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Crown Of Teeth

Gladiator! Phainon x Princess! Reader

synopsis: In the golden empire of Ochema, beauty is a currency, marriage is a weapon, and loyalty is a fickle thing. Promised to the moon-born prince of Kremnos, you are meant to bring peace between two ancient powers. But peace is shattered when a foreign man—beautiful, unknowable, and brutal—emerges from beyond the horizon and wins more than just glory in the arena. Winning you in blood, the balance between empires shatters. Torn between duty, desire, and ruin—you must decide what survives: the crown, the war… or your heart.

trigger warnings: psychological and emotional trauma, gaslighting/manipulation, power imbalance, implied coercion in both romantic and sexual relations, non-consensual voyeurism/voyeuristic practices, slow burn, pregnancy, sexual violence, dubious consent, mild body horror, torture, virginity idolization, reproductive control, forced abortion and miscarriage, forced marriage, religious control, parental abuse, cultural ritualism (dehumanizing and objectifying women), suicide ideation. cannibalism, kidnapping, love-triangle(?),alcohol abuse, sexual shame, loss of agency, pregnancy used as political symbol, p-in-v sex, oral (both). this list may be altered at any time.

wc: 8.4k

a/n: This story is mdni; minors and ageless blogs will be blocked for interacting. Full disclosure, not all of those tags are for Phainon and your relationship, and it reflects ancient Greece and ancient Rome with their philosophies slightly. Also, reblogs are highly appreciated!

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II. The Promise of Union

“...and when you are Queen, you’ll need to oversee the naming rites of the next generation. It is tradition for the Ocheman line to—”

You stifle a yawn, quickly. Your mothers gaze turns to you sharply.

The women around her chuckle politely, oblivious to the drowsy irritation burning behind your eyes. Their adoration for your betrothed is exhausting—endless praise of his posture, his swordsmanship, his glorious hair that glows like ambrosia in the sun. They speak of him like he is carved from marble, all brawn and glory, cast in the image of war gods.

You, however, know the truth.

You know how he talks in his sleep. How his laugh sounds when he’s trying not to let barley water squirt from his nose. How he once got kicked by a mule and tried to act like it didn’t hurt—until you offered him a fig and he nearly wept from gratitude.

You know the shape of his softness. The silly, secret shape.

And still, you sit here, nodding, all grace and obedience.

You pause, imagining the delighted laugh he'd have if you snuck him some of the pastry dough from the kitchens next time he visited Ochema- he loved to bake. He was quite good at it, too.

Thinking of his delicious treats made you hungry

Your stomach growls—loudly. One of the noblewomen glances your way, eyebrows twitching, but you cover it with a dainty cough and smile.

Pastry dough.

You can almost hear his voice—“It needs more honey, don’t you think? Just a kiss more.”

You imagine the way he’d crouch beside the hearth, flour smudged across his cheek like war paint gone terribly wrong, a delicate custard tart cradled in one hand like it were a precious relic. “Tell me the truth,” he’d say, eyes big and pleading, “is this one better than the last?”

It never was. But you always said yes.

You blink back into the meeting. Someone is droning about irrigation logistics in the western province. Your mother is nodding sagely. Another noblewoman compares the price of fish to the declining moral fiber of youths. You suppress a groan and rest your chin on your palm.

They speak of Prince Mydeimos as though he rose from the sea fully formed, bronzed and brilliant, wielding a sword in one hand and statecraft in the other.

You think instead of him wearing your favorite apron (the one with the olive branch print), tongue between his teeth, trying to cut figs into perfect symmetrical slices. He always fails. They always taste wonderful.

“You’ll be queen one day,” your mother’s voice rings in your ear..

And I’ll be the baker’s wife, you think, hiding a smile.

You’re not sure which sounds better.

Across the palace, where the golden sun did not reach so freely, where the air was thick with sacred silence and the perfume of crushed frankincense and cedarwood, the temple walls pulsed with ancient memory. Here, the ceilings were vaulted like heaven itself, high and dark and adorned with gold-dusted murals of gods and stars, stretched endlessly into spirals that made the eyes ache if one stared too long. Candles floated in bronze dishes, their flames bowing reverently, casting trembling shadows that made the columns seem alive—each etched with old language, old names, old prayers never meant to be uttered aloud again.

The sanctum breathed, not with the clamor of the court, but with a living stillness—an unspoken reverence that swallowed sound and bent time. White-robed priests moved through the hallowed space like wraiths, their heads shaved in ritual precision, their bare feet whispering over cold stone. Some were bent over star charts, hands smeared with ash and ink as they measured the tilt of constellations. Others whispered to bowls of water lit with floating coals, peering into the ripples as though the future might unfold in the flick of steam. Scrolls were unrolled in the inner chambers, long sheets of lambskin and bark, covered in symbols that danced with divine madness—read only by those who had trained since childhood to recognize the voice of gods written between the lines.

Above the sanctuary doors, the great eye of Ochema was carved into the marble—open, lidless, watching.

And down the winding hallways of that sacred place, through tight corridors lit only by slivers of sun through amber-colored glass, a girl ran barefoot, red hair a stark contrast to the white walls carefully made pure.

No older than ten, wrapped in temple linen, the gold sash of the courier barely knotted around her thin waist. The girl’s breathing came in sharp bursts, chest heaving with urgency as she clutched the scroll to her chest like it was aflame. Behind her, the priests she’d passed scowled and hissed for silence, but the girl didn’t stop. She had been sent for.

Raced past the garden of the moon-well, where lilies bloomed only in the shade, their silver petals pale as mourning veils. The statues of the minor gods loomed, blind-eyed and silent, their arms held out not in welcome but warning. Doves scattered as he passed, the sound of their wings like a sudden thunderclap in the hush.

She arrived at the sanctum's threshold, heart hammering like a war drum. Before her, obsidian doors rose twice her height, carved with the story of Ochema’s founding—the first queen bathed in firelight, her spine straight beneath the gaze of heaven, the first king, on his knees, arms shackled to her waist as if to anchor her down to Earth. The girl dropped to her knees, pressing her forehead to the polished floor as the door slid open not by hand, but by command.

Inside, the air was warm and thick with oil. At the center of the chamber stood the High Priest, draped in a mantle of raven feathers and gold thread, his eyes lined with ancient sleep. He stood beside the Eye-Basin, a bowl of molten silver that shimmered with images yet to be seen.

The girl scrambled forward and held out the scroll with the trembling hands. “High Priest Thales!” she called out, breathless. “A news from the smoke!”

Thales, his beard braided with tiny golden charms, his face as lined as an olive tree’s bark and eyes sharp as a hawk’s narrowed at the girl.

“What is it, Tribbie?”

"I—it came from the Oracle's pool. She whispered again- I couldn’t catch all of it. I just-” she hands the priest the scroll, Tribbie’s eyes darting nervously to the robed figures looming behind the High Priest.

The man put a hand on her shoulder. “Breathe child. Speak what you remember.”

“I..I uh…” she clears her throat. “A shadow beneath the withered laurel, a hand that holds nothing, um…” she takes a deep breathe. “And the sun weeps in winter, where the sky splits in two. Gold is the ash that seeps.”

A murmur rippled through the elders. One of the younger priests scratched a hurried note into wax, his stylus trembling.

Thales closed his eyes, as if weighing the fragments in his mind. “All prophecies are broken things, girl,” he said quietly. “It is the burden of men to fit the shards together.”

Hot kisses. Hot, wet kisses from the prince they all foolishly praised—just beyond the thin marble wall of the chamber your mother insisted you stay in for a meeting that had nothing to do with you.

The voices of the ladies droned on like a summer cicada chorus—linen shipments, grain tallies, the proper placement of foreign envoys during a feast. None of it reached you. Not really. All you could hear was the faint hitch of breath, the soft scrape of Mydeimos’s sandal against the wall as he pressed you deeper into the shadowed alcove.

His mouth was warm, insistent. The faint taste of pomegranate clung to his lips from whatever he’d stolen from the kitchens earlier. Somewhere down the corridor, a servant’s footsteps passed, and Mydeimos’s hand tightened at your waist, daring the world to notice.

“You smell like boredom,” he murmured against your neck, his voice pitched low enough that only you could hear. “Did they make you listen to talk of olive yields again?”

You huffed a quiet laugh despite yourself. “It was worse. Seating charts for foreign dignitaries and talks of barley.”

“Oh, the horror,” he whispered, feigning sympathy, though his smirk ruined the act. “And here I thought the future queen’s duties were all glory and power. Not… grain.”

Another kiss. Slower this time, meant to pull you under. “You poor thing,” he teased. “Trapped with your mother’s circle, talking about nothing. I’ll save you. Right here. Right now.”

Before you could retort, the muffled scrape of sandals came again—closer this time. You both froze, his breath warm against your cheek. A shadow moved across the sunlit floor just beyond the alcove’s edge.

The shadow lingered a heartbeat too long, and then moved away. Mydeimos didn’t waste a breath.

He caught your hand—warm, steady—and tugged you past the end of the corridor, behind a carved cedar door used more for decoration than function. The hinges groaned faintly, swallowing you both into the dim space beyond.

You expected the same roguish smirk he wore for everyone else, the one that made servants blush and visiting dignitaries grind their teeth. But when the door clicked shut, the air between you shifted.

His eyes softened.

It was almost startling, how quickly the court-perfect prince—the confident, polished heir of Kremnos—melted away. Here, away from every watching gaze, there was no arrogance, no posturing. Only him, holding you as if you were something precious, not political.

His fingers brushed your cheek, feather-light, as though memorizing the shape of it. “You’ve been trapped in there too long,” he murmured. His voice was quieter now, stripped of teasing. “You look… tired.”

Before you could answer, his mouth found yours—not hurried, not claiming, but unhurried and deep. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world, like there was nowhere else he’d rather be than in this forgotten little room with you.

His hands traced the line of your jaw, the column of your throat, then settled over the curve of your waist. Not greedy—just there, grounding you. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead to yours, his breath warm and even.

“They don’t get this side of me,” he whispered.

“I know,” you breathed, the words almost catching on the space between you.

His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, slow, deliberate. His eyes didn’t leave yours—not even to glance at your lips again. It was unnerving, how earnest he looked, how the teasing curve of his mouth had straightened into something almost solemn.

“And…” His voice dipped lower, gentler, as though he was offering you a secret no one else would ever hear. “…I really do intend on marrying you, princess.”

Oh.

The word wasn’t spoken, but it reverberated through you all the same. It was a shift—like the air had thickened, like the ground beneath you had become something fragile and new. You’d known, of course, that the betrothal was inevitable, a decision made long before either of you could even choose what clothes to wear. But hearing it from him—not as a duty, not as an edict, but as a promise—was entirely different.

Your lips parted, though you didn’t know what to say. His breath brushed them as he leaned in again, close enough for the heat of him to sink into your skin.

He smiled then, faintly, but it wasn’t the smirk of a prince showing off. It was smaller, softer, almost shy. “You look surprised,” he murmured, his fingers still at your waist, his touch almost reverent.

You swallowed. “I am.”

“I meant it,” Mydei said simply, though his gaze softened, as if hearing something he’d long since hoped for. “I know it was our parents' plans, but I won’t take you unless you’ll have me.”

His words settled over you, warm and steady, breaking through the cool distance that had defined your meetings until now. It wasn’t just a royal obligation spoken—it was a promise forged in the quiet space between you.

“You already know I’ll marry you, Mydeimos. Why so serious?”

He smiled, a slow, steady curve that seemed to steady the very air around you. “Because I respect you. And it’s only right, should we want to obtain Hera’s blessings—gods know we’ll need it if our peoples are to be joined.”

His words hung between you like a solemn vow, not merely about politics or duty, but something older and deeper. The merging of two realms, two destinies—held in the fragile balance of your union. You felt the weight and promise of it all settle quietly in your chest.

The sun was unrelenting, its golden heat spilling over the white marble of the amphitheater like molten metal poured from a forge. The air shimmered, thick with the mingled scents of dust, sweat, and the faint coppery tang of blood carried up from the sand-pit below.

From your seat beside Mydeimos, you could see every detail—the coiled muscles of the fighters, the sharp gleam of their blades, the sweat catching in their hair. Their breath came in sharp bursts, steam rising from their bodies in the swelter. A crowd roared around you, stamping feet and clapping hands in rhythmic waves, their cries blending into a deafening tide.

One man lunged. Another staggered back. Steel kissed flesh.

You winced. “It’s barbaric,” you muttered, your eyes narrowing as another strike was met with a spray of red across the sand. “Reducing lives to sport. Entertainment built on suffering. It’s—”

“It’s survival,” Mydeimos said without looking at you, his gaze fixed on the combatants. His voice was calm, almost too calm. “The strongest thrive. The crowd sees courage, skill, the will to live. That is… instructive.”

“Instructive?” You turned to him sharply. “You call slaughter instructive?”

“Life is slaughter, Y/n. Here it’s only made plain. At least they die with purpose, in the eyes of their people.” He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, eyes bright as the sun flared in them. “Is it worse than dying nameless, unseen, for no cause at all?”

You shook your head, heat prickling your neck—whether from the argument or the midday sun, you weren’t sure. “A cause chosen for them is no cause at all. They didn’t consent to be pawns in this spectacle. Strength isn’t forged in cruelty—it’s forged in perseverance.”

“And yet,” he said quietly, “crowds don’t gather to watch men persevere in quiet corners of the world. They gather here. For this.”

Your gazes locked, the din of the arena fading to a dull, distant roar. His expression was unreadable—half fascination, half something that felt dangerously close to longing. You searched for a crack in it, a place where you could make him see what you saw. But there was none.

The fighters circled each other below, kicking up clouds of pale dust that caught the sunlight like drifting gold. Somewhere in the crowd, a horn blew, summoning the final charge. The clash of metal rang out again.

“Would you do it?” you asked suddenly, your voice low but sharp against the roar of the crowd.

Mydeimos’s lips curved, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “Perhaps.”

Your head snapped toward him. “You will not.”

He only looked back at the arena, eyes glinting like a blade catching the sun, saying nothing—as though the answer had already been given.

“Would it make you feel better if I lived? Because I surely would.”

His voice was a low hum, just loud enough for you to catch over the crowd’s cheers. “It is not arrogance that snakes onto my tongue either, my love. And even so…” His gaze flicked toward you, and you felt the weight of it. “Fear does not suit your pretty face.”

The words were almost swallowed by the roar from below as a fighter was knocked to the ground, but then his hand found your thigh—light, deliberate, unshakably sure.

“Watch now,” he murmured, leaning closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Pay attention. See how it would be child’s play for me. You know me well, princess.”

Down in the arena, the dust swirled around the victor’s feet like smoke, and you swore Mydeimos’s fingers pressed just a fraction tighter.

You huffed, folding your arms as the clash of steel rang out below. “That is beside the point. The men there are not but boys, save for the few our years and some more. They’ve been reduced to animals for our entertainment—”

“They do it for the honor and for the chance to provide,” your father interrupted smoothly, his voice carrying over the crowd’s roar.

You turned toward him, startled to realize he’d been listening all along. His eyes were fixed on the sand below, unreadable, but there was an edge to his tone—one born of conviction, not curiosity.

Beside you, Mydeimos only smirked faintly, leaning back in his seat as if this were a conversation he’d been waiting for all afternoon. The air between the three of you felt suddenly taut, stretched thin like a bowstring just before the arrow flies.

“The boys in that arena are more often from the impoverished villages,” your father said firmly, his gaze never leaving the ring of sand where two combatants circled one another. “This brings a name to not only them, but to their homes—displaying the potential of their people. Should they win, they may demand any prize they wish. So they take money, and go, and provide.”

Below, one fighter lunged, his blade catching the sun before striking his opponent’s shield. The crowd erupted, some in cheers, others in groans, and the sound washed over you like the crash of the sea.

You opened your mouth to speak, but Mydeimos’s hand brushed your arm lightly—whether to quiet you or to steady you, you couldn’t tell. His eyes, however, gleamed with that infuriating mixture of mischief and thoughtfulness, as if he were silently asking which of them you thought he would be, should he stand in the arena.

Your mother’s voice cut through the noise like a silver knife. “Prince Mydeimos is our guest,” she said, her tone cool but carrying the weight of habit and expectation. “You’d do well not to forget that—and sit up straight. He’s here to watch the battle, not debate over whether it’s nice or not.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, tasting the faint tang of copper. Below, the crowd roared again as a combatant fell to his knees in the sand, the air rippling with the heat and the stench of sweat and dust. Mydeimos’s hand lingered where it had brushed you, the barest touch—a reminder that while your mother’s words were meant to quiet you, his eyes now fixed on you, red and sharp and alive, as though the debate was far from over.

You look back at the arena just in time. Your eyes widen, your lips opening in shock.

The boy lay in the dust, his limbs twisted in the way that no living body allowed. His chest rose once—shallow, tremoring—and then fell for the last time. Blood, thick and impossibly red, seeped from the jagged tear in his side where the opponent’s blade had found him. It traveled in tendrils over the pale curve of his ribs before spilling down into the earth, darkening the ochre sand to a deep rust. From so high above, you could still see it glisten in the sun. The scent of iron seemed to rise even to your place in the stands, riding the dry wind that hissed over the arena walls.

He couldn’t have been more than sixteen. His face still bore the soft roundness of youth beneath the dirt and blood; lashes too long for a soldier fluttered half-closed, catching the light for an instant before stilling entirely. The fingers of his right hand twitched once, curling faintly toward the hilt of the weapon that lay just out of reach, before slackening for good.

The crowd roared—some in approval, some in pity—but the sound came to you muffled, as though the air itself had thickened. You did not cheer. You did not look away.

Under your breath, you whispered the words your nursemaid had once taught you when you were small and frightened by storms: "May Hermes guide you swiftly, stranger. May the gates open for you, and may the river bear you to gentler shores than these."

Your lips shaped the prayer with care, for you had never seen death’s hand so close before. This was not a distant tale told in the safety of a hearth, nor a shadow behind a closed door—it was here, sprawled in the dust, wearing the face of a boy who might have been a farmer’s son, a poet, or a friend in some other life.

Beside you, Mydeimos leaned forward slightly, his expression unreadable. But his eyes—those molten, unblinking eyes—were fixed on the still form below as if measuring the weight of what had just transpired.

Your voice was steady, though you felt the pulse in your throat. “I do believe this will be my last time accompanying you to these… games,” you said, keeping your gaze fixed on the arena floor so you wouldn’t have to meet the approving glances of those around you. “It’s too upsetting for me.”

Your father’s brow lifted slightly, but he said nothing at first, his hands resting like carved marble on the armrests of his seat. Your mother, however, released the faintest sigh, the kind that spoke more of inconvenience than of sympathy.

“Such delicacy,” she murmured, adjusting the fall of her himation. “It is the way of the world, my dear. You will see far worse when you rule.”

Her words slid over you like a cold draught, but you did not answer. Below, the body was already being hauled away, limbs dragging, the dust settling over the dark stain as though to swallow the evidence whole. You kept your eyes on that mark, refusing to let it vanish without witness.

In the periphery, you felt Mydeimos’ gaze on you once again—not mocking, not entirely approving, but present. He said nothing either, and that silence felt heavier than the noise of the crowd.

The banquet hall was a temple to excess, aglow with the golden light of oil lamps that swayed faintly in the draft from the high arched windows. Their flames caught on the hammered bronze of the braziers and the gilded patterns carved into the cedar beams above, casting the room in a shifting warmth that almost—almost—hid the coldness lingering in your chest. You had washed your hands twice before supper—scrubbed them until they stung—yet the memory of that boy’s blood still clung, stubborn as a shadow.

The room itself was a masterpiece meant to dazzle, every stone and beam a testament to the wealth of Ochema. High, vaulted ceilings disappeared into darkness overhead, where murals of gods and titans locked in endless battle sprawled in faded but still potent color. Bronze braziers burned with fragrant cedarwood, their smoke curling upward in pale ribbons, mingling with the hum of voices and the occasional ring of silver goblets meeting in toasts.

The table—long enough to seat thirty—was draped in deep red cloth embroidered with patterns of laurel leaves and seashells, a nod to your city’s twin patrons. Along its length, servants moved like well-trained shadows, refilling amphorae of wine, exchanging emptied platters for fresh ones. The feast was excessive: a whole lamb roasted until its skin shone like polished amber, slick with honey and thyme; golden pastries stuffed with spiced dates; steaming bowls of lentils and onions perfumed with coriander; grapes so dark they were almost black, still clinging to their vines; pomegranates split open, their jewel-bright seeds spilling onto silver trays. The air was thick with the perfume of crushed herbs, sweet fruit, and the faint salt of olives just pulled from their brine.

Your father sat enthroned at the head, his purple cloak gathered in loose folds over one broad shoulder, the gold embroidery catching fire in the lamplight. The laurel crown resting on his hair seemed almost to hum with authority. Beside him, your mother sat straight-backed and elegant in a gown of ivory linen so fine it seemed woven from mist, layered with a cascade of gold chains that draped from shoulder to shoulder. Around them, courtiers wore the full palette of the city—saffron and indigo, deep green and rust red—each ring on their fingers a miniature proclamation of status.

Mydeimos sat across from you, and though the low murmur of conversation between him and a nearby noblewoman suggested casual ease, his gaze found you more often than the food before him. He was dressed for spectacle: a cream chiton belted in bronze, a crimson cloak pinned at one shoulder with a disk of beaten gold. His hair, the color of late summer wheat, caught the lamplight, and his eyes—those molten, unblinking eyes—were brighter than any jewel at the table.

You did not return his gaze. Instead, you fixed your attention on the rim of your wine cup, turning it slowly in your fingers as though the deep red inside might reveal something more interesting than the present moment. The music—a pair of lyres and the steady, heartbeat pulse of a drum—seemed too loud, the laughter of your mother’s ladies-in-waiting too sharp, the scents of roasted meat and fruit too rich, as though they sought to smother the memory still raw in your mind.

You saw the boy again—no, the man they had called him, but he had been no older than sixteen. You saw the way his body had crumpled into the dust, the way the earth had swallowed his blood without ceremony. You remembered the prayer whispered under your breath, meant to guide him swiftly to the underworld, to keep the shades from pulling at him. You had prayed with all the force you could muster, as though that alone might erase what you’d witnessed. But prayers, like feasts, could not change the truth.

You kept your head low, chewing slowly when you had to, sipping when spoken to, but otherwise silent. The boy’s face haunted the golden light around you, and though Mydeimos’ eyes lingered—patient, almost concerned—you let them pass over you like the wind over still water. You did not wish to meet them, not tonight.

His lips curved—not quite a smile, not quite a taunt—as he leaned just enough for his words to be heard only by you. “You avoid my gaze. Are you still troubled?” he murmured, his voice low, careful, like a thread pulled through silk.

Your eyes stayed fixed on the fig you were tearing open, its red heart glistening under the lamplight. “I am simply disgusted with today,” you said evenly, the sweet scent of the fruit suddenly cloying. “It is not you.”

“But you are still angry I did not agree,” he pressed, his tone threaded with something between challenge and curiosity.

“Mildly upset,” you allowed, glancing toward your mother to ensure she was still distracted with her ladies.

“Ah,” his mouth tilted, the faintest spark of mischief in his eyes. “So angry.”

You turned your head just enough to glare, but he only looked more entertained, as though your disapproval was a flavor he intended to savor.

“Come with me to the gardens?” he asked suddenly, the request wrapped in that careful casualness he used when he wanted something he knew you might refuse.

You hesitated, your gaze darting to the high table where your father was listening intently to some nobleman’s story, goblet in hand. The air inside the banquet hall was thick—roasted lamb and honeyed wine, the press of bodies, the glitter of gold thread in tunics under firelight. You could feel the weight of the day still clinging to you, heavy as the braided crown in your hair.

The gardens would be cool. Quiet. Removed from the lingering stench of the arena that still seemed to cling to your mind.

“Please,” he added softly, and the glimmer in his red eyes was enough to make you place the fig aside and rise, your hand brushing against his as you did.

He stood with you, courtly grace intact, though you caught the faintest smile tugging at his mouth—just for you—as he led you toward the marble archway, away from the noise and toward the hush of moonlit leaves.

The palace gardens were carved into tiers that stepped down toward the sea, each level a careful arrangement of beauty and order, as if the gods themselves had drawn the lines. White marble colonnades framed walkways of crushed seashell, pale beneath the moonlight. The air was cool and alive with the perfume of night-blooming jasmine and the sharper scent of rosemary shrubs pressed into neat hedges. Cypress trees stood as sentinels along the periphery, their dark spires rising into the starlit sky.

He guided you down a quieter path, the crunch of shells underfoot mingling with the soft trickle of a nearby fountain—its basin carved into the likeness of nymphs, their stone faces worn smooth by time.

“You’ve kept the same braids as when you were a child,” he remarked idly, his voice warm but without intent, as though talking simply to fill the space between your breaths.

You hummed in acknowledgment, and he gestured to a cluster of pomegranate trees heavy with fruit. “They’ll be ripe soon. Do you remember when we tried to steal one and your nurse found us? I think you cried more from her scolding than the scratches.”

Pointless words, light as the moths drifting around the torch flames set in bronze sconces. He stopped only when the colonnade gave way to an alcove half-hidden by climbing vines, their flowers pale ghosts in the dark. The walls muffled the rest of the garden, the music and laughter from the banquet fading until it was only you and him in that secluded pocket of stillness.

“I’m sorry for upsetting you,” Mydei says softly, cupping your face. “However, I won’t change my mind on the matter.” His thumb brushes across your lips, his gaze never leaving them, either.

“I know,” you breathe, though the words feel caught somewhere between surrender and defiance.

His palm was warm against your skin, calloused just enough to remind you he was not merely a prince who lived in scrolls and strategy. The faint scent of the gardens clung to him—crushed jasmine, a whisper of olive oil from the feast, and something sharper, uniquely his.

“I will not lie to please you,” Mydei continued, his voice low, deliberate. “You deserve more than a man who would shift with the wind simply to keep your favor.” His thumb traced the curve of your lower lip again, slower this time, as though testing how long he could keep you suspended between thoughts and feeling.

You swallowed, unable to ignore the way his gaze stayed fixed on your mouth—like a priest watching the smoke of an offering curl upward, searching for omens in its shape.

His eyes darkened, shimmering with something fierce and tender all at once. “And… I’d like to think I have earned your favor and respect,” he murmured, voice dropping to a husky whisper.

Before you could respond, his hand slid from your cheek down to cradle your neck, fingers threading lightly through your hair. The world seemed to hush around you—the soft rustle of leaves, the distant song of nightingales—all fading into a delicate silence that belonged only to the two of you.

His lips brushed yours, slow and deliberate at first, a tender exploration. The kiss deepened, warm and soft, yet charged with a quiet fire, sending ripples through every nerve. Your breath caught as his fingers tightened slightly, pulling you closer, the subtle heat of his body pressing against yours beneath the cool moonlight.

He tastes like pomegranates and sweetness, a heady mix that catches you unguarded every time. You are a fool for falling for it—again and again—each kiss pulling you deeper, each touch unraveling the walls you thought you built.

With a soft sigh, you return his kiss with ease, letting yourself be drawn in by the warmth of him, the tenderness hidden beneath his boldness. Your hands rise instinctively, framing his face as your lips move in quiet harmony, the night wrapping around you like a velvet shroud.

And if only your mother knew, knew that her daughter wasn't a pure virgin, knew that this prince had taken her many times before. She would be livid.

The thought brings an ounce of shame and an ounce more of excitement.

The sleeve of Mydeimos’ robe had slipped down, baring the smooth expanse of his chest, sun-kissed and warm beneath the fading sunlight. Your fingers traced the line of his collarbone, then slid lower, mapping the rise and fall of muscles beneath soft skin. His breath hitched as your hands journeyed further, fingers pressing into the planes of his torso, pulling him closer.

And here you are, perched over him, setting a leg down, the other slung lazily around him, watching the way his breath stutters beneath your fingertips. Whether from you or the cool night air, it didn’t matter.

“You’re being very kind, Mydeimos,” you murmur, your voice a slow ribbon of syrup and smoke. “But that doesn’t mean you get what you want.” Your nails ghost down his chest—light enough to tease, never enough to satisfy. You tilt your head, almost admiring him.

“You like this.” He matches your tone. “Being all pretty, waiting for me to maybe touch you.” He leans closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear, whispering, “Maybe.”

A whimper escapes you. But he knows better.

“And you know only I can really give you what you want- to ease your woes, to make it all disappear.”

He trails a single fingertip down your ribs, slow, torturous. You tremble. Whether from being sensitive or from nerves, it didn't really matter.

He drags his hands up from your trembling waist, taking his time—skimming over the flushed, overheated skin of your torso until his palms settle lightly on his breasts.

You feel your breath stutter. Feel the way your muscles twitch beneath his touch.

He pulls the top of your robes down, too

Then his thumbs brush your nipples.

You jerk—instantly—a full-body flinch like you’d been shocked by him. Sensitive. So responsive. The faintest touch and you’re arching into it, like your body doesn’t know whether to run from the sensation or melt under it.

He hums, almost thoughtfully, rubbing slow little circles. “These are so soft,” he murmurs, flicking them once, teasingly. “But you’re so loud.” Mydei’s grin is almost wicked as he rips a piece of cloth from his robe, putting it into your mouth. A broken sound escapes your throat, gag muffling it into something thick and desperate. He pinches- lightly at first, then harder- and the moan you let out vibrates through your whole frame.

“There it is,” he says, low and amused. Rolling them between his fingers, alternating pressure, watching you unravel with each twist, each pull. You’re almost panting now, drooling a little- humilatingly- around the gag, thighs shaking with the effort to hold still as the pleasure teeters on the edge of too much.

“You’re so thoughtful, princess. Just let go. Let me carry the worries of men instead. You won’t even…have to think.” His breath brushes against your cheek, warm and stark against the now cold air. He brushes his lips against your skin.

He pinches a nipple harder all of a sudden, grinning into your skin. He feels it, hot and wet where your bodies meet. You’re nearly dripping, desperate for at least a little friction- and you don’t even realize what you’re doing, trying to move into him.

He doesn’t stop you.

Doesn’t let you.

Mydei’s hands settle on your waist , steadying you. Not to guide- just to let you know: he knows And he’s watching every helpless move of your hips, every gasp muffled by the piece of clothe he tore from his own robe.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Go ahead.You want to grind on me like a needy thing? Do it. Don’t think. Don’t worry. Forget it all.”

He pulls you now, into his lap on the bench hidden by roses, letting your ride his thigh in slow, stuttering moves. Every stroke barely there. Every second an exercise in control you don’t have anymore.

And still, he doesn’t move.

He lets you take what he thinks you need- while he stays now perfectly still, calm, powerful. Letting you break yourself on his thigh like the mess you are.

“Look at you,” he whispers, hand trailing up your back. “Dripping all over me. You should be grateful I take care of you this well.”

You can’t do much but nod in agreement.

He tugs the cloth from your mouth gently, watching the way your jaw slackens, the stretch of your lips glossy with spit. You gasp when the fabric leaves you, gulping air like it's the first breath you’ve been allowed in hours.

“Messy.” His thumb trails along your bottom lip. “Always such a mess for me.”

You whine, eyes half-lidded, flushed and trembling. So easy to read- you always were.

He lets his finger trail lower, gathering a trace of that aching, leaking need of yours.

And then without asking, he presses his slick fingers to your lips.

Your eyes flutter. You part them willingly, instinctively.

“Open, my love.”

And you do.

You taste yourself on your tongue, on his fingers, moaning around them like it is the most natural thing in the world.

“Please,” you gasp when he finally pulls them free. “Please- please, I can’t- please let me-”

He hushes you with a look, a brow raised.

You can’t help but take a deep breath, trembling under the weight of anticipation as he opens his robe more, exposing himself deliciously.

Truly a perfect prince.

Mydeimos places his hands on your hips, thumbs stroking calming circles into your skin. “You’ve done so well,” He murmurs, voice thicker with something you can’t name.

But your only response is a whimper, body relaxing into his touch, trusting.

His finger trails lower again, brushing over your skin, down your navel where the whispers of your pleasure started. He cups it, humming in appreciation. “I want to see you. You’ll let me, surely?” You can’t help but nod.

He watches now, eyes not leaving as you suck your stomach in, nerves stealing away.

Mydei lets out a breath. “So pretty like this. So open. You were made to be spoiled…alas, I still can’t do that for you just yet, princess.”

He lays you down on that bench, your legs open as he holds himself above you, spitting down, a lazy glide down your skin, his red eyes glazed over as the shine glistens. He spreads you reverently.

“Breathe, my love.”

He guides himself into place, the weight of him grounding you as he moves closer. One hand stays firm on your hip, the other gliding under the small of your back, steadying you.

Mydei’s tip nudges your folds, and you feel your breath stutter.

“Stay still, let me in.”

With one steady motion, he began to press forward, grip firm on your hips as he felt you stretch around him, slow, steady, aching with intimacy.

The sound you make is desperate and beautiful, head dropping to the side, fingers curling into fists, crescents surely pushed into your palms.

“Easy, you take me so well,”

He guides himself in more, feeling the resistance in your walls give away as your body opens up to him— inch by inch, deliberate, measured. The pressure is thick and unrelenting, and he lets out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a moan. Your muscles flutter around him, instinctively tightening, trying to accommodate the stretch. It’s not pain—it’s a full ache, an overwhelming fullness that borders on blissful.

You try to take more, try to angle yourself, even as your thighs tremble. Mydei presses a palm to your stomach, pushing you down, feeling himself buried inside as he eases the rest of the way in.

He stays there for a breath, buried deep, feeling your body pulse around him, trying to adjust to the fullness. Your lips are parted, eyes heavy. Any thought of being upset with him positively gone now.

He pulls back, pushes in slow. Again, and again and again, easing you, rocking you into a deliberate rhythm meant to make you feel every inch of him.

Mydeimos touches you like you’re someone precious. Presses kisses into your collarbone after a roll of his hips.

You moan, wrecked. “Feels so good. You feel—s-so good—”

You reach around to stroke his chest, your fingertips brushing over his nipples, earning another shiver.

His pace picks up just slightly, each motion a promise, each press of his hips reminding you that you’re desired, safe, completely his.

“You want to come? Or do I get to keep you like this—shaking, full, begging?”

And by the gods, your body is shaking almost like you have no control of any part of your body anymore. You’re so tense, right on the edge. And oh, Mydei feels it- red gaze watching how your breath hitches, in the desperate twitch of your hips while you try to chase that high, chase more friction, more permission.

He doesn’t give it to you.

Instead, he pulls back slightly and lets his hand trail down to your flushed skin, giving you one firm spank. The sound is soft and sharp, and you jerk , whining.

“Not yet. You don’t come unless I say.”

Your moan is a little broken noise, somewhere between frustration and pleasure, your nails sure to have broken skin in your palms by now.

“You’re doing so well,” Mydei murmurs, his palm now soothing over the sting he left. “But I want to feel you fall apart because of me—not just because you need to.”

He rocks his hips again, slower this time, dragging every motion out like he’s carving it into you. Your head turns to the side, eyes glassy and wet, lips parted with whimpers you can’t bite back.

“I can’t, Mydei- please, I can’t.”

“You can,”

And that was the end of that.

The summons came just after dawn, when the air still carried the cool breath of night and the palace corridors smelled faintly of wet stone and laurel leaves. An attendant bowed low at your threshold, voice smooth but edged with urgency.

"Her Highness is expected in the great chamber. Your father and the high priests await."

By the time you arrived, the room was already a hive of motion and murmurs. Sunlight spilled through the arched windows in thick, gold beams, catching on the polished marble floor and the carved columns that coiled with scenes of gods and heroes. The long cedar table was crowded—your father at its head in his crimson mantle, the high priests in pale linen robes cinched with yellow sashes, their shaved heads gleaming like polished bronze. The festival coordinators sat further down, clutching scrolls and wax tablets, their lips moving quickly over schedules and ceremonial orders.

“Y/n,” your father said, gesturing to the chair beside him. “We are here to speak of matters sacred. The Sun Festival is nearly upon us, and with it, your coronation.”

One of the priests unrolled a narrow scroll, his voice thick with reverence. “When Helios reaches his throne in the sky, you will stand upon the Temple Steps. The people will see you, clothed in white, the very image of purity. Wheat, figs, honey, and gold will be laid before his altar, and the hymn sung until the last echo fades.”

You nodded politely, though the way he said purity made something twist low in your stomach. They all believed it—believed you were as untouched as the marble beneath their feet. It was part of your role, your story in the eyes of the pantheon: the virgin heir, beloved of Hera, favored by Artemis, blessed by Athena. A vessel of sanctity, ready to unite two great kingdoms.

Only you—and Mydeimos—knew that the gods had not been the only ones to claim you.

Another priest chimed in, his tone warm but heavy with meaning. “The people must see their princess unblemished, holy, as the goddesses themselves were in their youth. Your virtue is the sun’s own reflection—it is what keeps the favor of the pantheon upon Ochema.”

A coordinator leaned forward. “The day after the Festival, your betrothal will be reaffirmed before the gods. Prince Mydeimos’ absence is… unfortunate, but his envoys assure us he will return in time to stand beside you.” Another chimed in. "The Prince was already summoned to return for the Festival, Dear Basil." "So soon?" "Yes. His mother- Her Majesty insisted."

You kept your gaze steady, though the mention of his name sparked the ghost of a memory—the garden’s shadows, his hands warm at your waist, the taste of pomegranate on his lips the night before he left.

Your father, catching your silence, spoke firmly. “My darling, these rites are not merely tradition. Helios watches from his chariot, and Hera herself will weigh your worth. When you ascend the steps, the people must believe they are looking upon the embodiment of the goddesses’ will.”

Outside, the wind stirred the laurel in the courtyard, the same kind that had brushed Mydeimos’ hair when you last saw him. You tried to root yourself in the present—in talk of offerings and processions, in the scent of burning frankincense—but that night still pulsed in the quietest corners of your mind.

And as the priests droned on about purity and divine blessing, you could not help but think: if they knew the truth, would they call you holy still?

Your father’s words cut clean through the incense-thick air.

“And of course,” he said, leaning back in his chair with the self-satisfaction of a man who already knew he would be obeyed, “we simply must keep it in schedule with the next show. We’ll have people even from the southern borders coming to attend.”

Some of the coordinators exchanged nervous glances. The southern borders rarely came up.

You stiffened in your seat. “I’d rather we didn’t, Father.”

The murmur of quills scratching against parchment stopped. A priest glanced up from his scroll. The coordinators shifted in their chairs.

Your father’s expression hardened, that commanding stillness settling over him like a lion pausing mid-step. “Such nonsense, my darling. This is tradition.” His voice deepened, rich and immovable. “We mustn’t break it. Especially if we wish for blessings.”

A priest beside him nodded in fervent agreement, his hands resting on the sun-embroidered sash at his waist. “The games honor Ares and Heracles—heroes who knew the worth of blood and strength. Without their favor, the Sun Festival would be… lacking.”

Your gaze slid toward the tall windows where the daylight cut into the room like blades, and you thought of the boy in the arena weeks ago, his blood seeping into sand, the prayer you had whispered for him.

Your father’s hand came down flat upon the cedar table. “A queen cannot pick and choose the customs she likes. We are not here to please ourselves, but to serve the gods and the people. Remember that, Y/n.”

You felt the weight of all their eyes on you—their future queen, their perfect, pure vessel—and knew there was no winning this fight today.

The chamber smelled faintly of oil lamps and crushed sage, the golden afternoon bleeding through the high windows and setting the white marble aglow. Scrolls, clay tablets, and lengths of dyed silk covered the low cedar table, each marked with a different aspect of your coronation.

The High Priest gestured toward a diagram inked in deep red. “We have planned the sacred bath for the evening before. As per custom, you will be veiled from sunset until your crowning, so that no mortal gaze falls upon you in your most sanctified state.”

You couldn’t help it. The words slipped out before you thought to temper them. “And what of the day after? What of the night I am wed to Prince Mydeimos? Surely, I cannot remain pure if I am to fulfill my duty and produce an heir.”

The room stilled. A few of the younger attendants darted glances at each other, but the High Priest only inclined his head slowly, like a patient teacher with a stubborn child.

“Purity,” he said, “is not always of the body. It is of spirit, of intention. Hera will bless your union because it is sanctioned. But there is tradition, and there is prudence.”

One of the elder priestesses, a matron in gold-dusted robes, cleared her throat delicately. “There is precedent, Your Highness, for delaying the consummation of a royal marriage—at least for a year, so that your reign may be established and the gods’ favor unshaken.” She gave a small, knowing smile. “Concubines may attend to the Prince’s… needs in the meantime. The High Priest thinks it unwise to consummate anything so soon as of recently.”

Your father raises a brow in question but did not push it.

You stared at her, the words sour on your tongue. “So I am to be crowned queen, the vessel of Hera’s will, yet my own husband may bed others before he is permitted to bed me?”

“It is to protect you,” the High Priest said firmly, though there was a faint tremor beneath his solemnity. “Your person will be the seal of the throne. We cannot risk any perception that Ochema’s queen was not—”

“Untouched?” you finished for him, the word like a blade between your teeth.

No one answered. Somewhere beyond the temple walls, a bell tolled for the afternoon prayers, its deep note rolling through the marble like distant thunder.

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