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dotpointping · 2 days ago

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AHHH THIS IS SO CUTE

a match made in heaven.

summary: When the Duke of Castrum Kremnos returns from war, his friend enlists the help of Amphoreus’s most renowned matchmaker to find him love. What neither expected was for the duke to fall for the matchmaker herself.

contains: (exactly!!) 6.0k wc, female reader, historical au (the fic is actually inspired by Miss Pendleton!! if u like bridgerton or pride and prejudice, i recommend reading the manhwa!!! it’s still ongoing unfortunately but i guarantee it’s a fun read!! +++ my knowledge about historical aus all come from reading various rofan manhwas so some things might not make sense AT ALL i apologize in advance), mydei as a duke, aglaea as a countess, phainon as a marquis, aglaea and mydei being ooc??, slow burn-ish, tons of banter between the characters (i like my dialogues unfortunately 💔)

note: OKAY SOOOO…… this was supposed to be a one-shot but then i thought “oohh it would be better to make it into a series instead” so here it is 😁 as a disclaimer, updates will be slow. my classes actually start next week 💔

PART ONE: matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match

There is talk, as there always is, within the drawing rooms and parlors of Amphoreus.

The Duke of Castrum Kremnos has returned.

Fresh from the battlefield and crowned in victory, the duke has brought with him news that the empire’s enemies have been soundly defeated. The war, it seems, is over. And in celebration of this long-awaited triumph, Her Imperial Majesty—Empress Cerydra—has decreed a week of celebration, set to begin at the dawn of next month. And at the heart of it all: a grand ball stretching across three nights, with the final evening dedicated entirely to the duke and his loyal knights.

The capital is positively alive with excitement. Commoners cheer in the streets, and nobles raise their glasses, toasting the name of the man who has brought them peace—and, of course, the excuse to dress in their finest.

Which brings everyone, quite naturally, to The Garmentmaker—the most exclusive tailor in all the empire. Known for its impeccable designs and unreachable waitlists, it is the place where only the most elite come to prepare for such splendid affairs. The shop is run by none other than your closest friend, the clever and stylish Countess Aglaea.

And while you are merely the daughter of a baron, Aglaea insists you are far above such titles. In her eyes, you are the elite. And so, with needle, thread, and unwavering warmth, she has sworn that no other noble lady, herself included, shall shine brighter than you at the ball.

You think it absurd—Aglaea’s insistence on dressing you like royalty—especially when she could be amassing much more fortune by focusing her attention on far more influential clients. And yet, here she is, adjusting the fall of velvet over your shoulders with a sigh that suggests the fate of the empire rests upon your hemline.

“My dear,” she begins, voice honeyed with fond exasperation as she takes your measurements, “you may only be the daughter of a baron, but you are a noble all the same. You are an important figure.”

Then she pauses, lips curled into a secretive smile. “And perhaps,” she says lightly, “this festival may offer the famed matchmaker of Amphoreus a chance to meet her own match.”

The matchmaker of Amphoreus. Right.

A title given with reverence by the court. You and Aglaea have long been known as the blessed daughters of Mnestia, the Titan of Romance. Aglaea, radiant and sophisticated, was said to have inherited Their beauty. With it, she crafted garments so exquisite they seemed kissed by gold itself, earning her the moniker Lady Goldweaver.

You, on the other hand, were marked by Mnestia’s love. There was something in your words and your intuition that seemed to nudge hearts closer. You turned chance encounters into lifelong partnerships, your reputation swelling with every successful courtship. Thus, they began to call you Lady Heartstring—a name whispered fondly behind fans and across ballroom floors, as if you alone held the threads of love in your hands.

And yet, for all the pairings you’ve orchestrated… your own heart remains untouched.

You let out a soft huff. “Instead of me, how about we talk about your romantic pursuits, hm? You and Lord Anaxagoras have quite the chemistry.”

Aglaea doesn’t even glance up as she scribbles something onto her notepad, her tone dry. “If by chemistry you mean our mutual disdain, then yes—we do have quite the chemistry.”

You stifle a giggle. “Your heart may be immune to my touch, but I daresay even Mnestia would raise a brow at the tension between you two.”

“My heart,” she says, matter-of-factly, “is quite content without meddling fingers trying to pair it off with a man who once insulted my embroidery technique.”

“Unforgivable,” you declare dramatically, placing a hand over your chest as though wounded on her behalf.

“Precisely.”

You sigh with no small flourish, your voice dipping into mock melancholy. “How tragic. As your dearest friend, I only wish to see you happy and madly in love. And yet, you insist on shooing me away every time I attempt to intervene.”

“Because you are relentless,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “And because I am happy. My days are full, my dresses are perfect, and I sleep peacefully knowing I am not being plagued by any man’s poetic nonsense.”

You give her a thoughtful hum. “Perhaps. But even you must admit that somewhere deep in that heart of yours lies a wish for someone who sees you—not just Lady Goldweaver of Amphoreus, but Aglaea, as she is.”

For a moment, she pauses. Her pencil hovers in the air, and something unreadable flickers in her eyes. But then, with the skill of someone well-practiced in deflection, she turns the inquiry right back at you.

“And what of you, Lady Heartstring?” she asks. “You long for love just as much as anyone else, though you pretend not to.”

You smile softly, gaze lowering. “Indeed. It is the great irony of my life, is it not? That the blessing given to me by Mnestia—to see the threads of others—should fail to reveal my own.”

“Perhaps your thread is waiting to be pulled.”

You give a wistful laugh. “Or perhaps it’s been tied in a knot so stubborn, even the gods can’t undo it.”

She looks at you then—truly looked—and for a breath, the room falls quiet beneath the weight of unspoken longing. Then, just as swiftly, the moment passes. Aglaea flicks her pencil against the page with a smile.

“Well, we’d best dress you beautifully then, in case your knot begins to loosen at the ball.”

You grin. “Make it red. So if my fate appears, they won’t miss me.”

Marquis Phainon is worried for his best friend.

Though the Duke of Castrum Kremnos has returned from war unscathed—body intact, reputation elevated—Phainon is far more concerned about the man’s heart… or rather, the complete absence of anyone occupying it.

At present, he is pacing the study of Mydeimos’ estate, tucked deep within the northern reaches of Amphoreus. One might assume the dukedom mirrors its master—cold, brooding, perhaps a little bleak—but in truth, it is far from it. The lands are lush with wheat fields that sway like golden tides beneath the sun. Greenery clings to the foothills of towering mountains, and the sky stretches wide and blue, just as it does in the capital.

The only thing that leaves something to be desired is the garden, which appears to be designed more for tactical ambushes than floral admiration—but then again, Phainon reminds himself, this is a territory devoted to the Titan of Strife. Aestheticness is, perhaps, not a priority.

What is a priority, however, is dragging the Duke of Castrum Kremnos to the ball being held in his honor.

“The Empress herself is hosting a ball in your name,” Phainon says, arms crossed as he leans against a heavy bookshelf. “And you’re planning not to attend? You might as well have stayed on the battlefield—that’s practically blasphemy.”

Mydeimos, seated in his armchair, lets out a grunt—low and noncommital. In the language of Castrum Kremnos, it roughly translates to I don’t want to, and I hope you stop talking.

Naturally, Phainon does not stop talking.

“In fact,” he continues, brightening as though struck by divine inspiration, “perhaps what you need is proper incentive. Someone to make the ball worth attending.”

Mydeimos raises a brow, and Phainon recognizes it for what it is: the most enthusiasm the man is capable of showing when not actively at war.

“I could introduce you to someone,” Phainon offers lightly, circling the room now with purposeful intent. “Not just anyone, mind you. Someone exceptional. Beautiful, of course—but more importantly, intelligent. Skilled in the matters of the heart.”

The duke doesn’t speak, but his silence is the sort that asks, Who?

Phainon grins.

“Lady Heartstring.”

That earns him an actual sound—somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. “That court woman who arranges marriages like playing cards?”

“She is nothing like that,” Phainon says, offended on your behalf. “She is discerning. Elegant. And, I dare say, quite impossible to fool. If there is anyone in Amphoreus who could help you—both on the dance floor and in the pursuit of something more permanent—it would be her.”

Mydeimos closes his eyes like a man praying for strength. “I am not in pursuit of anything permanent,” he mutters.

Phainon waves a hand. “Of course you aren’t. That’s exactly why you need her.”

He pauses, then leans in, lowering his voice with a glint in his eyes. “And if nothing else, you’ll be able to tell the Empress you were personally escorted into society by the finest matchmaker Amphoreus has ever seen. That should keep her satisfied.”

At that, Mydeimos opens one eye, stares at him, and sighs.

Phainon grins wider. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“It’s not,” Mydeimos says flatly, brows furrowed in that trademark expression of his. “I have no time for such… things. I went to war for Amphoreus, not for attention or entertainment.”

Phainon pouts. “Is ‘having fun’ not in the Kremnoan dictionary, too?”

That earns him a scathing glare, sharp enough to make a lesser man shrivel. But Phainon, being well-acquainted with such looks, only grins wider.

“I’m just saying,” he continues, strolling toward the window with the casual arrogance of a man who knows he’s right, “this place could use a delicate touch. Your roses are withering. The garden looks like it’s preparing for another war. Even your people would be delighted at the sight of a paramour gracing these halls.”

Mydeimos doesn’t even blink. “Why are you so invested in my romantic life? Shouldn’t you worry about your own?”

Phainon laughs, rich and unbothered. “Oh, I’m not worried about mine at all. I can go out whenever and wherever I wish. The capital adores me. But you—you don’t even leave your estate unless summoned by duty or bloodshed. If someone is in love with you, they’ll have to scale these cliffs and write sonnets on your gates just to get your attention.”

Mydeimos doesn’t respond immediately. He just looks at Phainon with the tired sort of exasperation only a best friend could summon.

“Perhaps,” Phainon continues, more seriously now, “you should stay in the capital. At least until the festival ends. I wouldn’t mind housing you. Mother is still in the south, and the manor is far too quiet with just me and the staff.”

Mydeimos raises an eyebrow. “And what would I do in the capital? Be paraded around like a prized stallion? Act friendly toward my so-called romantic prospects?”

“Exactly!” Phainon claps his hands, delighted. “You’re getting me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are! And besides, it’s not parading. It’s mingling. Courting. Possibly dancing.”

“Titans, no.”

Phainon grins. “Just imagine it—you, the gruff and brooding war hero, waltzing with a lady—or a lord— under the chandeliers while the court looks on in awe. A tale for the bards!”

Mydeimos looks as if he’d rather return to the battlefield.

Phainon claps him on the shoulder. “It’s settled, then. I’ll have the staff prepare your room.”

Mydeimos doesn’t respond, only sighs. At least he didn’t say no.

You never imagined you’d be having tea with the Marquis of Aedes Elysiae—and yet, here you are, seated across from him, teacup in hand.

There had been no letter. No advance notice. So yes, you were surprised—and mildly panicked—when he arrived without warning at your estate this morning, dressed impeccably and smiling as though he were dropping by a friend’s home rather than a baron’s daughter he barely knew.

Marquis Phainon is, after all, a regular topic of court gossip. There is hardly a tea party where his name is not mentioned, usually alongside words like charming, eligible, or unfairly handsome. He is easily one of the most sought-after bachelors in all of Amphoreus. A friend of Aglaea’s, yes—and while you’ve exchanged pleasantries in passing, you wouldn’t go so far as to call him your own.

Still, here he is—sitting in your family’s garden and drinking tea.

You watch him over the rim of your cup as he surveys the flowerbeds with animated curiosity. He reminds you faintly of a dog—bright-eyed, endlessly energetic, and unbothered by unfamiliar places. Aglaea once told you as much. He’s like a well-trained retriever, she said, Loyal and far too friendly for his own good.

“You have a wonderful garden, Lady [Name],” he says, grinning as he finally stops scanning the roses. “Your roses, in particular, are a sight to see. You’ve managed to grow multiple colors of them! You only see that kind of variation in the Marmoreal Palace.”

You laugh softly at his delight. Like a dog, indeed.

“Thank you, Lord Phainon. It is with Her Imperial Majesty’s generosity that it was made possible. I once admired them during a visit to her gardens, and she gifted me the seeds not long after.”

Phainon’s grin softens into something more sincere. “Please—just Phainon. A friend of Aglaea is a friend of mine.”

“Of course, Phainon,” you say, offering a small smile. “Then you may call me by just my name as well.”

He inclines his head in agreement, then gestures toward the blooms again. “Did you grow them yourself?”

You nod. “Yes. Though not without the help of our gardener, naturally. But I do enjoy gardening—it’s one of my many hobbies, alongside matchmaking.”

At that, Phainon hums, his gloved finger tracing the rim of his teacup in idle circles. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—purpose, perhaps—and then he sets the cup down with a gentle clink.

“That,” he says, “is precisely why I’ve come here unannounced.”

You tilt your head at his words, brow arched in mild amusement. “To talk about gardening?”

Phainon laughs—warm, rich, and entirely unoffended. “Beautiful, intelligent, and funny—you certainly possess all the qualities a man would deeply appreciate.” He lifts his teacup towards his lips, before continuing, “But no, I’m here for your matchmaking services.”

You blink, caught genuinely off guard.

Of all the reasons the Marquis of Aedes Elysiae might show up unannounced on your estate, this had not crossed your mind.

“You’re seeking help with courtship?” you ask, gently.

He laughs again—this time with a hand pressed over his chest, as if the very idea tickles him. “Oh no, no. You misunderstand, my lady. I’m not here for myself.”

You lean back slightly, still trying to make sense of it. “Then…?”

“I come on behalf of a dear friend,” he explains. “Someone who I believe could greatly benefit from a little guidance. He’s attending the upcoming ball, and I would like to see him matched with someone who might help… thaw out his heart, so to speak.”

You smile, intrigued now. “Ah. So it’s a rescue mission.”

“You could say that,” he replies, grin widening. “He’s terribly stubborn, entirely uninterested in court gossip, and woefully inexperienced in the language of love. But he is noble, loyal, and deserving of happiness—even if he refuses to admit it.”

“May I know who this friend of yours is?”

Phainon sits up straighter, as though proud of what he’s about to reveal. “Oh! It’s Duke Mydeimos of Castrum Kremnos.”

You nearly spill your tea.

The Duke of Castrum Kremnos? The infamous war hero? The brooding recluse who is spoken of in court with a mixture of reverence and mild fear?

“I see,” you manage, carefully setting down your cup. “That is… quite the assignment.”

“Indeed,” Phainon says, entirely unfazed. “Which is why I’ve come to the best.”

You look at him, still not fully convinced he isn’t joking. But there’s no jest in his gaze—only hope, and a hint of mischief.

“You wish for me to find the Duke of Castrum Kremnos a… romantic partner,” you say slowly.

He beams. “Or at the very least, introduce him to the possibility that love is not the enemy.”

You can’t help the quiet laugh that slips past your lips. “And you believe I am the one to do that?”

“I know you are,” Phainon replies, confident on your behalf. “After all, who else aside from Aglaea has the blessing of Mnestia pulsing in their very soul?”

“You sure have a way with words.” You shake your head, smiling with restrained amusement. “Now I understand why there are so many noble ladies at your feet.”

An awkward laugh slips from Phainon’s lips, and for once, his confidence falters—just slightly. “I didn’t mean to sound as though I was simply flattering you.”

“No, no,” you say quickly, chuckling. “I’m not offended. Flattery, when well-delivered, is always appreciated.”

He relaxes at that, and you tilt your head, growing more serious. “So then… how will I be meeting His Grace?”

At once, he perks up. “Mydei will be staying in the capital for the duration of the festival. He’s agreed—albeit begrudgingly—to reside at my manor while he’s here.”

You raise your hand, stopping him before he gets too far ahead.

“I couldn’t possibly meet him at your home, Phainon. Even if I am well-regarded within the court, it would still risk my reputation. A lady calling at a gentleman’s residence—unaccompanied. You do understand the implications.”

Phainon immediately sobers. “Of course. Forgive me. That was thoughtless of me. I was only eager. The idea of my dear friend finally experiencing courtship… well, it made me forget myself.”

You soften at his sincerity and offer a warm smile. “I understand. Your intentions are kind, and your enthusiasm is admirable.”

He nods, watching you with quiet attention as you tap a thoughtful finger against the porcelain of your teacup.

“Perhaps,” you say slowly, “we could arrange our meetings somewhere more discreet. The Garmentmaker, for instance. Aglaea and I are already close, and her shop has that lovely little parlor tucked behind the fitting rooms. It would allow for some measure of privacy without raising suspicion.”

Phainon’s eyes brighten again, now with genuine relief. “Brilliant. Aglaea would make a marvelous co-conspirator. I imagine she’ll be delighted to assist.”

“She’ll protest, of course,” you say, tone dry. “But only once, for formality’s sake.”

The two of you share a laugh.

“I’ll speak with her,” you continue, smoothing the fabric of your skirts. “And once the space is ready… we’ll begin.”

Phainon grins, the mischief returning. “He has no idea what he’s walking into.”

“No,” you say, sipping your tea with a knowing smile. “But I do hope he comes out of it better than he went in.”

That draws another laugh from Phainon—louder this time, full of boyish amusement. “Indeed. Hopefully, your efforts will not be in vain.”

You smile in response, ever poised. But inwardly, something in you wavers.

The Duke of Castrum Kremnos. A man of war, not words. A figure steeped in discipline, silence, and the sort of solitude few choose and even fewer understand.

You’ve helped stubborn nobles find their sweethearts, healed the wounds of shattered courtships, and even convinced a viscount to marry for love rather than land—but this?

This feels different. This feels like walking into a storm with no umbrella, only purpose.

Still, you lift your cup again with grace, masking your hesitation behind porcelain and poise.

How ambitious.

Mydei does not like the capital.

From the moment he arrived in Okhema two days ago, he could feel eyes on him. Whispers chased his footsteps through the plaza and lingered at the edges of shopfronts. Though hushed, they weren’t quiet enough.

“Who is he?”

“Is he a noble?”

“How handsome!”

“Could he be a prince from another country?”

“His clothes are a bit outdated, are they not?”

It had taken every shred of discipline honed on the battlefield not to turn on his heel and ride back to Castrum Kremnos immediately.

The capital also demands too much of a person. Every expression must be curated, every gesture deliberate. And the clothing—layered, tight, gilded with excess—makes him feel more like a mannequin than a man. In Kremnos, he could walk freely in his open robes, adorned in ceremonial armor and loose fabrics, and no one would question him. There, he is a duke and a warrior. Here, he is little more than a curiosity dressed in yesterday’s fashion.

And yet here he is in Okhema, enduring the chatter and the fabric and the expectation.

All because of Phainon.

He had left the duchy in the hands of Krateros, his old teacher and most trusted advisor, while he wasted his time trying to appear civil and compliant in the capital.

Now, he waits inside a finely perfumed parlor, being fussed over by the famous Countess Aglaea as she murmurs critiques about his current ensemble.

“Outdated,” she says again, as if he hasn’t heard it three times already. “Entirely too militant. You’ll frighten the nobles before you even greet them.”

He’s not sure whether she means to insult him or simply state facts. Either way, he endures it with his usual stoic silence.

Phainon had said this place was the most sought-after tailor shop in all of Okhema. That only the most elite of nobles could even step inside without an appointment. And now, the marquis’s grand plan is in motion: Mydei, standing atop a small raised platform, awaiting the arrival of a woman he has never met—Lady Heartstring.

The name is already enough to make him wary.

According to Phainon, she is capable, intuitive, beloved, and adept at matters of the heart. Mydei doesn’t know what he’s meant to do with a woman like that—other than waste both of their time.

Still, he remains.

Because Phainon wouldn’t stop talking. Because Krateros encouraged him to go. Because, despite everything, something—some foolish, fleeting part of him—is curious.

So he waits, being measured in silence by Lady Goldweaver, in a parlor laced with soft music and lavender, dressed like a man forced into a cage of silk, and wonders what this Lady Heartstring is like—this woman who dares to meddle with hearts not her own.

Then the door to the parlor opens, and Mydei’s eyes instinctively follow the motion.

You step into the room with a kind of grace that cannot be taught—measured, effortless, not a single thread out of place. Your gown is modest in cut but striking in color, tailored to accentuate without demanding attention.

Poised, certainly. Composed and beautiful in the way all noblewomen of Okhema are: refined like porcelain and framed in light.

And yet, there’s something behind your eyes that makes him pause.

Not softness. Something keener. A clarity that reads the room without a word. You do not immediately speak, nor rush to fill the room with polite chatter. You simply assess him with the same calm efficiency he’s used to seeing on the battlefield.

It unsettles him.

And Mydei is never unsettled. Not even on a battlefield.

“[Name],” Countess Aglaea says, turning toward you as you close the door behind you with careful gentleness. The frown that had long been etched into her face while critiquing his outdated attire is now gone, replaced with something far softer. There’s no smile, but her eyes carry warmth. “You’ve arrived. May I present His Grace, Duke Mydeimos of Castrum Kremnos.”

You curtsy, elegant as expected, a smile blooming across your face like spring unfurling as you near them. “It’s good to finally meet you, Your Grace. I hope Okhema has been kind to you so far.”

So this is the infamous Lady Heartstring—the woman Phainon swears can untangle hearts with the ease of slipping ribbon through a needle’s eye.

“Kind is a strong word,” Mydei says flatly. “But at the very least, no one’s tried to kill me yet. So I suppose that counts as hospitality.”

Your smile remains, unfazed.

“The capital is a different kind of battlefield,” you say lightly. “In war, enemies reveal themselves by the sword. In court, they do so with a compliment and a smile. I imagine you’ll find Okhema more treacherous in that regard.”

Mydei blinks.

He hadn’t expected you to meet his sarcasm so easily—let alone turn it on its head with such poise. No fluttering lashes, no nervous laughter. Just calm, composed insight. The kind that cuts cleaner than a blade.

He doesn’t say it aloud, but he’s impressed.

“Where’s the marquis?” you ask, letting the subject slip away with practiced ease. “I assumed he’d be here. He seemed very invested in our meeting.”

Mydei exhales through his nose—an attempt at a sigh, perhaps, though it comes out more like a scoff.

“Phainon had other things to do today,” he says, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve like it’s of more interest than the conversation. “But he told me to extend his regards.”

You hum. “I see. Well, I appreciate the message nonetheless.”

Countess Aglaea, who has been quiet—no doubt trying not to interrupt the first impression—speaks up with brisk efficiency. “I’ll leave you two for a while. Help yourselves to the refreshments while I tend to the main room. If you need anything, simply ring the bell.”

You incline your head. “Thank you, Aglaea.”

With that, she exits quietly, leaving behind the soft click of the door and a silence that settles between you like a held breath.

Now, it’s just the two of you.

Mydei doesn’t move, still standing stiffly on the small platform where he’d been measured. His arms remain loosely folded behind his back, shoulders straight, posture perfect. A soldier at rest, but never off guard.

“Please, take a seat, Your Grace,” you say, gesturing gracefully to the empty chair across from you. There’s a flicker of amusement in your eyes as you note how stiffly he holds himself.

“Mydeimos is fine,” he mutters as he lowers himself into the chair. You sit across from him.

“Very well. Lord Mydeimos, then.”

He grunts.

Okhema and their damned formalities.

“Would you like sugar with your tea?” you ask, already reaching for the porcelain set on the table. “I believe Aglaea left us a brew of white tea.”

“Sure. Two cubes is fine.”

You nod, wordless, and begin preparing his cup.

One hand steadies the teapot while the other drops in the sugar with a quiet plink, plink. A quick stir with a silver spoon, and you slide it across to him with the ease of someone long practiced in hospitality.

He accepts it with a nod of thanks, lifting the delicate cup but not drinking yet. The silence stretches between you tautly, accompanied only by the soft clink of spoon on porcelain and the faint strains of music echoing from the shop’s main room.

Still, he sits rigid as ever. He takes a sip. Maybe the tea will help him relax.

And then—

“Are you certain you’re comfortable with me meddling in your romantic affairs?” you ask. “I understand this wasn’t your idea, and I don’t intend to press if you’d rather not proceed. It would be inconsiderate of me to continue just because Lord Phainon requested it.”

Mydei looks up.

Your tone is soft, and your gaze is kind. You remind him, in a fleeting way, of his mother.

He exhales.

“It’s an inconvenience,” he admits. “But I’d like to see it through.”

You raise a brow, curious.

“I’m not fond of wasting time,” he adds, setting his cup down. “But I am curious. I want to see how this goes. A warrior doesn’t back down from a fight.”

“A warrior doesn’t back down from a fight,” you echo softly, a smile blossoming on your lips. “Then consider this a different kind of battle.”

He gives you a look, cautious and skeptical.

“Then,” you say at last, setting your cup down and folding your hands neatly on your lap, “let’s begin with something simple: what kind of partner do you prefer?”

“I don’t have one.”

You blink. “Pardon?”

“I don’t have a preference,” he replies, tone flat but not unkind. “I don’t think about that sort of thing.”

You hum, tilting your head ever so slightly, as though he’s a riddle you’ve just been challenged to solve. “You mean to say you’ve lived this long without ever once considering what you might want in a partner?”

“I’ve been at war since I was nine,” he says, not as an excuse but as a plain fact. “I was taught to use a sword before I was taught to dance. The battlefield doesn’t leave much room for thoughts of courtship.”

“How tragic,” you say, your voice light, but the sentiment underneath is sincere. “All this time and not even one moment spared for romance? Not even a fleeting interest?”

“I’ve had proposals,” he concedes, lifting his cup once more. “Mostly from ambitious houses looking for an alliance. I turned them all down.”

Your brow arches. “Why?”

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t want to marry someone I don’t know. Or worse—someone who only sees the title.”

A soft sound of amusement escapes you as you rest your cheek on your hand. “So you do have standards, then. That sounds suspiciously like a preference to me.”

The cup stills mid-air. He eyes you from behind the rim, the faintest flicker of thought moving across his expression. He doesn’t argue. Instead, he exhales. The sound is closer to a sigh than a laugh.

“…Perhaps.”

“That’s a start,” you murmur. “But no preferences is still a preference—it tells me what not to expect.”

“And what exactly do you expect?” he asks, brow raised.

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you lean back slightly, tilting your head again—just like when you first entered the room and measured him up with your gaze.

“I expect you to be difficult,” you reply with a certainty that nearly makes him smile.

His mouth twitches at the corner, but you catch it. As if you’ve struck a nerve he didn’t expect to find, and what’s even more surprising is: it’s not entirely unpleasant.

“Difficult,” he echoes, leaning back slightly in his chair. “You say it like it’s a challenge.”

“Only because it is.”

You reach for the teapot again, refilling both cups with practiced grace. The scent of warm white tea and softened sugar wafts through the air between you. Outside the window, the city bells of Okhema toll the hour—late afternoon already.

Time in the capital always flows faster when the mind is engaged.

“Usually,” you say, as you set the pot down, “people come to me because they want help. They’re eager, open—even desperate, sometimes. But Lord Mydeimos is… different.”

He arches an eyebrow at your words.

“You’re only here because Lord Phainon asked it of you,” you add, lifting your teacup to your lips.

“And yet it was my own decision to stay,” he replies evenly, “to see where this would lead me.”

That makes you smile. “Indeed. You’re quite easy to persuade, aren’t you? You say no at first, but come around on the second attempt.”

He squints at you. “How would you know that?”

“You remind me of Aglaea. She’s the same—proud at first, but always gives in when she sees something that might be worth her time.”

Mydei scoffs, half amused. “Then I suppose you and Phainon are one and the same. Persuasive.”

“In that regard,” you concede with a small shrug, “yes, I suppose we are.”

A short beat of quiet passes between you before he says, “Then tell me, Lady Heartstring… How does one persuade a man who doesn’t know what he wants?”

You meet his gaze, unflinching. “You start by giving him choices.”

Mydei shifts in his seat. His spine straightens, shoulders drawing slightly back, as if bracing for something unseen. There’s a stillness to him now, like a warrior pausing on the edge of a battlefield—not to strike, but to study.

It’s the posture of someone trained to read the terrain before the clash, who knows that knowledge, too, is a kind of weapon.

“Alright,” he says. “Then give me one.”

You tilt your head. “One…?”

“Choice,” he clarifies. “Let’s say I was looking for someone. What would you suggest?”

Your fingers pause just briefly around the handle of your teacup, his question settling in the air like a challenge.

“Your options depend on what it is you value,” you start, “but since you have no clear idea of what it is yet, then the best way forward is to broaden your exposure. Meet more nobles. Attend more gatherings.”

Mydei raises a brow. “You’re suggesting I mingle with the nobles.”

You nod, clearly pleased he caught on. “Precisely. The more people you meet, the better you’ll understand what does and doesn't resonate with you. Experience creates clarity.”

Then, a smile begins to blossom on your face. “In fact, what say you attend a gathering hosted by yours truly? My family holds small soirees from time to time. Nothing too grand—just a little evening of music, good food, and conversation. People often attend to meet new acquaintances, and occasionally, a potential match. Perhaps you may find someone who may pique your interest.”

Mydei hesitates.

He doesn’t like gatherings—especially in Okhema.

The nobles here are… different. Too demanding. Too sensitive. Too loud in their silences and too subtle in their cruelty. They’re sharp and flashy—always watching, always speaking in half-truths. In Kremnos, gatherings are relaxed, often around a fire or a shared meal after a long day’s work. No posturing, no performance. It’s a celebration—people drink, sing, and dance. No one would care about what you wear or who you’re seen with.

But here in the capital, it’s all masks and maneuvering. One wrong word—one misplaced glance—and the hounds of gossip begin to circle. The next thing you know, your name is already on someone’s tongue, twisted into a tale you never gave them permission to tell.

Not that Mydei personally cares for what they say about him, but Krateros does. Phainon, too. And truth be told, it is exhausting.

You must sense his reluctance because you speak again. “Of course, there’s no pressure. You’re not obligated to accept.”

He frowns, thoughtful, then exhales through his nose. “It’s fine. I’ll go.”

Your eyes light up in surprise. “Truly?”

He gives a gruff nod. “Truly.”

You clasp your hands in delight. “That’s wonderful to hear! I’ll have invitations sent to both you and Lord Phainon. I imagine he’ll enjoy the excuse to escape his duties for a night.”

“Good,” Mydei says. “He’s the reason I’m in this mess to begin with. He might as well suffer with me.”

“I think he’d find the suffering enjoyable,” you tease lightly. “Especially if it means getting to meddle.”

Mydei lets out an undignified snort.

“I’ll help you ease into it,” you offer kindly. “I can introduce you to a few people. Maybe you’ll even find it hard to say no once the wine is poured and the music starts.

“I already said yes,” he says. “No need to market it like “festival.”

“I only meant to be thorough,” you respond. “Besides, I’d like for you to enjoy yourself. Even if you don't meet someone of interest, at least you’ll leave with something to say you tried.”

“I doubt I’ll enjoy myself,” Mydei mutters, but there’s no real bite in it.

Your smile softens and you nod, as if you knew he’d say just that. “If you find that you’ve had enough, you may excuse yourself early. While I would like to help you find a match, your comfort matters more.”

He doesn’t answer.

The tea between you has gone lukewarm, and the city beyond the windows is dipped in late afternoon gold. Whatever resistance remains in Mydei’s shoulders eases just slightly, just enough to count.

And you, gracious as ever, pour him one last cup.

PART TWO (soon!)

note: probably will not make a masterlist for this series. i’m too lazy to make one i’m so sorry 💔💔

i hope this was a fun read tho 🥹 ik it’s got TONSSSS of dialogues but that’s because i enjoyed writing the banter between the characters… it’s also gonna be a bit of a slow burn??? depends on my mood honestly!! but i really wanna build up mydei’s and mc’s relationship first before we get to the exciting part (and by exciting, i mean when they finally realize their feelings LOL). but knowing me, i don’t really plan and jot down my ideas first when i write something so everything i have in here 🧠 will either get scrapped, forgotten, or they will be just as i imagined

i accidentally posted this fic prematurely on ao3 when i meant to edit the chapter akfbjshfhe i deleted it tho and copy-pasted everything again from ellipsus to ao3 (i dont understand how to export using a phone…..). dumbass!!! anyway, sorry for the yapfest. might do it again xd.

also posted in ao3!

#dot.reblogs

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