlamys. It was actually Phainon, with his hair and clothes drenched, that dampened Mydei’s clothes but he didn’t complain or brush Phainon off as he counted the steady beat of Mydei’s heart against his back. Instead he opened the bag he had carried all along and scrounged out two containers. 

They were identical to the one Trianne had attempted to give him the other day but the meal inside was different. The fish had been sliced and deboned yet retained its red skin to be fried crisp and sprinkled with spices, stark against the white flesh, but the embellishments were otherwise kept rather minimal. There were three unleavened loaves smeared with a generous layer of goat’s cheese and an accompanying salad of leafy greens and legumes. Mydei even revealed a metal cylinder and poured the liquid within into two chalices. 

Even before Phainon brought the loaf to his mouth, he knew he would have no troubles discerning the flavours, yet he paused on the first bite. He was all too aware of Mydei watching him and chewed slowly, thoughtfully, as though he had been mistaken and his foolishness would reveal itself the longer he waited. Yet the more he ate, the more certain he became.

His eyes stung and the food in his lap blurred but it wasn’t a painful dryness haunting each gritty blink that revoked his right to see the world. He thinned his lips and breathed a ragged inhale but it did nothing to prevent his tears from spilling free. They were warm against his cheeks, wetly dipping over his jaw and splashing against his hands clutched around the food Mydei had given him and tasted as though it were made by someone else’s hand. 

“She taught me a few things,” Mydei’s voice rumbled from his chest through Phainon’s back and sent tremors through his heart, “Back then. It was a long time ago but she is a difficult person to forget.”

“I miss her,” Phainon choked out and the tears hit his hand faster, harder, breaking apart without dissipating into steam. “I… she deserved to be here so much more—” But Mydei’s arms tightened around him and his chest caved around the words he knew would hurt Mydei more than himself, “—as much as everyone else.”

That journey up an insurmountable incline had begun with the two of them. Their lives, their love, their hatred and their lament had guided Amphoreus over the cresting mountain to witness the sun rise on a tomorrow only one of them would be able to see. 

Mydei grasped the back of his hands and the palms that used to scald with the heat of the forges were comfortably warm where their skin, unbearable to others, pressed together. “This is far from the end. Even if we can’t find a way, put your faith in the Nameless. Together, we’ll ensure that no one is left behind.”

It was the same notion he had told himself in the past. The Trailblazer was a true hero, who could face an unscalable wall and smash through it without hesitation. Yet it was much more convincing coming from Mydei.  

He weakly chuckled and thumped his head back against Mydei’s shoulder, gazing up at him even as it exposed the teary eyes and water streaked face behind his shaky mirth. “That’s very confident of you.”

As though Mydei hadn’t always been driven by ideals, enough to constrain him until he broke through the restraints of tradition. 

Mydei’s lip curled and he shrugged. “Hope and ideals have brought us this far.”

He nodded towards the food, temporarily forgotten, in Phanon’s hand and didn’t need to say more. Eat, gather your strength, then stand up. 

Red mullet had always been her favourite and the fisherman knew to set aside a few for her. The Sacramental Courtyard had provided everything she needed for day-to-day living, including her meals, so that she could focus on her studies but she often snuck into the courtyard’s kitchen or one of the many homes who found amusement in her antics. The red mullet was easy to cook but still flavourful and they had huddled like thieves in other’s homes as they tested her latest attempts. She had experimented with a few seasonings until she successfully elevated the slight sweetness hidden in the savouriness of firm and flaky yet tender flesh. 

The salad was composed of greens commonly found around Aedes Elysiae but otherwise nothing special. However, the bread was her recipe too. She had borrowed some spices from the courtyard’s kitchen that had travelled from far beyond Aedes Elysiae and experimented with working them into the dough before she found a flavour she liked. It was a bit tough since she had a bad habit of over-kneading the dough but the thick layer of goat’s cheese compensated for it. 

Even the beverage was her preferred infusion. She always wrinkled her nose at common sage or thyme infused water and took him on an adventure to gather flowers from the surrounding fields and forests until she settled on linden flowers. It had taken them all summer to gather and dry enough to last the winter but most had disappeared in a week of sickness; dazed with fever, he had refused to drink anything except for the sweet drink she had brought with her to visit him. She had even added a drop of honey to every cup and refused his teary apologies once he recovered and realised what she had given him.  

She probably would have called him foolish for depriving himself with the solemnity of a fasting mourner. 

They ate against the backdrop of the rain falling, incessant, without so much as slowing let alone stopping even as Phainon’s tears ran dry. It was only once they had both finished eating and packed the evidence of their meal away, leaving them to stare out the cavemouth and plot their next move, that Phainon realised their mistake. He laughed. 

Beside him, Mydei startled but the most reassurance Phainon could offer was a weak hand wave as his abdomen fluttered around the laughter dredged from the depths of his stomach where they had hidden undisturbed for a small eternity. His laughter emptied his lungs and constricted his torso but he couldn't stop even as the pain made him hunch over his knees. 

“Why—” he attempted only to break into cackles again. 

He hadn’t even thought he was capable of this. This sound. This feeling. It was just another part of Phainon’s lifetimes that had been obliterated by an inferno of hatred and Destruction. 

Mydei’s brows were pinched with such genuine concern, it was utterly endearing as he set a hand upon Phainon’s back like he was choking and needed a strong pat to dislodge whatever was stuck in his throat. There was nothing there except thinning wheezes of laughter. 

”Take deep breaths before you collapse. I won’t carry you back if you do,” Mydei chided him but that made Phainon snigger harder.

His only option was to blurt it out or he would never say it at all: “Why didn’t we go around?”

Mydei’s eyes narrowed, crease deepening between his brows, as he questioned Phainon’s idiocy. Then the realisation struck him as heavily as it had Phainon. His mouth slackened like he wanted to say something only for his eyes to close and he took a deep breath that escaped him in a quiet snicker. His entire face lit up with his laughter and their bemusement cascaded together, colliding and merging and spiralling. 

Of course the rain had yet to stop: time nor weather changed in the Eternal Page. It came in shards colouring the sky and everything beneath it in splotches of day and night, clouds and sunshine. In their panic they had forgotten that the rain was incapable of coming to them and instead charged straight in. 

Phainon weakly swung a hand, missed the first time, and tried again to slap his palm over Mydei’s mouth. He only got his cheek but it was good enough. “Stop—” his voice wavered with another bout of chortles broiling beneath the surface, “Stop laughing.”

Mydei’s face twisted with the effort of speaking through the laughter and pain, “You stop.”

“I can’t!” Phainon wailed back and his stomach ached, muscles twitching, as he cackled again through the cramps. It was too much and he collapsed against Mydei’s side where his shoulders rose and fell with his laughter. He swatted at him through the tears. “Stop stop stop.”

What may have been a scoff was ruined by Mydei’s guffaw. “You started it!” 

They bickered and tried not to keel over like children but it was difficult to feel like anything else as Phainon finally landed his hand over Mydei’s mouth only for Mydei to pinch his nose in retaliation. Their laughter tapered off and they both breathed, gasping for air in great heaving breaths like they had emerged from the most arduous battle. Just the thought made Phainon’s lips quiver into another smile and he would have lost himself in another fit if Mydei hadn’t pinched his side with a glare weakened by the ordeal. 

By an affection that lured Phainon right in. Mydei blinked as Phainon swayed forwards, as easily as the carefree wheat bending at the behest of the wind, and laid his lips against the back of his own hand pinned against Mydei’s mouth. His eyes creased, teasing and a little smug, as he met Mydei’s wide-eyed gaze. A harsh huff through Mydei’s nose broke against Phainon’s hand before a grip encircled his wrist and wrenched it away. 

“Is that the best you can do?” Mydei challenged him even as the red tips of his ears poked through his damp hair weighed flat.

A hand snagged his chin and pulled him into a kiss far less innocent than the one Phainon left behind on Mydei’s knuckles. Mydei’s firm grip on his chin, his jaw, almost his neck if only he splayed his fingers a little wider, kept him in place as Mydei kissed him like this was a competition with stakes and he couldn't afford to lose. It was a domineering but never harsh press of lips and Phainon reciprocated just as fiercely, hands tangling in Mydei’s hair and triumphant smile still curling his swollen lips even once Mydei broke away. If he wanted victory, he would have to dedicate his efforts to taking it. 

And Mydei always looked good. In the blood and dust of the battlefield, in the shadows of a storm that had caught them unaware, in Okhema’s eternal daylight and sun-bleached stone streets. In the steam of the bathhouse, the lush life of the gardens, the privacy of their chambers. But he looked best when he was well loved and carried it in his brightened eyes, brightened cheeks, brightened lips so Phainon couldn’t help but reel him in again. 

One taste wasn’t enough. More than food, drink or air, he needed an eternity of Mydei’s lips on his, hands on him, voice breaking around the breath of Phainon’s name warming the scant air between them. That alone would be enough to sustain him. 

“Greedy,” Mydei murmured but the heat behind the word wasn’t scolding. 

Phainon eyed his lips still sweet with the linden infusion. “I haven’t had my fill yet.”

Mydei clinked his tongue but indulged him with a simple, “Later.” 

For now, he stepped out of Phainon’s hold and Phainon let him go but didn’t hide his displeased pout. Mydei rolled his eyes and unclasped his chlamys, whipping it open with a flick of his wrists, and then threw it right at his face. It smelled of Mydei and the rain. 

“We may as well make a run for it before we completely dry off,” Mydei said and then he sprinted out the cavemouth. 

“Wait!” Phainon still had his chlamys. 

Because Mydei had given it to him and then ran off before Phainon could insist he take it back as protection from the rain. Despite everything else they had done, from what was practically a marriage proposal to shoving their tongues down each other’s throat, the blunt but caring gesture brought heat to Phainon’s cheeks just in time for the cold to come. 

He swung the chlamys over his head to offer some cover and dashed into the rain, chasing a streak of red, gold and white like a fallen star, a comet, blitzing through the forest as his guide. It was far from Mydei’s swiftest speed and Phainon closed his lead with ease. He was close enough to grab hold of him and wrestle the chlamys back over him despite the, frankly dishonourable, foul starting call. 

Instead, he pumped his legs and swung his arms harder and neither creaked with the fragility of something on the cusp of shattering. He grinned and shouted over the rain: “Race you home!”

Even once they left the rain behind them, they wove through the abundant trees and undergrowth, never losing sight of each other and inevitably drawing back together again. The forest met the wheatfields and it was a straight foot race from there across the prosperous plains to the cluster of homes far from the city walls. 

Phainon slammed his hands against the wooden front door, his limbs aching from the exertion after so long at rest, stagnant and listless, and sweat trickled down his neck to his heaving chest but he reared his head back and declared to Mydei just two steps behind him. “I win.”

Mydei ran a hand through his hair, dark with perspiration and not just rain. “It’s your victory. This time.”

He didn’t have time to loose a retort before the door gave under his hands. Before he could completely embarrass himself, he shifted his footing, regaining his balance, to stand tall as the door fully opened. 

Over the home’s threshold, dark eyes widened at the sight of him but he smiled, more subdued than he had been willing to show her since they arrived here; a smile that didn’t pull in the wrong directions and ache with fractures strained close to breaking point while he forced it higher. “Mum, I’m home.”

Phainon had never been good at hiding things from his parents, whether the good or bad, and all his accumulated lifetimes had failed to change that because Audata gasped, eyes glistening with water yet to become full tears, and her smile shook. With worry. With relief. 

His parents, his friends, all of them more to him than family—he must have worried them so much. It was more than he deserved but, if every transgression staining his hands gold and red wasn’t enough to change their hearts and minds, the most he could do was take their worries in those same hands and soothe them to rest. 

“Where have you both been?” Audata said, incredulous at their windswept, rain soaked, exertion flush states. “Come in. Come in. Hieronymus!”

“Thank you for the hospitality,” Mydei politely said as he crossed the threshold and Phainon checked him for signs of a fever induced delirium but Mydei only scoffed at his wide-eyed surprise. 

Not that Audata heard his politeness because Hieronymus poked his head out of a side-room, Snowy trotting out after him, and she immediately commanded him to fetch some fresh towels and garments. Hieronymus’ questions stayed upon his tongue as his eyes caught Phainon and Mydei huddled in the doorway. 

He chuckled, wavering thick with emotion but none heavy enough to drag down his amusement. “Welcome back.”

Phainon scratched the back of his head. “Sorry it took me so long.”

“What sort of adventure were you on this time?” he mused.

“We can discuss that over dinner,” Audata insisted and nudged at Hieronymus’ arm, reminding him of her previous orders, before she tentatively glanced back at them. “If you’re staying for dinner, that is.”

”Yes,” Phainon blurted and the regret at his urgency heated his cheeks a little but Mydei bumped their shoulders together and the embarrassment dulled, replaced with resolve. “If we won’t be imposing.”

After drying off with some towels and changing into fresh clothes—recognisable as Aglaea’s craftsmanship, yet tailored to his own measurements rather than his father’s even as they sat in the home of his parents—they gathered around the table where Snowy laid his head in Phainon’s lap and he scratched between his ears while Mydei rubbed his flank. The food wasn’t ready yet but his parents refused each offer of a helping hand and instead took turns dipping in and out of the kitchen while Phainon recounted their sightseeing through the forest to the mountains and Mydei occasionally added his own commentary until the dishes arrived.  

They were all Phainon’s favourite foods from when he was younger and they tasted even better now, lost and regained, than back when he thought every taste, every smell, the warmth of his home and his parents, would be there forever. 

He inhaled his food discourteously fast but it was only his parents and Mydei, none of whom remarked on Phainon’s perpetually stuffed cheeks. But each time he looked away, new food appeared on his plate.

Mydei’s hand was a grounding weight on his thigh. “Thanks to your guidance, the recreation went well.”

Audata laughed and shook her head. “With your skills, you would have been just fine but I’m glad everything worked out.” 

Phainon glanced up from his plate to his mother but she had already turned to Hieronymus in a conversation about needing to purchase more red mullet and tuna so he turned to Mydei instead. While mirth glimmered in his eyes, his demeanour gave little else away, let alone the answer to the one question Phainon conveyed with the slight incline of his head to their hosts. Mydei only, and infuriatingly, shrugged before focusing on his own meal. 

Phainon would have to wait for another time to learn just how much time Mydei spent with his parents.

“I’m not sure if Aglaea’s told you,” Mydei began. So Aglaea spoke to Phainon’s parents too. No wonder his white lie about her cookies hadn't worked, “but Cerydra is hosting a banquet in a few days time. For the Chrysos Heirs and close family.”

Of the four people at the table, Mydei was the only person who had been made aware of this. Phainon had an idea of why he was left in the dark about Cerydra’s plan and couldn’t fault them for it. He had truly brought it upon himself. 

But the hesitation was clear upon the silent look exchanged between his parents, two farmers far from military and political power invited to share a table at the Imperator’s celebration. 

Phainon smiled. “We should all go together.”

Audata’s apprehension eased and she looked to Hieronymus, nodding back at her. “If that’s what you want.”

The banquet was held two days later in the city’s largest hall cut through the center by a long table surrounded by klinai. Phainon, with his parents in-step, was the first guest to arrive. Of course, as the host Cerydra was already sat at the head of the table with Hysilens ever at her right. 

She swirled her chalice and leaned her head against her fist. “So Dux Solaris knows better than to refuse my invitation twice.”

Phainon coughed. “Yes, that was… a matter of unfortunate timing.”

She hummed, steadfast in the centre of approval and disapproval. “Call it what you will. Your appearance today tells me you’ve learned your lesson.”

His lips parted, closed, and he laughed through his nose, short and quiet. “I have.”

“Then I have no grudges to bear. Take your seats, my honoured guests.”

Although Cerydra swept her hand across the large dining set-up, she refrained from designating them seats. Hysilens stood and, again, motioned for them to choose. To avoid offending their host, their seats were close enough Cerydra could easily speak to them but Hysilens circled the number of seats open in between, an amphora in her hands. 

“This is my favourite brew,” she explained as she filled their chalices to the brim, too practiced to let even a drop spill. “Its taste is like a fish who has only ever resided in the darkest sea depths and finally feels the sun’s warmth for the first time.” 

That conveyed very little but Phainon thanked her all the same and waited for the others to arrive so they could share their first taste together. “There are a great many dishes laid out today.” 

Hysilens nodded. “This is a grand banquet. The food can be no exception.” 

“A few empty spaces remain,” he noted. Too evenly scattered across the table to be anything other than purposeful. 

Hysilens smiled, as unknowable as the waves. “Those will be filled soon enough.”

The next to arrive were Mydei and his parents. They exchanged cool greetings with Cerydra, invoking titles and formalities that felt a little out of place for the intimate seating arrangements, as though this were a diplomatic meeting and one of the very, very few—only, if it was Cerydra’s ambitions of order and conquest at the fore—that yielded results. After all, there were no wars to be waged here. 

It was obvious at a glance which parent Mydei had inherited most from. Although he shared his father’s powerful physique, his fair hair may as well have been cut from the end of his mother’s long braid. The slope of his nose, the lines of his mouth, the tilt of his eyes—it almost felt as though two Mydeis were approaching. 

Although, the closer Mydei got, the more difficult it became to look anywhere else. Kremnoans preferred their garments with less fabric, short and simple, more amenable to combat, bearing skin without shame, and Mydei was no different. Yet, for today, his chiton was long where it brushed along his calves. The fabric dipped low around his chest but still high by his standards. It cinched so tight around his waist that Phainon could have sworn the vibrant lines of his tattoos were visible through the rich white layers, embroidered with patterns too faint to discern in detail. 

His earring and necklace were the same as always but accompanied by a diadem bound around his forehead in thin golden plates around a blue jewel. It matched the bangles around his forearms, flexed to hold up a weighty black pot. 

The three of them had dressed befitting their status. For once, Mydei looked more the prince than the warrior. 

Yet Mydei looked over Phainon’s head and a small smile graced his lips with more than simple politeness. “Audata, Hieronymus,” Mydei greeted them and then, finally, his gaze slid to Phainon. So warm that the heat of it seeped beneath Phainon’s skin, yet it didn’t sear or scorch. It settled comfortably like a blanket around his shoulders and home-cooked meal in his stomach. “Phainon. These are my parents, Eurypon and Gorgo.” 

“It is an honour,” Eurypon said. The depth to his voice was, perhaps, one of the few things he had passed down to his son. 

Gorgo’s eyes held steady on them, one at a time, with the same unreadable composure that made those unfamiliar with Mydei’s minute expression squirm. 

The resemblance vanished as soon as she grinned and set her hands upon her waist. “Mydeimos speaks of your family with great fondness. In fact, I hear we may as well be one family at this point.” 

“W-we could never claim such a thing,” Hieronymus stammered out and Phainon could practically hear the sweat breaking out upon his forehead. 

Mydei sighed. Too soft to be beleaguered, it bordered on pleading as he said, “Mother.” 

But Gorgo reached up and Mydei obediently bowed his head so she didn’t need to rise onto her tiptoes to place her hand upon the crown of it. “Is it so bad I want to see my little lion married for love?” 

Mydei only hummed but the tips of his ears had flushed a shade of red that told of his embarrassment, lingering long after they chose their seats. Phainon couldn’t tease him about it, not when he was equally flustered at Gorgo’s unconcealed aspirations. Kremnoans had no qualms with speaking plainly, through their actions as much as their words, but it seemed even Mydei wasn’t immune to her openness. 

Their parents conversed amongst themselves—and Phainon pointedly ignored Gorgo inquiring what they fed Phainon for him to grow as large as a Kremnoan prince, and Audata’s regaling them with the fact he used to eat anything he could his grabby little hands on—while Mydei set the deep cooking pot on the circular table. 

The heat of it lingered on Mydei’s fingertips as they ran through Phainon’s hair, pushing his bangs back, so Mydei could leave a kiss on his forehead, quick yet unconcealed from their many spectators. 

“Hello,” Mydei greeted him again, whispered between them as quietly as the small smile creasing his eyes for Phainon and no one else. 

It was the same lovestruck look Phainon just knew was on his own face. “Hi,” he answered in turn only to drop his voice low and whispered, “Husband.”

Tension shuddered through Mydei’s body and left him rigid in its wake. Then he exhaled, deep and controlled, before glaring at him in what looked suspiciously like sulking from the Great Mydeimos The Undying. “Haikas.”

He suppressed a laugh and wagged his finger. “That’s the wrong word.”

And Phainon gave him the right one, rolling off his tongue in Kremnoan perfect in all but the accent.

Mydei’s eyes widened but he was always skilled at recovering no matter how Phainon tried to shake him and he composed himself, lips thinned into a line as stern as his imperious gaze down at Phainon lounging below him. He threw that word right back at him, drawled it in a dangerously low tone thick with the accent that he never allowed to come through when he spoke common tongue. 

Phainon swallowed, throat suddenly dry. Oh.

“Are you satisfied, husband?” Mydei teased him with a vicious smirk. 

He cleared his throat. “Yup. Very good. No notes. What did you bring?” he changed the topic as Mydei reclined on the kline beside his own. 

It was full of individual meat pies, Mydei explained, a dish stuffed full of Kremnos’ most prized game. It was traditionally the mark of an excellent hunter and a show of great respect to the ones invited to partake in the dish. 

Before Phainon could ask why Mydei had thought to bring such a thing as a guest to a banquet hosted by Cerydra, another two guests arrived: Aglaea with a plate of her oat cookies and Cipher upon her heels with a fish dish popular in Dolos. 

Hyacine entered with her grandmother and a sweet bread from one of the many sky fortresses, said to bring a smile to anyone’s faces. Then Castorice carried a stew meant to be shared on the coldest days of Aidonia’s winter and Polyxia held a dish from a nation that existed in an Amphoreus none of them had lived in. 

Anaxa and his sister, thankfully, did not present a plate of red soil. Instead they offered a perfectly acceptable platter of salad made from a recipe that originated in a hometown Anaxa had rarely spoken of. Whereas Tribios, her mother and a number of her fragments, Tribbie, Trianne and Trinnon among them, had each brought a towering stack of honeycakes made from a recipe popular in Janusopolis. 

Trianne hurried right over to Phainon, while her mother called out to be careful not to trip, and presented him the platter with a toothy grin. “We made these with mum all for Big-little Snowy. So you better not let Little-big Snowy get to them this time.” 

Snowy, despite his whining and pleading, had been left with one of their neighbours for today so Trianne’s cooking was safe. 

Phainon chuckled and helped her place them right in front of him. “Thank you, Trianne. I’ll be certain to eat every last one and let you know what I think.” 

“Okay! But—” she wagged her finger, “—no lying to Trianne. Agy will tell if you do.” 

Phainon cleared his throat and scratched the back of his nape, prickling with what was certainly Aglea’s gaze after her well-tuned ears picked up the mention of her name. “Yes. Yes, of course.” 

“Keep an eye on him, De,” she elicited Mydei’s help. “Make sure he eats every crumb.” 

He gravely nodded. “You will be the first to hear if he goes back on his word.” 

Assurance given, Trianne flew back off to reunite with her mother, hurtling straight into her open arms. Phainon had to commend the woman whose attention was newly divided between so many children, yet she embraced all of them with love and set a kiss against Trianne’s temple as they took their seats. 

Mydei tipped his head towards the honeycakes. “You heard her.” 

Phainon eyed the tall stack of them. “It seems everyone brought their own offerings except for me. I’m almost embarrassed.”

He scoffed, not believing his coyness for even a moment. “You’re the guest of honour,” he said and raised his full chalice in a near mocking toast yet Phainon only leaned into his palm, grinning lazily. “But if you must atone then you can do so by enjoying the banquet in full.”

He chuckled and knocked their chalices together. “I will, I will. But I have to say, Cerydra’s methods are rather… blunt.”

Not that the other Heirs had been particularly subtle in their attempts to test his appetite but Cerydra’s was especially grandiose. He wasn’t sure how he would have squirmed his way out of this situation. Cerydra certainly wouldn’t have let him go as easily as the others had. 

Mydei shrugged, sipping his pomegranate juice. Warmth simmered in Phainon’s chest at the dark droplet left behind at the corner of his lip, jealousy heating like a stone left in the sun too long that, when touched, startled but didn’t quite burn. 

Mydei swiped it away with his thumb and set the chalice aside as he absently licked it off. “Remember Mount Othrys?” 

“Be more specific.”

There were many Mouth Othrys’ in his memory. It was one of Amphoreus’ largest mountain ranges, such a feat of nature hardly disappeared between lifetimes.

“The mountain pass was treacherous. Near impassable. Large caravans of warriors, supplies, or commerce weren’t even worth consideration,” Mydei continued. “Until Cerydra demanded a new pass be cut through the mountains.”

That did knock some memories loose. It had been an arduous task and many assigned to mine through the mountain’s unforgiving stone had perished along the way but, eventually, through sacrifice, bloodshed and tyranny, even nature itself bent to Cerydra’ will. When confronted with the impossible, she forced her own way forward. 

Phainon laughed through his nose. “Mydei, are you comparing me to a bunch of rocks?”

“Sometimes, you make me question whether your mind is full of them.”

He unleashed a wounded sound, a suitable retort springing to mind, but he was interrupted by another voice. 

“Everyone,” Cerydra called, like a general on the battlefield, without the need to shout over the chatter that had proliferated the hall and fell silent at a single word. “I want to extend my gratitude to each and every one of you who finds themselves at this celebration today. Through the most troubling of times, you all demonstrated the strength that can only be found within humanity. A will that shapes history and the world itself. Now, it is time to indulge in the fruits of your efforts. To begin, Hysilens will be giving a performance.” 

There was still one empty seat, laid out with an empty plate and a filled chalice but no one questioned the obvious absence. Upon the stage, Hysilens was joined by her fellow sirens and her long fingers grasped an instrument free from the responsibility of violence until it was whittled down to a weapon. Their voices rang out in harmony from one song to the next, filling the hall with music that faded into the backdrop of their dining and conversations only to crest with renewed vigour, rising like the tide that would soon recede and return again in time. 

The dishes they had each prepared with their own hands were passed around the table, allowing everyone to have their share and their fill, and Phainon savoured it all. The rich flavours entangled with care, the purposeful textures, shapes and colours to each dish that arrived in front of him before he could think to search for it, the air enlivened by the lot of them gathered together. He glutted himself on it all, unaware he had been starving until the hunger, a near insatiable voracity, rumbled through his body the moment he looked around at his dearest companions indulging in unadulterated merriment and realised there was nothing stopping them from having this each and every day. 

That spare plate had been filled with food even as the seat remained empty. There was only one person it could be for. When Cerydra raised her chalice and they all followed, Phainon stared at their absent guest and his throat ached around a swallow of wine, sweet and gentle where it warmed him through like sunlight through the depths of still waters, gentler than the many suns he had devoured as they attempted to burn down their prison, but the pain cascading down to his steady heart was duller than he expected at the memory of the young girl who had gotten to know him before anyone else. Whose hope in his broken, battered body and mind had never faded. 

Two light taps hit his shoulder and he turned, Mydei’s eyes and hand on him, knowing what he had seen and silently offering strength if he needed. But Phainon smiled, shook his head and pointed at the sliced pomegranate on Mydei’s plate. He offered it without hesitation but Phainon leaned closer before it could settle on his own plate and sank his teeth in. The juices burst and ran down Mydei’s fingers, who hissed a quiet curse in Kremnoan he had yet to realise Phainon had learned—then forgotten and learned again—before switching to an Okheman insult towards his etiquette. It was sweet but sharp, yet that made it all the more rewarding as he swallowed it down. 

After so long spent clawing their way up the merciless path to tomorrow, they had arrived at the true dawn. Not unscathed. But whole enough that, together, they could each extend a helping hand to mend the bleeding wounds, tender scars, and old cracks that still remained.