#monsters like me do this to people. It's what I do and have been doing

[cryoculus]

— WORLD ALONE ⟢

when you make a living in the bowels of the eternal holy city, nothing is ever personal. until you catch yourself wondering just how heavy of a crown that kremnoan prince actually bears.

★ featuring; mydei x f!reader

★ word count; 40.6k words (i'm sorry.....)

★ tags; canon compliant, red light district, prostitution, doomed relationship, yearning, heavy angst (like,,, this is not an exaggeration i swear), implied/referenced past abuse, smut (MINORS DNI)

★ notes; the very first mydei fic i've written, coming to you on tumblr dot com! i was wondering if the character limit is going to permit the existence of a monster wall of text like this, but surprisingly, it did! on ao3, this is actually a trilogy of fics, but part of me thought it really would have been better if it was posted in one go AJSJDHFSHD so here we are!!!! the title is also from lorde's world alone <3

★ header art cr; chongguolyb on x

READ ON AO3

★ SMUT TAGS; vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, mating press, creampie, oral (f receiving), come eating, emotional sex, wall sex, really every smut scene is just so tender and melancholic

Despite its reputation as the city dearly loved by the sun, Okhema has its own share of misgivings.  You’ve known since you first set foot within the borders of the Holy City that you have no place here.  Even if it prides itself as a sanctuary for those whose homes were ravaged by the Black Tide, the reception for refugees offers none of the hospitality once promised to you.  Perhaps those born and raised in the capital—far from the city states that have fallen prey to the eternal night—would rather not involve themselves with people like you. People that have seen the worst of what the impending calamity has in store. People who only wish to find some place to call home. But you don’t condemn them from feeling the way they do. Okhemans treat all outsiders with an equal amount of disdain: the Kremnoans, the Dolosians, even the Aidonians. Then again, if your hometown suddenly has an influx of strangers pouring in from every part of the world, you would be alarmed by it as well. That’s why you try your best to stay in their good graces. Always. “Big Sis Thalia? Someone’s looking for you.” Your session of early morning tea is quietly interrupted by a child named Nikolas. He peeks through the curtain of seashells separating your quarters from the rest of The House, eyes closed just to make sure he’s not intruding on anything. The boy’s discretion makes you laugh.  “Nik, it’s alright. Come in,” you insist and ever-so shyly, he does. Nikolas has been inside here before, but the bedazzled look in his eyes whenever he takes in the trinkets you’ve decorated your space with is nothing short of amusing. You give him some time to gawk around as you finish the rest of your tea.  “Sorry,” he mumbles once he snaps out of it. “Mother wanted me to tell you that the swordsman is here again. The one with the white hair?”  You shake your head. “Nik, Lord Phainon has done enough for the undercity that you should at least remember his name.”  “Y-Yes, him! Lord Phainon.”  “Okay, did Elena tell you what he wants?” you ask, despite already hazarding a couple of reasons for his visit. “I doubt he’s here to avail of my services.”  Unlike most boys his age, Nikolas doesn’t get flustered by casual mentions of your line of work. After all, he was born in this very brothel. His mother raised him to treat all his big sisters with love and respect, and it’s hard not to dote on him because of it. “She didn’t say,” he sighs. “Should I tell the other big sisters to let him up here?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Shortly after, another person parts the curtain of glittering shells by the entryway. Phainon lets himself inside with a polite look on his face, as if he’s walking into the Pantheon’s grand hall and not some common whore’s quarters.  “Lord Phainon,” you address him with an inquisitive smile. “What brings you here?”

Phainon’s lips crack into a handsome smile. “Lady Thalia—”

That makes you groan. “Please, you don’t have to address me with that name. You’re a friend.” 

“But it’s only proper if I’m here on the prospect of business, isn’t it?” 

“...Forgive me, but the mere idea of doing business with you feels horrendously wrong. I’m afraid I must decline—”

Phainon says your real name as a matter of throwing you off, and your face contorts with mild vexation. But now that he has your attention, he says, “You don’t have to worry. I’m not here to seek the paradise that The House offers to all willing patrons. It’s more like…a referral of sorts.” You take in his words slowly, making sure there’s no underlying wordplay. But you suppose the man is as direct as he can be with what he’s trying to say. 

“A referral?” you echo with a snort. “Now, who could a Chrysos Heir like you be referring to a shoddy place like this? Your mere presence here is already enough to send Lady Aglaea into a fit of rage, you know. What more if you endorse our services to someone else?”

“If that's the case, then I’m afraid that you gravely misunderstand her,” Phainon chuckles softly. “But I digress. I think it would be best for you to meet this person face-to-face rather than have me put in a word for him.”

“So you’re basically asking if I’m willing to accommodate whoever this is?” is your deadpan retort. “Lord Phainon, when you work here in the undercity, making ends meet is difficult if you don’t pull enough strings. Someone like me has no business refusing clients—”

“Yet you refused me?” he sighs dramatically.

“You just said you’re not here for that! Can you please make up your mind?”

Phainon lets out a laugh he pulls straight from the pit of his stomach, and it makes you think that maybe you would have fallen for someone like him if your life had been more different, if fate had been kinder to you. But this is the reality you live in; a reality where you’d rather drown in the Black Tide than put your friendship with Phainon to the test.  “Anyway,” he interjects once he’s done guffawing. “I take it that you’re agreeing to meet this friend of mine? I don’t usually bring up The House to just anyone, but I think he might need the distraction. And the company.” Heaving a sigh, you fold your arms together. “I take it that you have no plans to even tell me your friend’s name?”

“If I did that, you would probably decline in an instant,” Phainon laughs again, “which is perfectly fine in any case. I just want you to give him a chance first.”

“...Your description alone is already making me second guess.”

Placing a hand over his chest, he bows. “I swear on Kephale’s name that this man will bring neither you nor the other residents of The House any harm. If he does, I’ll personally end him for you.”

That makes you arch an eyebrow. “So you’re saying he has the capacity to do that?”

“Yes, but apart from free will, intellect is another one of Kephale’s greatest gifts to mankind.” Phainon rises back to his full height, eyes brimming with optimism as usual. “Even if my friend is free to hurt others, it doesn't mean he will. Amphoreus is past the age of barbaric violence, after all.” 

There’s something infuriating in how cheeky Phainon’s reasoning is, but he’s always been gifted with words. You suppose it’s alright to do him this favor, given that he’s the reason The House has yet to be cracked down on by the Council of Elders. If it weren’t for Phainon, you and the other girls would have been forced back into the streets of the Holy City, with those Okhemans who seem to despise foreigners more than the Black Tide itself. 

“...Fine. When is he coming?” you relent eventually, much to your dismay. “I don’t have any patrons to accommodate this evening, so your timing is actually impeccable—suspiciously so.”

The subtle jab does not go unnoticed. “Why, I have nothing to do with that at all. But I’ll let him know. Thank you for your kind consideration, Lady Thalia.”

“If you call me that one more time…”

Phainon eventually bids his farewell, not just to you but the rest of the girls in The House. Of course, they practically swoon from his unintentional charm. Everyone here loves that man to varying degrees, after all. 

“Big Sister, should I help draw a bath for you?” 

The third person who crosses your seashell curtain today is a girl named Iris. Her voice is meek, as is her countenance, and you’re convinced that, whatever hell she escaped from, she must not be used to being able to speak as freely as she does now. “Iris,” you sigh. “I’m not your master or anything like that. You don’t have to draw me a bath.”

“B-But Lady Elena mentioned you were accommodating someone tonight,” she squeaks, embarrassment coloring her cheeks with warmth. “I just wanted to help you out, just like you did for me back then…” Her thoughtfulness makes you smile candidly. “Alright. If you insist.”

The straight affirmation makes her face light up, and the sight warms your heart. Iris constantly stammers with her words as she helps you prepare for the arrival of Phainon’s friend, but her nervousness is compensated for by her sincerity—something you’ve come to enjoy as a staple ever since you started living at The House. Why live amongst the vicious Okhemans when not even the Dawn Device can light up their obscured view of foreigners like you? It’s much better to stay with your newfound sisters here in the shadows. Even if you’re lifetimes away from the vast ocean you once called home, what you found here is the closest thing.

You’d be a fool to trade it for anything else.

Evenings have always been long in Okhema’s red light district. 

It’s a place devoid of the usual rules they follow up there on the surface. Absolutely anything goes in the undercity, and the promise of secrecy is enticing enough even for the overworlders to come crawling down into the darkness. You know it’s hypocritical of those Okhemans to shun outsiders whenever they feel like riding their moral high horses, only to succumb to the pleasures of the flesh when it’s convenient for them. But it’s even more hypocritical of you to despise them in equal measure, just for you to accept their money as if it’s your only lifeline. Debauchery is only second to the stench of hypocrisy that lingers in the stale air of the undercity. But the only way to survive here is to never take anything to heart.

Much like the fact that Phainon’s friend still hasn’t shown up past midnight. 

You’re no stranger to missed appointments—if you can even call them that to begin with. While there are some depraved men who would do anything for a minute of your time, there are also others who don’t think you’re worth a moment of theirs. At the end of the day, you’re just some prostitute they can do as they please with.  Iris waits with you out of courtesy. Even if the poor girl is better off resting in bed—given that her last client did quite a number on her—she insisted on keeping you company. But when the fourth hour ticks past with no sign of Phainon’s friend, she gives up and obeys when you plead with her to get some sleep. 

Eventually, the ruckus you’ve grown accustomed to hearing around The House dulls into shared whispers between your sisters who are thoughtful enough to keep their voices down. The location of the red light district allows for the illusion of night without the threat of the Black Tide. Here, anyone can fall into a deep sleep without the sun razing their eyes.

“I didn’t think you would agree.”

Elena’s voice is soft like thunder rumbling in the distance, strangely comforting to hear. She joins you in the room you’ve reserved for tonight’s tryst. Titans know you’d never bring patrons to your own quarters. Still, as the head of The House, it’s only natural for her to make a place meant for sinners to feel like home for girls with nowhere else to go. “To what?” you ask, deciding to play along.

She smiles before taking a seat next to you on the bed. “To Lord Phainon’s outrageous request. You seem like you’d do anything but take anyone associated with him as a patron.” 

“That’s what I thought, too. But you know how convincing he can be.”

“Very much so.” The two of you share a laugh in the dim lights of the lanterns. If there are any people who know how much Phainon has helped The House, it’s you and Elena. 

“That boy is a bit of a gray character, isn’t he? A hero of the people, telling his friend to relieve some tension at a place like this?” Elena shakes her head in disbelief. “I’d understand why that friend of his is a no-show. Phainon is the only overworlder crazy enough to not have a bone to pick with us bottom dwellers.”

You hum. “Not so sure about that. I heard that Penelope’s client for tonight is a wealthy merchant that has no problem with her dominating him into oblivion.” 

“Do me a favor and exclude the nymphomaniacs from the conversation, please?”

Despite his status as both an overworlder and a Chrysos Heir, the main reason why Phainon even involves himself with the undercity is Elena. The two of them came from the same small village at the edge of the world—long forgotten, long burned to ashes.  Aedes Elysiae is a place you’ve only learned about when Elena took you in. While you don’t bother with the specifics, it’s comforting to know that Phainon is well aware of the gripes that come with being a foreigner. You’d call him a hypocrite too, for cozying up to the overworlders, but he’s much too kind to everyone he encounters. Coupled with the fact that he helped save you and Elena from the clutches of the old master of The House, you suppose he deserves your respect. “Did he tell you who it is though?” To be fair, curiosity is starting to eat at you. “I can’t think of a single soul that would even consider Phainon’s suggestion. It’s as you said: no one is as crazy as he is.”  Though Elena is good at masking her thoughts from the others, you can read her like an open book. Even if she only hums in response, that’s already an answer on its own. “Fine. Keep your secrets then,” you grumble. “So can I wash off my makeup now? Though I feel a bit bad since Iris helped out. She even did my nails.”  “You know, that girl has taken a liking to you the same way you did with me back in the day.” “You wish.”  Elena shakes her head endearingly. “No need to wish for something that’s already true. Oh, but I suggest you wait just a while longer.” That warrants an immediate groan. “Why? The entire district’s asleep by now.” “Exactly.” Like she always does, Elena gets up without elaborating further. She makes a beeline toward the entrance with a knowing look on her face and, without so much as another word, the head of The House leaves you to your own devices. Great. Speaking with Elena isn’t so different from speaking with Phainon. You wonder if they have a shared trait where they can rile you up without trying. Is it something exclusive to Aedes Elysians? Thank Titans, her son Nikolas hasn’t manifested anything similar. You wouldn’t be able to handle three troublemakers.  In the midst of your musing, you hear the sound of footsteps down the hall. You typically wouldn’t mind the noise, given that this brothel houses about a dozen and a half of your sisters. But each step sounds deliberate—strong and sure, like a person who knows the value of their presence. You initially assume it’s Elena, but have an inkling that the footsteps are much too heavy to be hers. Just when you decide to get up and check who it is, you come face-to-face with the perpetrator the moment you parted the velvet curtains. The man that stands before you is more of a legend than anything else. You’ve heard about him from tall tales that Kremnoan patrons have shared out of the blue. The Last Prince. The Immortal Lion. While the reputation of those who hail from Castrum Kremnos precedes them, you didn’t think they’d be so devoted to their Prince until that day. Your patron spoke about him as if he was a Titan himself. But now that you’re faced with none other than Mydeimos in the flesh, everything has started to make sense.  He towers over you with ease, his presence effortlessly domineering. The placid look on his face as he sizes you up makes you feel like you’re on opposite sides of the battlefield, and you’d rather not fight a seasoned warrior who’s nearly twice your size— “Hello,” he greets surprisingly…normally. “My name is Mydeimos, but I’d rather you call me Mydei. You are?”  His directness makes you blink up at him. You didn’t think he was the type to introduce himself. He seems like someone who expects every person he crosses paths with to know his name. After all, Mydeimos made waves when he brought the Kremnoan Detachment in Okhema and helped defend the city against the mad Titan, Nikador, among other feats. “Thalia,” you tell him your working name while keeping a straight face, trying not to let him see just how befuddled you are. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“The Deliverer has told me about you a couple of times in passing,” he tells you, all while taking in the interior of the dimly lit room. “While I was initially against his proposal, one thing led to another and I’ve found myself right where he wants me.” It takes you a moment to figure out who this Deliverer is. “Oh. Lord Phainon can be quite persuasive.”  “Persuasive is an understatement,” the blond huffs before affixing you with that golden-eyed stare. “So, how will this go? I’m afraid I am wholly unfamiliar with how you operate in the undercity. I…don’t want to overstep any boundaries.” That only serves to confuse you even more. You’ve been in the business long enough to know that men are disgusting scoundrels one way or another. Most of them would just pay to use your body and not even say a word when they’re done. They’d never even think twice about you since you’re working for them at that moment, after all.  It’s a lifestyle you’re not proud of. You’ve never felt more empty than when a man pumps you full of his seed with no regard for your wellbeing. But this is all you know. All you’re good for. And you love Elena and your sisters too much to leave The House behind. Then this man walks into the room with overstepping boundaries as his main concern instead of getting impatient to fuck you against the closest solid surface. Still, you tread carefully.  “Before anything else, I’d like to clarify what exactly it is you came here for,” you say, proud of how firm you sound in spite of how anxious you are. “We can’t work on anything if I don’t know where to start, Lord Mydeimos.”  He sighs. “As I said, just Mydei is fine. And didn't the Deliverer already tell you?” You cast him a pointed look. “Lo— Mydei, we both know Lord Phainon well enough to know that he tends to exaggerate certain details. He’s not the one paying for my services—you are. So I ask you again…” In a show of confidence, you step closer to him, eyes drifting to the ornate necklace sitting across his throat. It was a band of dark metal inlaid with gilded sapphires gleaming in the waning light. You muster enough courage to curl your fingers around it and tug. He yields disarmingly easily, grunting in contempt but with no signs of protest. For some reason, it fills you with a strange sense of accomplishment.

“What are you here for?” you say, voice barely above a whisper.  His jaw clenches for a moment, as if biting something down. Though you try your best to keep your eyes focused on his gaze of molten fire, you can’t help but notice the way his posture shifts to accommodate the compromising position you forced him into.  Mydei’s body is as flawless as people say it is—not a single scar denting his strong, rippled flesh. This is the physique of a man who has gone to war far more times than you can imagine. There is no blade in the world sharp enough to cut him down, and you quietly revel in the detail that Kephale personally took to mold this statue of a man.  “I…”  He starts, but hesitates still. Feeling emboldened, you caress Mydei’s face gently—tracing the bright red marks that bleed from his right eye before swirling in deliberate patterns across the rest of his body. He shudders at your touch and you flash him a lopsided smile.  Then and there, you pull up a mental catalogue of every single thing you’ve heard about Mydei in passing. What the people love about him, what they hate, what they wish they could emulate for themselves—all of it. Because your line of work requires you to deduce what will make your patrons unravel at the seams in a mere glance. That’s how you decide to play your cards: out of a plethora of guesses about their character. From the way Mydei has acted in the five minutes you’ve been together, it’s painstakingly obvious that he bears the weight of a crown he does not even want. Which makes things much easier for you.  “Go on,” you murmur, letting your breath fan across his face. “There��s no need for hesitation here. When you’re with me… “You don’t have to be anything else but mine.”  While it always works on your more eager patrons, saying something so intrepid to a Chrysos Heir is near-unthinkable. A shot in the dark. You aren’t even sure if Mydei is into being addressed that way by a complete stranger, but you see it again—that not-so subtle click of his jaw, which tells you more than enough. The tension hangs heavy in the air. You can barely breathe without feeling your heart race erratically. There’s an unspoken fervor in Mydei’s gaze as his lips quiver like he has something to say.

But you quickly realize that there is little need for words when it comes to someone like him. Mydei’s intentions translate much better when he puts them into action. He barely gives you any time to process what was happening. All you know is that there’s nothing sweeter than the moment the distance between you disappears, and his warm lips slant across yours. The kiss catches you off-guard for only a moment. Most of your patrons don’t bother. In the red light district, kissing is far too intimate for most of them. Yet Mydei doesn’t even think twice about it. His warmth permeates into you as Mydei holds you as close as he can—pressing you flush against his rigid body. It’s a dizzying feeling, but one you can’t dwell on for long when you feel his tongue prodding at your lips. You grant Mydei entrance far too easily, letting him map the cavern of your mouth with the slick appendage. He pulls a moan out of you, and in turn, you feel a strong hand firmly pushing your head further into the kiss.  The feel of his cold gauntlet in your hair should have scared you, or at least, made you wary. But his armor is of little consequence when Mydei holds you like you’re the most precious thing in the entire world. You don’t recall the last time you’ve felt so lightheaded from a patron’s kiss. You don’t even remember the last time any of them even kissed you. That’s how you know that this encounter with Mydei will cement itself into your memory whether or not you want it to. Not just because he’s a Prince, but because he makes it a point to remind you that things like this are supposed to feel good. You gasp his name against his lips, but Mydei devours the words before you can get them out. That simple show of dominance already has you clenching your thighs—a reaction that isn’t lost on the perpetrator himself. In another attempt to catch you completely by surprise, Mydei’s armor-clad hands travel to your thighs, where the high slits of your skirt conveniently part to accommodate the intrusion. Your doughy flesh is hot against his gauntlets and you nearly whimper when he grabs the meat of your ass—the sharp tips digging into your sensitive skin.  Despite your mind being thrown into a haze, you still catch on to what he wants. You curl one of your thighs around his hips—lips still melded together as Mydei helps hoist you up. Once he’s balanced your weight sufficiently, you’re able to cage him between your legs. Still, the both of you know who truly holds the reins. Mydei traces a path of flames along the hollow of your throat, murmuring words in a language you can’t understand. When he presses you against the nearest wall and takes full advantage of the leverage, you can’t ever hope to resist. He doesn’t say anything more, content with swathing your skin in reds and blues from each bruising kiss. The man hasn’t even done much, but you’re already this willing to let him do as he pleases. It’s difficult to miss just how much slick has pooled between your thighs, and the anticipation makes you shiver. When was the last time you were this eager to let a patron have his way with you? “Hold on,” he whispers before gently nibbling on your bottom lip. “I need to feel you.” Head still fuzzy from his ministrations, you barely notice when Mydei maneuvers you to the bed, setting you down as gently as he can. The cool sheets are a stark contrast to your fever-pitched skin. But you barely pay attention when you notice Mydei pressing a knee onto the bed, molten gold irises entirely transfixed on you as he unlatches the gauntlets from his arms. 

His words only begin to dawn on you then.  I need to feel you.  Did you excite a reaction so intense that Mydei felt such a carnal need to touch you with his bare hands—skin to skin, and nothing in between? You don’t care if his armor clatters uselessly onto the floor. Not when Mydei surges forward to capture your lips again and nudges your legs apart. Saliva trickles past the corner of your mouth as another moan is lost to his fervent kiss.   Contrary to your initial beliefs, Mydei is not the legend many think he is. In fact, he is just as human as anyone else—those large, hot hands of his are proof of that. Mydei spreads you apart before him like he wants to take in every inch of you—to devour you with his gaze.

He’s not much of a talker, which poses no problem, as you’ve been with enough men who think far too much of themselves. Fools often compensate for their poor performance with senseless talk. But there’s none of that with Mydei, whose gaze alone can melt you into nothingness.  (You hope he knows that you're all too willing to surrender all that you have for a taste of him.) When Mydei leans closer, you expect another kiss—even pucker up in sheer anticipation. But his first display of petulance comes in a small smirk that plays at his lips. The Prince quickly evades you to nose at your collarbone, licking at the motley of bruises he left in his wake. Almost like a quiet apology despite himself. His discretion makes you squirm, and it distracts you from the fact that he’s undoing the laces holding your dress together. When the fabric comes apart, he’s granted a generous view of your breasts, and the noise that escapes him would make you think he’s unearthed some holy relic from a past gone by. Mydei wastes no time peppering your chest with the degree of affection he’s lathered along the column of your neck. It’s like he means for every biting kiss to leave a mark, a lasting reminder of your time with him for days to come. The moment he takes one of your pert nipples into his mouth, you barely contain your own sounds, and you wonder if you’ll lose yourself completely once he’s gone all the way. Unlike the cold bite of his gauntlets, Mydei’s bare hands are warmer than the unsetting sun on the surface. He touches you with the intention of committing each dip and crevice of your body to memory. You feel him pawing at your breasts, his nails digging into the curve of your ass, and when those wandering hands settle along the curve of your hips, you involuntarily buck up into him. It’s a reaction that makes him pause, those golden eyes like gilded lanterns in the night flickering to yours in a heartbeat. Your breath hitches as your gazes meet. Strange enough, you find the eye contact much more intimate than whatever he’s doing to your body. Wordlessly, Mydei stops suckling at your breasts to sink lower on the bed. The man doesn’t even bother removing your skirt, content with nudging it out of the way before settling himself between your lovely thighs.

When you realize what he’s trying to do, you tense up for all the wrong reasons. You know what people say about the whores of The House. No matter how many times you cleanse yourselves with Phagousa’s blessing of the stream, your bodies will remain tainted by the touch of all the men you’ve let inside of you. You should know better. The Titan of the Sea is much closer to you than meets the eye, but if you stay in Okhema for far too long, you start to forget what you’ve been taught at home—your real home. “Your mind is wandering.” Mydei’s quiet voice snaps you out of your reverie, making your face flush. But he quickly dispels the lingering shame when his soft fingers prod at your mound. He spreads your lips apart with caution, like he doesn’t wish to hurt you. And when he has a firsthand look of how drenched you are, he barely stifles a groan. He doesn’t comment on your momentary distraction again, thank Titans. However, he momentarily robs you of your capacity to speak when he hoists your thighs up his broad shoulders, not even thinking twice before licking a long, deliberate stripe across your dripping cunt. Your nerves are set alight every which way. Mydei repeats the motions of his tongue in dizzying succession, even taking the time to trace tight circles around your sensitive nub. It has you gushing in an instant, and Mydei is all too eager to lap up every drop of your essence.  So tender in the way he pleases you, you can’t help but tangle your fingers into his fiery blond hair—pressing his face even closer to your sopping heat. Mydei licks and slurps at you cunt like some mere mortal gifted ambrosia for the first time. Nothing makes sense about the passion he’s exhibiting for a complete stranger, but you’re too intoxicated from pleasure to deny yourself his devotion.  You know you’re doomed the moment those thick fingers start to gather the slick that’s collected along your seam—working in tandem with his sinful tongue as he presses the lone digit inside your tight cunt. Your toes curl at the blissful intrusion, and you’re certain you’ve pulled at his hair enough for it to hurt. Mydei doesn’t exhibit any signs that he particularly minds. In fact, he even moans into your wet heat, making come hither motions with his finger that stimulates your walls in all the right ways. The premise of foreplay has been lost on you for a long time, and getting someone like him to do all of this without a second thought makes you wonder if this is all a dream. But then the Prince slides in another of his thick digits inside you, anchoring you to the shores of reality as he fucks you on his fingers and feasts on you with his mouth. The way he grips harshly onto your thighs ought to hurt, but the only thing that spills from your lips is pure ecstasy. Mydei doesn’t lick between your folds with reckless abandon. He makes sure each flick of his tongue is slow, dragging, purposeful—enough to render you squirming beneath his touch.  He builds up that steady burn flickering in the pit of your stomach. The more he tongues at your clit, fishes for that patch of spongy flesh that makes you keen just right, the closer he brings you to the precipice. You don’t know how he can possibly tell, but when you start feeling that blissful release starting to boil beneath your skin, Mydei noticeably amps up the effort.  His fingers barely retract from your cunt, in favor of driving those thick digits even deeper into you. That unfairly talented mouth latches onto your nub and Mydei concentrates all his attention to helping you reach that high you don’t always see with most patrons. The stimulation is too good, too much.

You’re not used to this, not used to him.  You thought that the stars had left Amphoreus when Aquila closed their eyes. But all you see are a dozen constellations dancing across your blurry vision when you come apart on Mydei’s tongue. He holds your hips down as you ride out that blissful high—making sure you feel it course through your veins and shoot straight through your skull. From his hedonistic stare alone, you would know he’s far from done with you. When the dust settles, you catch your breath in short gasps, pulse thundering in the confine of your ribs. You don’t immediately realize that Mydei is in the process of taking off the rest of his armor. Though you can’t help the soft giggle you make when you hear him curse out the offending garments when they refuse to yield to him. So, despite having little to no feeling in your legs, you scoot closer to the edge of the bed—undoing the latches that hold his belt and leg plates in place. Mydei awkwardly steps out of them, and you try your best to stifle your laughter; really, you do! “I don’t understand why this is so amusing for you,” he grumbles. All you can offer him is a grin. “You’re just not…the person I expected.” “Hm? Care to elaborate?”  “I think you would enjoy it more if we pick up where we left off.” The Prince doesn’t protest. Instead, he lets you pull him back to the bed not without stealing another kiss that grows more heated, more desperate with each passing second. Even if you’re still feeling the tingling sensation in the wake of your last orgasm, you’re eager to return the favor. Mydei doesn’t object when you undo the clasp of his trousers. The fabric feels expensive—befitting of a man of royal lineage. But the way he sheds the rest of his clothes makes their value feel inconsequential when he has eyes on one thing only. You. There’s a teasing edge to the way you kiss him as you grasp his throbbing length. He feels hot and heavy in your hand, thick veins jutting along the underside. The girth of him troubles you for a moment, making you consider retrieving that jar of lubricant safety stashed in one of the nearby drawers.  Before you can voice out the suggestion, however, Mydei rests his forehead on your shoulder, breathing heavily as you pump his cock in your feeble little hands. The show of vulnerability startles you a bit. Is he so deprived of relief that he crumbles the moment it’s given to him? Normally, this is when you would crawl between a patron’s legs and suck him off before letting him fuck you. But this entire session with Mydei is anything but normal. No man has ever gone down on you the way he has, and from the way he shudders so adorably from your hands alone tells you he needs release much more than he lets on. So, you plant both of your knees on either side of his hips to straddle him comfortably, and with all the strength you can muster, you push the Prince onto his back. Although you do fail to account for the man’s rapid reflexes. The moment he feels the extra force, his hand is quick to seize your wrist—tight enough that it actually hurts.  “M-Mydei…?”  The hint of fear in your voice seems to snap him out of it, and his ironclad grip loosens. Mydei stares up at you apologetically. “Forgive me. It’s…a force of habit.”

Oh, right. First and foremost, he is a warrior. A Kremnoan Prince. And though he has no business floating inside of your head at the moment, the conversation you had with Phainon earlier resurfaces in your head.  Even if my friend is free to hurt others, it doesn't mean he will. The dissonance between what you know about the battle-hungry spirit of Kremnoans and the tenderness that Mydei has shown you so far only serves to puzzle you even more. Phainon was right to assume you would turn him down if he told you that the friend in question is Mydeimos of all people.  Because…what else would you expect from a man who’s known war more than he’s ever known love? You’ve lied with warriors before, and soldiers, and even some city guards. None of the people who have tasted what it’s like to stand on the battlefield have ever been kind to someone they only think of as a hole to fuck—a source of relief and none else. But Mydei? In the short time you’ve known him, he’s convinced you that no harm will come to you as long as you’re in his company. Instead of fearing for your life, you feel…safe. Something you consider a luxury for someone in your line of work. You feel like there’s something twisted in the fact that you’re relieved just from the thought that he isn’t here to kill you. But too many of your sisters have lost their lives to pigs who want to silence them for good. Unfaithful husbands that didn’t want their wives to find out about their infidelity. Important societal figures that wanted no trace of their illicit activities. After all, anything goes in the undercity. Even the death of a prostitute—a foreigner, at that.  “You’re thinking too deeply again.” Count on Mydei to catch on to your little tells. Another thing you didn’t expect about him is how easily he can read you. Or maybe you’ve always been an open book. It’s just that your patrons don’t usually give as much of a damn as Mydei does.  “It’s nothing,” you chuckle, mentally chiding yourself for being so distracted today. “You’re just… I can’t even put it into words. I might just be a bit overwhelmed is all.” You can’t tell him that you can’t wrap your head around the fact that you’re servicing a Chrysos Heir. It feels all sorts of inappropriate. Mydei studies you for only a moment before he rises back into a sitting position. You’re about to protest—to let him let you please him this time. But he doesn’t seem interested in heeding your quiet request. 

He manhandles you in a way that swiftly switches your positions and you find yourself back beneath him. The lanterns cast a faint halo around his muscular glory. Even in the dim light, the red marks on Mydei’s skin glow like veins of fire beneath the earth. He pins you in place not only with his strong hands, but also with eyes like liquid sunlight. “It’s as you said before,” he murmurs quietly before leaning closer to your ear. The warmth of his breath tickles your neck, and you shudder as he presses a soft, chaste kiss on your temple.  “When you’re with me, you don’t have to be anything else but mine.”  The fact that he just used your words against you makes heat shoot straight to your core. Mydei makes the crude yet attractive motion of spitting into his hand before lathering his cock with saliva. Your mind whispers a reminder about that lubricant you were just thinking about, but there’s something more carnal in the thought that he’s going to loosen you up with his spit alone. Yet despite the need burning in his eyes, each movement he makes is weighted with caution. You feel as if he’s compensating for that knee-jerk reaction from earlier—something you’d tell him is past you, and that he doesn’t have to treat you like fragile glass. But again, the words evaporate on your tongue when you feel the head of his thick cock by your entrance.  Mydei lets out another shuddering breath, nudging your knees apart before rubbing his length along the seam of your cunt. It glistens with spit and slick, and you pull him even closer to let him know what it is that you want. The abrupt tug you make on his arm disrupts his center of gravity, and Mydei nearly topples into you. But of course his reflexes work in time yet again and suddenly your faces are but a hair’s breadth apart. You’ve said it before and you’ll say it again: eye contact is a thousand times more intimate than the act of sex itself.  He breathes out a word from that unfamiliar language yet again. The way it rolls off his tongue is soft, tender in a way that it almost hurts. Like something meant to be heard by a person close to his heart—not some whore he’ll probably never see again. You close your eyes and his lips find yours. Ever-so gently, he pushes himself in.  Everything about Mydei is difficult to process. From his presence to his attitude to the sheer girth of him—you had to take a moment to recalibrate yourself to every single one. You clutch the sheets tight enough that they start to pull off the edge of the bed.  The intrusion is sharp, but not uncomfortable. Not when he eases inch by delicious inch into you with the patience of a saint. While he doesn’t coo and coddle you, his eyes are expressive enough to let you know of his concern. You even feel him start to withdraw, possibly out of fear that you wouldn’t be able to take him, but you hold on to his forearm to keep him in place.

“I do not wish to hurt you,” Mydei whispers. You shake your head vigorously. “You’re doing everything but.” That doesn’t immediately quell the doubt on his face, but Mydei presses forward—slowly, slowly until his hips are flush against yours.  All of a sudden, you forget how to breathe. He’s… huge inside you. Spreading your walls so far apart, you wonder how you were even able to accommodate his size. You’ve never been so filled to the brim that tears nearly well in your eyes because of how good he feels— “Fuck…” Hearing him voice his own blissed out delight and seeing the euphoric look on his face makes you involuntarily clench around him. It’s a reaction met with a snarl from the man currently eclipsing your smaller frame. Mydei makes the motions to pull out slowly, only to buck his hips with unforgiving force. The switch-up blindsides you for a moment, lips gaping from a soundless moan. When the Prince catches on to how much you like it, he hammers into you relentlessly—pushing his fat cock desperately deeper into your slick sex.  Your arms curl around his broad shoulders, fingers seeking purchase along the rippling flesh of his muscles. The sinew of his back shifts with each thrust, making you mewl his name pathetically as Mydei drowns you in the heat of him. There are no words shared between you. Only gasps and moans lost in the wet squelch of flesh. You’re mindful enough to keep it down, and so is he. But even if the red light district is fast asleep, you and Mydei are only getting started.  He doesn’t quite fuck into you the way you’re used to. The intensity is there, but so is the unbridled passion. It feels like something that isn't yours, but Mydei gives it to you again and again and again until you have no choice but to claim it as your own.  To take him as yours. (Even just for tonight.)

Your nails dig in sharply into his rigid skin, but the fact that he has an indestructible body makes you throw all caution to the wind. Where other men would bleed, he would only use it as a means to push ever-so deeply. As if Mydei isn’t already pounding you into the bed, he grasps your chin and meets your lips in an open-mouthed kiss. He spreads you on his cock like he was made for you, and you alone. You can feel him so far inside of you that you fear it’ll take days to sweat him out.  The nature of your work requires you to never get too attached to any of your clients, which used to be as easy as breathing. None of the men you encounter are worth remembering and you thought that none of them ever will be. But when it’s a prince who kisses you like a lover and holds you like his queen, how are you supposed to put up a fight? Mydei’s pace eventually starts to lose its sound rhythm. From the sharp breaths he takes to the fact that his eyes seem to be going in and out of focus, you can tell that he’s close to the edge. Who are you to deny him that? Your fingers tangle in his hair yet again and you whisper every sort of expletive in the book. You fuck me so good. Can feel you throbbing inside me. Come on, Mydeimos, I know you’re almost there. Please, please, please— That does just the trick. Mydei reaches the apex of bliss with a sharp hiss. But instead of finishing inside you, he musters up the strength to pull out and lets his white hot emission coat the sheets instead. You don't realize right away, but when you see the pearlescent essence of his cum on the sheets, your heart sinks.  “W-Why did you…?” 

You don’t know why you sound so miserable at the idea of his seed not being deep inside of you. The mere thought of a man’s spend dripping from your cunt repulsed you to no end. But Mydei has a knack for being the sole exception to many things. He’s quick to wipe the tears that trickle across your face, thumb swiping gently across your soft cheek. “I… I do not wish to burden you with having to bear my child. And I have my own reasons for not wanting to sire an heir at this point in time.” “But…” Mydei continues, having not heard you protest. “Kremnoan children are also difficult to bear, according to many mothers I’ve spoken to before. The last thing I want is for you to—” “Mydeimos,” you sigh in exasperation, grabbing his face so that he would pay attention. “I’ve been sterilized long before I met you, so you needn’t fret about any children growing inside me.”  The silence that follows is deafening, and it makes you want to bury your head in sand. Mydei is too baffled to speak right away, and you don't fault him for it. The rumors about women at The House have been floating around for a while, but none of you didn't want to sow any more conflicts than there already are. Instinctively, you trail your fingers along your navel. Though the scars have long been healed by Phagousa’s blessing, you remember what you lost like it was just yesterday.  “We can’t bear any children because the previous head of The House took that away from us,” you murmur—memories, old but still painful flashing in the forefront of your mind. “So please don’t concern yourself with trivial things like that. I only want to provide the most out of your experience.” Your chest aches at your own words. It’s not that you’re dying to have children of your own. Nikolas being the first and last child to be born here is more than enough for you. Children should never have to grow up in the darkness anyways. Mydei frowns. “Why do you speak of yourself like you’re nothing but an object made for my enjoyment?” “Am I not?” He doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls you upright—anger glowing in his golden eyes. It doesn’t scare you. Somehow, you know the ire in his gaze is not directed at you.  But despite the obvious shift in his mood, Mydei kisses you again with nothing but passion imbued in his lips. He quickly melts away the bitterness dredged up by those memories he unknowingly dug up into the surface. The faith you’ve put in him tonight is phenomenal, especially when you allow him back between your thighs despite what you just discussed. You don’t understand how he’s still hard after releasing so much of his emission earlier. But if there’s one thing you know about Kremnoans, it’s that their stamina is unparalleled. Unlike the first time, Mydei doesn’t rut into you hard and fast. Everything about this is slow and sensual, as if he wants to mold your cunt into the shape of him. He presses your thighs into your chest, tilting your body at just the right angle so he can let his cock hit even deeper.  “Mydei…” His name sounds strained, like you’re choking on your own voice. “Please.” You don’t know what you’re begging for. You don’t know what you even want at this point. But Mydei heeds your unspoken wishes anyway. He folds you further into the bed in a way that makes you feel like his desire for you is inescapable. The position you’re in is meant for lovers trying for a child, to make sure the seed takes and bears fruit. You two are nothing but strangers basking in each other’s bodies deep in the darkness of the undercity. 

But even if you can never have children of your own, there’s something oddly comforting in the fact that Mydei fucks into you like this anyway. Like you’re worth more than a bottom dweller lost to the shadows.  Your orgasm crests without much bravado either. It’s straightforward, having been exacerbated by the Prince rubbing your clit as he nearly breaches a place inside of you that has never been reached by anyone else. It feels intrusive at first, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand in instinctive wariness. But as the head of his cock continues to drag along your spongy flesh, as he keeps hitting that sinfully sweet spot, your caution begins to fray at the seams. You embrace him with a quiet sob, tight walls squeezing his cock for all he’s worth.  And then you fall off the edge of ecstasy itself. It’s much different from when you came undone from his mouth. That felt like you were reaching for stars that burst in the back of your eyelids. This feels like coming back home.

Mydei murmurs yet another string of words that are beyond your range of understanding, each one sounding more vulnerable than the last. And with one last, stuttering thrust, he bursts—coating your walls in the warmth of his release.  He fills you to the brim, pumping you full of his seed until it drips out of your cunt with his cock still flush inside you. The sensation is filthy but not in a way that you despise. You even move your hips to let him fuck his cum deeper inside you. When Mydei notices, he lets out a sharp laugh. “I didn’t think…you’d still be this eager.” You don’t say anything in return—or more like, you can’t. The sensation of him filling you up has rendered you into a mindless deviant. Only his cock can stoke the fire still raging inside you. So you do your best to entice him. While you loathe the idea at first, you slip his cock out of your soiled cunt. Mydei watches your every move with rapt attention and a growl nearly tears through his chest when you get on your knees, facing away from him before presenting your ass for the taking. His seed trickles out of you and onto the sheets. No man would be sane enough to resist the same display of seduction. “Are you sure you want to provoke me like this?” he warns. “The woman in charge of this place told me I should be gone by sunrise.”  Your mind doesn’t quite register the fact that Elena herself imposed that restriction—too desperate to be speared on his cock once more. The sun doesn’t even rise in a place like this.  “I don’t care,” you whimper, tugging him closer to you. “Mydei, fuck me more.”  Mydei looks up at the ceiling, as if praying for some sort of deliverance. “What am I going to do with you?”

Fortunately for you, the Prince surrenders far too easily to the desires of the flesh. The two of you go at it with no end in sight. Mydei proves to live up to the Kremnoan stamina that’s grown recently popular amongst your sisters. And despite the room smelling of sex and depravity alike, he doesn’t relent—committed to fulfilling your desires until you’re completely spent.  You’re the first one to tap out, as expected. Mydei didn’t seem finished with you at first, but when he finally notices the mess he’s made of your body, his rationality comes back to the surface.  He lays your head on the pillow gently, positioning the rest of your body upright once he’s done wiping down the evidence of his time with you. Mydei knows you’re not quite asleep when your eyes slowly flutter in confusion, and he sighs before leaning forward to kiss your forehead. “Can I ask something?” “Hmm…?” Hopefully, that translates to a yes. “What’s your name? Your real name.”  “Mmmh…” On a regular day, you would think twice before giving that information out so freely. Your line of work is more dangerous than it seems, and the most basic precaution is to never give patrons your real name. But you don’t usually get your brains fucked into mush on regular days either, so you suppose Elena can forgive you for the lapse in judgement.  Mydei repeats your name with a hint of fondness in his voice. You don’t quite hear it, given that you’re halfway to the land of slumber.

“Thank you… Your… has been… splendid.” What was that…? You’re too far gone to give his words another conscious thought.  Instead, you dream of a man with eyes hewn from pure starlight. Of a life you could have with him if only you hadn’t been born with the lives you had.  But like all dreams do, they cease to exist the moment you open your eyes. 

“B-Big Sister, how do you make this much in one night?” This is the first thing Iris asks when you step into the pavilion. Well, you’re not sure if it’s even morning. It’s difficult to tell here in the undercity. Still feeling the lasting throb of a headache, you gaze at Iris with a befuddled look. “What are you talking about?”  It’s only then that you realize a handful of your other sisters have gathered around the large table in the middle of the room, where bags upon bags of gold overflow on the marble surface. You stare at them with a nonplussed expression, not sure why they think all this finery belongs to you— Mydei. “Alright, girls, give poor Thalia some space.” Sometimes, you’re grateful for Elena’s timely interventions. While some of your sisters bemoan the lack of an explanation for this…massive influx of currency, they all have enough courtesy to step out when it’s needed. Shortly after, you enjoy a meal that Elena already prepared for you beforehand—one glass of pomegranate juice and a plate of golden honeycakes.  “I’ve never seen you that spent before,” the head of The House snickers to herself. “That man did a number on you now, did he?”  You would have glared at her, if only her cooking wasn’t so good. “Elena, shouldn’t we practice the art of minding our own business?” “Technically, you’re working for my business, yes?” This woman can really be insufferable sometimes. 

Thankfully, Elena gives you enough grace for the next several minutes. You get to finish your food without so much as a quip on her end. But just when you think she’s let you off the hook, she has the gall to ask: “And you’re sure you haven’t fallen in love with that Prince?” Elena’s preposterous words nearly make you choke on your drink. “If I start falling for every man that shows me an ounce of kindness, then I would’ve been long dead, Elena. You know that men who mask their intentions are worse than those who are outright scoundrels.” “But is he?” “...What?” “A man who masks his intentions?” Her question is met with a puzzled stare. “Of course not—” “Then why not let yourself fall for the kind man?” Elena chuckles. 

“Because he’s a Chrysos Heir? He has much more pressing concerns than some random woman in the red light district. If the lesser men that have had me never even thought twice about me, why would he?” Elena shrugs. “Only you can answer that, I’m afraid.” Eventually, one of your sisters ends up calling Elena for an urgent matter. You don’t quite hear what it’s about, but the head of The House steps out of the pavilion to leave you to your devices… Or to your heaps of gold, in this case.  You still don’t know what you’re supposed to do with all of this, but you might give half of the money to Elena to help with the much needed repairs around The House, and the other half to Phainon so he can give it to the less fortunate citizens up on the surface. Though you immediately scratch the latter off the list since the chance of Mydei finding out is fairly high. The moment your thoughts drift back to him, your face heats up with embarrassment.

You were not yourself last night. You don’t know what drove you to go such lengths just to please him, and where you even got the courage to keep going. But when you recall the warmth of Mydei’s golden eyes, the tenderness weighted beneath his touch, and the fire that seemed to burn behind those marks on his body… You spend the rest of your day ruminating about your time with Mydei. Hell, you even consider reaching out to Phainon to ask all your pressing questions just to sate your biting curiosity. Why did he come here? Did he need reprieve from his princely duties so badly?  No. You shouldn’t think of him anymore.  Mydei is nothing but a client. You’ve rendered your services. He’s paid his dues. That should be the end of the transaction, and nothing else. Time and time again, you tell yourself the same thing: When you make a living in the bowels of the Eternal Holy City, nothing is ever personal. Until you catch yourself wondering just how heavy of a crown that Kremnoan Prince actually bears. “Big Sister? A customer is asking for you.” Nikolas peeks through the curtain of seashells dangling by the entrance of your room again. He doesn’t wait long for your answer because the speed in which you burst into a sprint is somewhat embarrassing. “Who is it?” you ask, eyes wide and pulse roaring in your ears. “Did you see?” “Umm, I think it’s just one of the bartenders working down the street. Why?” You visibly deflate at the news, and you know that despite being fairly young, Nikolas doesn’t miss the disappointment on your face.

In the end, you decline to see any potential clients for the next few days. Your official statement is that you’re still recuperating from your last session. The only reason your sisters don’t nose in on the matter is the fact that you brought so much revenue to The House in just one session, they’re fully convinced that you deserve all the rest you can get. But the truth is that you spend most of your time lost in thought, daydreaming of a man with fiery hair and molten gold eyes.  You wonder if he’ll ever come back.

In the seaside state of Lethe, it’s fairly easy to forget about one’s problems.

Wine and song filled every street and back-alley, as the land is loved by the Titan of honey brews and banquets. Tales of the neverending festivities reached far and wide in Amphoreus, and that word-of-mouth alone was enough to attract visitors from across the land. 

It’s for this reason that Lethians are as hospitable as they are. Phagousa taught them how to cultivate the sweetest wine from mere grapes; taught them the art of music and how it brings life to the darkest of nights. 

For thousands of years, your people simply dedicated their toasts and sang their shanties to honor the Ocean Mother’s kindness. When others hailing from places near and far started to gravitate towards such a profound relationship between a Titan and their people, you welcomed them with open arms. 

After all, Phagousa’s benevolence is meant to be shared, not kept. 

Your mother has been bringing you into the jovial streets since you were ten years old—singing and dancing amongst drunken sailors and tourists who wanted a quick getaway. It was easy to let loose in a place meant for you to forget about life’s worries. But on some days, you preferred basking in the comfort of waves lapping gently across the shore. The stars were much easier to see along the coastline, far from the entertainment district that robbed a person’s attention of the vast sky that stretched above their heads. Though Phagousa exists in every goblet overflowing with drink, Their presence is most captivating when you’re out here at sea. 

The spot you’ve chosen was a ways away from the wharf that received and sent off ships. Which is why one bothers to encroach on this safe haven of yours. Not even your own mother. But apart from the privacy the secluded shore offered, there was another reason why you liked to sit here and observe in your lonesome. 

A reason that might get you in trouble. 

Several miles east of Lethe is the stronghold of the Titan of Death: the city state of Styxia. Legend has it, Lethians used to live there a long time ago—before the end of Era Chrysea, when Thanatos was born. The god’s presence was a plague that spread throughout the land. Not even Phagousa could protect Their people from Death’s inviting fingertips.

But since the lost city state isn’t too far from here, sometimes, fragments of the Nether Realm end up leaking into the open sea.

There, you often see things that others would deem impossible. 

Souls—by the hundreds, sometimes even by the thousands. They all drift aimlessly across the ocean like luminescent creatures you’d normally find deep underwater. The first time you witnessed this happening, you simply thought that it was migration season for the crystal jellyfish. Lethians even have a festival dedicated to that specific phenomenon.

But that only ever happens during the Month of Joy, which was over five months ago. 

Instead of spiraling into a panic and alerting the entire island of what you saw, you chose to linger—observing as each soul meandered across the moonlit ocean and into the unknown. The sight reminded you of a tale about the Sea of Souls, and how you would inevitably make the journey towards it once you pass.  You wondered if these souls have simply lost their way to their supposed destination. Though you’ve never heard of this happening before, it wasn’t such a farfetched ordeal. Perhaps even the dead long for Phagousa’s promise of gratification and delight.

Every day since the first, you began visiting the secluded shore in hopes of getting a glimpse of that literal sea of souls. Sometimes, they light up the sea like specters bathed in moonlight, but most of the time, it’s just you. 

Always just you. 

“Big Sister? You’re dozing off again.”

You’re not sure how exactly your mind managed to register the fact that you’re being scolded, but you jolt awake anyways. Eyes darting around, you grasp at the information available—who are you with, what are you doing, what’s going on—and visibly relax when you remember that you’re with your sisters in the pavilion, feasting on today’s breakfast after a rather long night.

Iris stares at you with a concerned look. “Is the food not to your liking?”

“Of course not!” you insist before shoveling a spoonful of eggs into your mouth and biting down on a piece of flatbread. “Breakfast is especially appetizing when you’re the one making it for me.”

“So it’s not the case if I’m the one cooking?” 

At the sound of Elena's sulking, you have to stifle a groan. The head of the House could be such a child at times, despite already being a mother herself. But then again her petulance knows no bounds. Elena joins you and the rest of your sisters at the dining table, depositing some of Iris’ cooking onto a plate before taking a seat. Though you try your best to avoid her gaze, it’s a bit difficult when the person in question is quite literally next to you.

You’ve been with Elena for so long that you don’t even have to look at her to know whenever she’s scheming something. 

“I’ll be heading up to the overworld today,” she imparts the information casually before popping a blueberry into her mouth. “Nikolas has been meaning to join the Academy that trains the Holy City’s guards. Unfortunately, those scoundrels have rubbed off on my boy.” 

Despite your caution, you let slip a soft laugh. “Well, whenever we take some guards as clients, they have no one to talk to in the lobby apart from other patrons and Nik. You trained him to be too good of a conversationalist for a fourteen year-old.” 

“This is what we get for those god-awful waiting times we subject them to,” Penelope chuckles. “But look at the bright side: the city guards are the least rotten of the bunch. Nik at least chooses his heroes wisely.”

“I wouldn’t call Officer Theodorus a hero,” snorts Alexandria. “He has a wife and two children yet he goes down here to ask for me at least once a fortnight! Men are all the same, no matter what job they have.”

You don’t blame your sisters for feeling the way they do. Working as prostitutes in the underground had little benefits. But people with nowhere else to go don’t have much of a choice. It’s just nice to be able to air all these frustrations out as freely as you all do now. 

Unlike before…

All of a sudden, Lyra pops into the discussion, snapping her fingers. “Remember that man who pretended to be an envoy from the Grove? I still wonder why he thought doing that to curry Elena’s favor would give him any discounts. Not even Chrysos Heirs can haggle with her.” 

At the mere mention of that title, you feel several eyes on you at once. Just great.

“I thought we all agreed not to bring him up again?” you groan.

“Bring who up?” Elena muses with a whimsical tone that annoys you a little. “I didn’t know you felt so strongly about that fake scholar, Thalia.”

You know damn well it’s not about that impostor!

“U-Um, would you like some more juice, Big Sister?” Iris, ever the last to play the devil’s advocate, offers with a wobbly smile. You nod all too quickly before she refills your cup with enough pomegranate juice to last you until the end of your meal. Still, the sweet drink doesn’t stop you from glaring daggers at Elena and your other sniveling sisters. 

After breakfast, you all do your share of the housework. Elena wasn’t very strict, but she did have a rule that you should all have at least one designated chore for each day.

Today, you’re in charge of the dishes.

For some reason, it’s everyone’s least favorite. Most of your sisters didn’t like it when their fingers pruned up after washing over twenty sets of plates and silverware after every meal. But fortunately for you, you grew up in a place that requires more than just your hands to get wet for prolonged periods of time. 

“Are you coming along?”

Cue Elena’s timely entrance once again. Sighing, you cast her a sidelong glance as you finish up rinsing the cups you all used for breakfast. “Do I want to know what this is about?” 

“I already told you this morning.” She smiles. “I’m enrolling Nikolas into the Academy. I haven’t been to that part of the city, so I would appreciate some company.”

“Elena, you know I don’t like coming up to the surface,” you grumble. 

“Yes, and I also know it’s high time we broke you out of that shell of yours,” the older woman encourages. “The Okhemans aren’t as bad as you think they are, Thalia—”

“Maybe to you, they aren’t,” you snip back curtly. “But me? They know where I’m from, Elena. They know the face of the girl that Agamemnon stole from the Island of Debauchery.” 

Your voice still trembles with each word, but you find peace in the fact that uttering that man’s name no longer strikes fear into your heart. From the soft set of Elena’s brow, you know she notices this as well. The faucet creaks when you twist it to turn off the water. You hear nothing over the sound over your heart pounding in your ears. 

“But Agamemnon is no longer with us,” Elena reminds you quietly. “I’m not telling you to forgive the man who ruined our lives, but you shouldn’t let the ghost of him dictate the course of your life. If he found out how much of a hold he still has on you, that monster would be coming in his own grave.” 

As twisted as it is, you find comfort in the way she speaks of the old head of The House with as much disdain as you do. It’s been a while since he’s been taken care of, but the scars he left will never really fade. 

No matter how badly you want them to.

“Nik and I will leave in half an hour,” she continues after a few moments of silence. “Come with us to the surface, please? I promise that if your experience is anything less than stellar, I’ll never ask you the same thing again.”

The sincerity in her plea is far from Elena’s usual cheekiness, which makes you think that she might be getting a bit desperate to get you to agree. At that moment, you parse through dozens of possibilities as to why Elena thinks it’s such a good idea to bring you to the surface on such short notice. The other girls might be more amiable to the idea, whereas you are perfectly content with your life here in the undercity with other outcasts just trying to make a living. 

…Sure, you kind of want to visit the cafes at the Marmoreal Palace that Phainon told you about whenever he visits, but that’s besides the point!

When you first set foot in Okhema as the newest addition to Agamemnon’s collection, you weren’t gazed at with disgust because you were a prostitute. It was because you were Lethian—people widely known as swindlers who used Phagousa in their blasphemous schemes to sap people of their hard-earned money. Those revolted stares haunted you well into your dreams for months. So even if the person who dragged you across the ocean under the false pretense of protection is gone, there are some things that you cannot move past so easily.

“Big Sis Thalia? Are you— oh! Mother, hello.” 

Just your luck, Nikolas chose the perfect time to pop into the kitchen. You notice that he’s all dressed up—robes all pinned in place, brass wrist bands and other pieces of jewelry glinting in the light of the lanterns. You can’t help but gush about how proper he looks. 

“Stop,” he groans, cheeks all dusted pink as you ruffle his hair. “Mother told me to make myself presentable…whatever that means. I must’ve done a good job if you’re doting on me like this.”

“You sure did,” you coo. 

“So you’re coming along with us then?” Nikolas segues with raised brows. “Mother said she’ll try her best to convince you to go to the surface. Did she?”

From the expectant twinkle in the boy’s eyes, you figure that he must’ve been really looking forward to you chaperoning them to the Academy. You heave a deep sigh before your gaze flickers to Elena, who simply grins at you like the angel she is. 

Hook. Line. Sinker. 

“Yeah, just give me a few minutes to get ready.” You force out a smile of your own before pinching the tip of Nikolas’ nose. “I might need some sunlight after all this scuttling in the dark.”

Nikolas stares at you with his mouth agape, then at his mother, and back at you again in mere seconds. “W-What? Really?”

“ Really ,” you say, hoping you sound as sure as you hoped. “I’ll see you in half an hour, okay?”

The grin that stretches across his chubby little face is so wide, it makes your heart hurt. How in the world are you supposed to say no to him? 

When you head up to your quarters, the curtain of seashells parts at your entrance with a characteristic clinking sound. You don’t usually rush inside this fast, but time is of the essence when you agree to go to the surface even if you only planned on finishing a novel today.  You’ve never been as particular with what you wanted to wear as you are now. Most of the dresses in your wardrobe are meant for work—meaning, they’re far too revealing to wear in the streets of the Eternal Holy City. The last thing you want is to get arrested for public indecency.

Thankfully, you manage to spot some rather pristine robes that probably won’t get you kicked out of the Academy in the back of your closet. You try it on without another thought, smiling to yourself in the mirror when you find that it’s still a perfect fit. The rest follows swiftly after. Minimal makeup. Nothing too extravagant for jewelry. Comfortable sandals. You’re pretty much all set. 

But then you make the mistake of thinking, I wonder if I’ll run into Phainon today, which then makes you think about him. 

Mydeimos.

Truth be told, the thought of that name incites an even more volatile reaction out of you than that of Agamemnon’s. Even if he’s a prince, he should be nothing but another name on your neverending list of clientele. 

Before meeting him, you never quite understood prostitutes who hanker for certain patrons more than others, who even go as far as to fall in love with them. The next thing you know, their rooms in The House have been emptied and news of them being bought out by said patrons starts to spread. You’re happy for them, of course. But the thought of having any sort of affection for a man who only used you for your body was near-unfathomable for you for a long, long time. 

Until you met Mydei. 

“Big Sis, are you ready?” 

The sound of Nikolas calling out for you down the hall dispels any and all thoughts of a certain Kremonan Prince. You shake your head, staring at yourself hard in the mirror as if wanting to remind you of your place. What’s done is done. They say you need countless lifetimes of fate to meet a person even once in this life. If you miss it when it brushes past, that's the end.

Right?

“I’ll be down in a minute!” you shout back. “Sorry for the wait!”

With that, you set off for your first excursion to the surface in a good while—praying to the heavens above. You’re not even asking for a good day. You just need to be able to get through this without getting traumatized into hiding again.

Please. Just this once. 

There are no gods left that would heed your plea, but it costs nothing to hope. 

The air in Okhema feels different today. 

Maybe because it’s been months, maybe longer, since you last walked these streets. Yet the weight of it all—the towering marble spires, the golden banners, the bustling crowds—clings to you like a second skin. You feel alien in a place that should have welcomed you. But instead, it’s the echo of past insults, cold stares, and harsh judgment that rises to the surface. It threatens to choke you, but you do your best to overcome it. You can’t afford to lose face where Nikolas can see. 

As you walk through the city’s grand streets, the young boy skips ahead, eagerly pointing out the towering buildings and guards marching in formation. Elena walks beside him, hands on his shoulders, keeping him grounded as she smiles proudly at her son. There’s a quiet confidence in Elena’s step, the kind of strength that you find yourself envying. Despite claiming otherwise, she knows this city well, knows how to navigate it, and how to move among the people. But for you, every step feels foreign, like an outsider trying to be something she’s not.

You eventually reach the Academy without much spoken word. Nikolas is excited, tugging Elena’s arm, eager to begin his training, while his mother smiles, giving him a gentle nudge toward the entrance. You linger a few paces behind, staring at the stone-carved doors before feeling a slight knot in your stomach as the reality sets in. This is where Nikolas will learn to become something great, something noble. And here you are, a shadow in the background, caught between worlds.

Elena turns to you, her smile faltering slightly. “Thalia,” she says, voice soft but firm, “Are you all right?”

You blink, as if snapping out of a daze and before attempting to force a smile that only feels hollow. The words you’re looking for stick in your throat, tangled with the memories of your time in Okhema—the judgment, the whispers, the pain of feeling like you didn’t belong here, like you were nothing more than an outcast.

“I’m fine,” you reply, though the words feel like a lie. You can’t bring yourself to say more. 

The city around you feels suffocating, its beauty just a façade for all the ugly truths beneath. Your gaze drifts toward the golden banners fluttering in the wind, the bright, polished marble reflecting the sun. It all feels too perfect, too pristine. But there’s no life in it, no warmth. Just cold, glittering stone.

Nikolas notices the quiet tension between you. His youthful face scrunches in confusion, then concern. “Big Sis Thalia, you look sad.”

You’re quick to shake your head, as if to push the feeling away. “It’s nothing, Nikolas. Just…” A pause. “It’s a lot to take in.”

Elena watches you for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly as if she can see right through the carefully constructed farce. “You don’t have to linger if you don’t want to. I promised I wouldn’t ask you to come again if it was too much, didn’t I?”

The offer hangs in the air, a lifeline thrown your way, but you refuse it with a sigh. “No. I’ll stay. I’ll wait for you two.”

Elena gives you a thoughtful look but doesn’t press further. She turns back to Nikolas, her voice warming as she speaks to him again. “Come on, Nikolas. Let’s get you settled in.”

You watch them go, feeling like an outsider once more. 

Eventually, you find yourself leaning against a nearby stone pillar, trying to push away the gnawing unease. As the sounds of the city swirl around you—laughter, the distant clatter of metal, the hum of conversation—you find yourself yearning for the stillness of the undercity. For the quiet comfort of familiarity, even if it was painful. 

Here, in Okhema, there’s nothing but unfamiliar faces, bright lights, and the weight of expectations. The city feels too big, too cold, too far removed from everything you’ve known.

Your eyes catch the glitter of the golden sun off a nearby building, and you swallow hard. Somewhere, deep down, you know that this is what you should want. This is where Nikolas will build a better future. This is the world of the privileged, the elite.

And yet, all you can think of is Lethe—the island you came from, where the waves washed away the weight of the world for a time. Where you could drown your worries in song and drink, forgetting the ugliness of life. But even there, you were no stranger to suffering.

You blink back the feeling of helplessness that threatens to overwhelm you. For a brief moment, you wonder if you’ll ever be able to escape the shadows of the past—if you can even reconcile the girl who once wanted more with the woman who knows she’ll never have it all. The silence between you and the world around you stretches on, heavy like the weight of a thousand unspoken thoughts. You don't know how long you stand there, watching the bustling crowds of Okhema, feeling the chill of being far from home—far from Lethe. The sharp, rich laughter of the city mocks your uncertainty.

But just as you’re about to let yourself drown in it, a voice cuts through the air, low and familiar.

“Lady Thalia?”

You jerk upright, eyes snapping toward the source. Standing a few paces away, tall and unruffled, is Phainon. His wide shoulders are relaxed, his posture easy, yet there's something about him—his unwavering calm in this sea of chaos—that makes him seem like an anchor in this storm of unfamiliar faces.

"Phainon!" you breathe, voice laced with surprise. 

You hadn’t expected to see him here. He’s usually a fixture in The House, checking in on you, Elena and the others. But here? In the heart of Okhema? It’s a little too much to process.

Phainon smiles, his eyes soft with something between surprise and delight. “I didn’t expect to find you in the overworld, let alone at the Academy of all places. This is a first.”

You laugh quietly, though it’s a hollow sound, like the air leaving a balloon. “Yeah, I guess I didn’t expect to be here either,” you tell him, gaze flicking to the Academy’s entrance. You can feel the weight of the city press against you once more, but Phainon’s presence is like a breath of fresh air, grounding you in the moment.

He tilts his head, a glimmer of something thoughtful in his eyes. “So what brings you here? Nothing bad, I hope?”

You nod, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “I’m waiting for Elena and Nikolas. They’re just finishing up inside. Little Nik has been accepted into the Academy, and I’m just here to provide some moral support.”

For a moment, you pause, gaze wandering again to the grand doors of the Academy—the same door Nikolas will walk through everyday. It feels like the world is turning a page, and you’re left on the outside, watching it all happen.

Phainon studies you, sensing the flicker of doubt in your eyes. “Well, that’s quite an accomplishment,” he says, his tone warm, though his voice drops a little, as though trying to lighten the mood. “And who knows, maybe you’ll find your way around the city in time. Okhema isn’t so bad once you get used to it.”

You offer up half a smile, though the sentiment doesn’t quite ease the discomfort curling in your chest. “I’m not so sure about that. It’s just... I’m not sure I fit in here.”

Phainon’s expression softens, the playful energy draining from his face. “You don’t have to fit in, Lady Thalia,” he says simply. “This city doesn’t get to dictate who you are. You’re the one who decides that.”

Before you can respond, the doors of the Academy finally open, and Elena and Nikolas step out. The former beams at you and Phainon, her proud smile lighting up her face. On the other hand, Nikolas is glued to her side—his eyes wide with excitement.

“I still can’t believe it,” he exclaims, his youthful energy spilling over. “I’m going to be trained to fight! I’m going to be a guard just like the ones we saw earlier!”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “You’ll be great, Nik. You’ll make us all proud.”

Elena looks over at Phainon, offering a warm smile as well. “I see we have company.”

Phainon grins back at her. “You could say that. And what a pleasant surprise it is. I didn’t expect to find Lady Thalia in Okhema, let alone in the Academy district.”

That makes you roll your eyes, but there’s a warmth that you haven't felt since you set foot in this city. “I didn’t expect it either,” you mutter, though there’s something almost comforting in Phainon’s presence.

“Well,” Phainon continues, his voice taking on a playful note, “since we’re all here, why don’t we make the most of it? I was just on my way to the Overflowing Bath, and I’d be more than happy to invite you all for a little dip.”

Your expression shifts, surprised by the offer. “The Overflowing Bath?” 

Phainon’s mention of it stirs something in you—a memory of tales passed among your sisters, of how the bath is rumored to have healing waters, soothing both body and spirit. The waters, blessed by Phagousa, the Titan of the Ocean, have long been a comfort to those who sought solace in their depths. 

It was in those very waters that you had found a semblance of peace after all those years you spent with Agamemnon, your scars slowly healing under the gentle flow of the blessed stream. That was the closest you’ve been to the Titan who you used to believe in. Yet, despite the healing they offered your body, the scars of your heart have never quite mended.

Phainon notices the faraway look in your eyes and softens his tone. “The Overflowing Bath is a place of peace,” he says, “blessed by Phagousa herself. You’ve heard of it, I’m sure. It’s a place where you can leave your burdens behind, even for just a little while.”

You nod slowly. “Yes, I’ve heard of it. In fact, that’s where Elena brought us first after you freed us from…”

The thought trails off, but the rest of them catch the unsaid message regardless. Elena smiles gently before placing a hand on your shoulder. “I know the bath has helped you heal before,” she says softly. “You’ve earned some time for yourself.”

Phainon’s grin is wide and inviting. “Come with me, then. There’s no rush, and no need to worry about anything for a while. I had the bath reserved for the morning if being in the company of strangers bothers you.”

That makes you scowl. “You booked an entire bath for yourself?” 

“...More or less.”

Elena shakes her head, laughing lightly. “As much as I’d love to join, Nikolas still has to get his uniform made, and that will take some time. But you two go ahead. This one deserves the break she needs.”

Nikolas pouts. “Aww, we can’t go?” 

“I’ll take good care of her, Elena,” Phainon assures, his voice light yet sincere. “I swear it in the name of the Flamechase Journey.” 

“What a tall oath,” the head of the House chuckles before egging you on. “Go ahead, Thalia. It’s a rare moment of peace. Take it.”

You look between them with evident hesitation, a quiet thanks in your eyes as you finally nod in agreement.

“Alright,” you say, your voice steadier than it has been in a while. “I’ll go.”

Phainon’s grin widens as he leads the way, the sunlight glinting off the gold-tinted streets of Okhema. The city fades behind you as you walk, the towering structures and polished marble giving way to the softer, more tranquil atmosphere of the Overflowing Bath. Phainon’s presence, calming and steady, makes you feel like you can breathe again, if only for a moment.

When you reach the specific area that Phainon reserved, he pushes open the ornate doors with a flourish. The sweet scent of warm water and incense wafts out, drawing you inside. Your eyes search the steamy, serene atmosphere, until your gaze catches on a figure lounging on one of the ledges of the bath.

You freeze in place, breath catching in your throat. Mydei, who you haven’t seen or heard from in weeks is here. Of all the places. Of all the times.

Phainon, oblivious to the shock written on your face, smiles warmly. “Ah, Mydei, I see you’ve already made yourself at home.”

Mydei looks up, his lips curling into a small, knowing smile. “I thought I’d get a head start.” His gaze shifts towards you, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something unspoken in his eyes—a softness that immediately makes your heart flutter.

“Thalia,” he greets, his voice low but warm.

You don't know what to say. How do you speak to someone you tried so hard to forget, but whose presence still calls to you in ways you can’t ignore? Sure you’d only seen Mydei once during that fateful encounter, but your sisters can attest to the fact that the Prince has affected you in ways no man has ever done before.

“I—didn’t know you’d be here,” you murmurs, your voice betraying the swirl of emotions you’ve been hiding for so long.

Mydei’s smile deepens, though it holds a trace of sadness. “I didn’t expect to be, either.”

As the water of the Overflowing Bath beckons, you can’t help but feel like the healing waters won’t just soothe your body this time—but perhaps, for better or worse, it will stir your heart once again.

The soft murmur of the stream fills the gaps in between your conversations. Phainon has settled into the pool with his usual ease, splashing the water lightly as he leans back with a relaxed grin. You, however, feel every drop against your skin as if it's a reminder of your discomfort. Coupled with Mydei’s presence, it’s difficult to maintain your composure.  You lower yourself into the water slowly, trying not to meet the prince’s gaze. His figure is hard to ignore—his chiseled form outlined in the glow of the bath’s warm light. He’s right there, and yet, the space between you feels as vast as the ocean.

“What compelled you to rent out an entire bath?” you ask more to settle your nerves than anything else. You then turn your eyes to Phainon, finding something familiar in his carefree demeanor. 

The Chrysos Heir lounging with his eyes half-closed, simply shrugs, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “I do have a tendency to pull off stuff that others least expect. Keeps things interesting, don’t you think?”

You try to laugh, but it sounds hollow, even to your own ears. Mydei, on the other hand, remains quiet, his gaze shifting from Phainon to you, his expression unreadable.

“I... didn’t think I’d find you both here, together,” you add, fingers trailing lazily through the water, finding solace in its movement.

Phainon glances over at you, his eyes sparkling with his usual wit. “Well, you know Mydei. He’s always full of surprises.”

Mydei shifts slightly but doesn’t respond, his silence more eloquent than any words could be. You are acutely aware of the space between you—how small, yet how loaded it feels. It’s not the first time you’ve felt something unsaid lingering in the air, but somehow this time feels different. More fragile. You find yourself stealing a glance at The Prince as he speaks with Phainon about some uproar in the Marmoreal Market. His broad shoulders are relaxed, his wet hair framing his face in a way that, for a moment, makes you forget the tension in the air. You quickly avert your eyes, ashamed of the way your heart flutters, even now.

“What about you? What are you doing here?” 

The sound of Mydei’s voice startles you, low and deep—like the distant rumbling of thunder. You know he’s talking to you because his words carry a characteristic softness that you don’t really hear when he’s conversing with Phainon.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” you murmurs, trying to fill the silence with anything. “I’m just...passing the time.”

Mydei gives a low hum of acknowledgement, but it’s clear he’s not about to press you for more. Instead, he turns to you with an almost imperceptible nod. “This place... it’s been known to heal more than just wounds,” he says casually, his voice laced with a tone you can’t quite place. “If you’ve been carrying scars... the water here helps.”

“I’ve heard,” you say, voice low enough to be a whisper. “When I first arrived here... I thought it was too good to be true.”

He looks at you then, his gaze softer than it has been before, but still guarded. “It’s true. The waters here have a way of healing what’s broken. And they don’t ask for anything in return.”

You dip your hand further into the water, feeling the warmth seep into your skin, almost as though it could wash away everything you’ve tried to forget. You hadn’t realized how much you needed this peace until you found it, in this strange, blessed space.

“I think I’m used to broken things,” you tell him quietly, unsure whether you mean it for either of them to hear. “But maybe... some things can be fixed.”

Mydei, still sitting near the edge of the bath, shifts slightly, but doesn’t respond. There’s a weight in his eyes as they meet yours, and for the briefest of moments, it feels like the world outside of the bath has ceased to exist. There are no words for the thoughts passing between you—only the water’s gentle rhythm and the faint echo of an old song neither of you dares to sing aloud. Just as the silence begins to feel suffocating, Phainon rises from the water. 

“I’ll leave you two to talk,” he says with a grin, clearly not fooled by the unspoken tension. He starts moving toward the exit, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder as he passes. “Enjoy the waters. Don’t forget, you two—rest is as important as duty. You’ve earned it.”

You watch him leave, feeling an inexplicable weight lift off your shoulders. Alone now, you’re left with the gentle pull of the water and the quiet, watchful presence of Mydei. The space between you has become an almost tangible thing—fragile and full of unspoken possibilities.

When he speaks again, it’s only after several moments have passed, as if he’s still choosing his words carefully. 

“Does it get easier?” he asks.

“No,” you reply, your tone matching his. “It doesn’t.”

And with that, the silence returns, but this time, it doesn’t feel quite so heavy.

You don't know how long you sit like that—still, silent, steeped in the warmth of the water and the ache of unspoken words. Around you, the sacred scent of herbs mingled with steam rises from the surface, curling in the air like incense in a forgotten temple. Somewhere beneath the hush of the baths, you can almost hear the pulse of the city—distant bells, murmured prayers, the echo of footsteps beyond the marble walls. You shift slightly, drawing your knees closer to your chest beneath the water. Mydei remains at the other end of the pool, his arms draped over the edge, head tilted back, eyes closed. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was asleep. 

“Did you mean it?” you ask, soft but sudden. “What you said... about the water not asking for anything in return.”

He opens his eyes, but doesn’t look at you right away. “Yes,” he says after a pause. “Not everything here is like the rest of the city.”

You let that sit for a while. “That’s rare,” you murmur, brushing your fingers over the surface of the water. “Things that don’t take something from you.”

At that, Mydei deigns to look at you. His gaze isn’t sharp or probing—it’s quiet. Careful. Like he’s trying to read a page you haven't decided to turn yet.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment. “For what you were put through.”

The words catch you off guard—not because of what they are, but because of how gently he says them. Not as a prince, or a warrior, or a man trying to soothe his conscience. Just...a person who sees your pain. You don't respond right away. You can’t. Your throat tightens in that way it sometimes does, where it feels like if you say anything at all, the mask you’ve carefully kept in place will crumble.

Instead, you swallow it down with a minute nod.

“I know,” you finally say. “But it wasn’t your fault.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t carry it.”

The water laps quietly between you as you close your eyes. You’re not supposed to be kind, you think bitterly. You’re not supposed to see me.

But he does. You know he does.

Just then, Nikolas’ laugh echoes faintly from the corridor beyond the marble walls. Elena must have found something to delight him on their way here—his joy is unmistakable, pure and bright. It makes something ache deep in your chest. A reminder of why you’re still here. Why you’re trying, even if you haven’t figured out how to start healing yet.

You open your eyes and let your gaze sweep across the bath. Mydei is watching you again, but there’s no expectation in his molten gold irises. In spite of this, you manage a small, wry smile. “You’re quieter than I remember.”

He gives a faint, sheepish shrug. “I talk less when I don’t know what to say.”

“I thought princes were trained to always know what to say.”

He huffs softly—more breath than laughter, but it’s genuine. “Maybe I missed that lesson.”

You surprise yourself by laughing too, and for a moment, it’s easy. Light and fleeting as it is, it lifts something heavy off your chest. The two of you don’t speak again after that—not because you’ve run out of things to say, but because silence feels safer now. More honest.

When you finally step out of the bath, wrapping yourself in one of the palace’s pale linen towels, you feel... lighter. The pain hasn’t gone. The past hasn’t changed. But for a moment, the weight is a little easier to carry. Mydei stands as well, quiet and respectful, and doesn’t look at you until you turn to him.

“I’ll see you around,” you tell him. Not a question, not a promise—just something that hangs in the space between maybe and someday.

Mydei nods. “You will.”

And then, as they part ways, the steam rises behind them, curling upward toward the sky where the temple windows open wide, letting in the late morning light. Lethe’s daughter walks beneath it.

And for the first time in a long while, she doesn’t feel like she’s drowning.

That night, sleep finds you gently in your room at The House.

It’s quiet—unusually so. The murmurs and laughter from the halls have faded, and even the candlelight flickers soft and low, as if unwilling to disturb you. The sheets smell faintly of lavender and mineral salts still clinging to your skin. For the first time in a long while, your body feels light. Almost whole. But the moment your eyes close, the world begins to shift and suddenly, you’re in Lethe again.

The air smells like salt and fruit wine. Music drifts down cobbled streets, bright and winding, and laughter spills from open balconies. The sun dips low, spilling honey-colored light over everything. You remember this part—how beautiful it always looked from the outside. A paradise that asked nothing of you but to smile, to dance, to forget. You tried so hard to forget.

The tide starts to rise.

Your bare feet slap against wet stone. The cobblestones fade beneath a creeping tide of black water. The music warps, slows, becomes something hollow. You try to run, but the water climbs higher, dark and cold, and from its depths emerge faces.

Wandering souls. Pale, half-formed, drifting just beneath the surface. Eyes like moons, wide and lost. You saw them once—back on the shores of Lethe, before Agamemnon took you away. Now they’re reaching for you. Calling for you like sirens. But before you can answer, the dream fractures again.

You’re in the undercity.

A lantern swings overhead, casting jagged light along damp stone walls. You hear sobbing from behind closed doors, moans of pain, the dull thud of fists against flesh. You know these sounds. They followed you for years.

He is here.

Agamemnon’s voice slithers through the dark, oil-slick and indulgent. 

“You’re lucky,” he says, “A beauty like yours shouldn’t be wasted in some seaside slum.”

“You’ll be taken care of. Treasured.”

“You’re mine.”

You see him again—his eyes devouring, hands like shackles dressed in gold. He touches your chin. You want to spit. You try to scream.

And then—light.

Like a blade cleaving darkness, you see Elena. Bent over, cradling a crying baby, shielding him from a world that wants nothing but to unmake him. Her eyes—tired, fierce, filled with love. Nikolas. His cries cut through the dream like a signal fire.

You run.

Through water, through shadow, through screams and shattered laughter. You don’t know if you’re chasing something or fleeing from it. But the sea rises. The souls call. The walls bleed gold. And then—

You gasp awake, heart jackhammering in your chest. Sweat clings to your back, and the cool, sacred air of the overworld feels far too still. For a moment, you forget where you are.

Then you remember the bath. The light. The gentle way Phainon laughed. The quiet look Mydei gave you, unreadable and tender. You remember the promise of healing, the way the blessed water wrapped around your wounds like a whisper. But even the kindest waters cannot drown what lives inside you.

You wipe your face with trembling fingers. The night is silent, but your pulse is loud in your ears. Though the blessed water may have healed your body, the scars inside you still sing.

The ghosts are quiet now.

But not gone.

The sun never sets in Okhema.

By late afternoon, the light should have softened, dipping into that gentle hush before dusk—but here, under the watch of Kephale’s Dawn Device, the city remains suspended in a perpetual golden hour. 

It’s beautiful in a way that makes your skin crawl if you think about it too long. The warmth feels artificial, borrowed. Like the heavens forgot to turn the page. You step onto the polished stone streets, the hem of your cloak catching faint glimmers of light. The satchel you carry is light, barely filled with anything but a half-eaten persimmon and a cloth to wipe Nikolas’ ever-sticky hands. Still, its strap rests against your shoulder like something heavier—something earned.

The walk to the Academy winds through quieter neighborhoods, far from the towering temples and the chatter of merchants. The air smells like crushed citrus and dust. You keep your head down. You always do, even now, even when people don’t seem to look at you with the same venom they once did. 

It’s been some time since Agamemnon fell, but his ghost lingers in certain corners of your mind, like mildew that clings no matter how many times you scrub.

At the gates of the Academy, you pause, eyes tracing the archways carved with symbols of Kephale’s divine mind—logic, clarity, vision. It’s meant to inspire discipline. You’ve never been particularly fond of order, but something about Nikolas in this place makes a strange kind of sense. He deserves more than survival. The gates creak open and children spill out like laughter, sharp and careless. Your eyes scan for him.

And there he is—Nikolas, his hair a wild crown of dark curls, cheeks smudged with ink, a leather-bound workbook clutched to his chest like a badge of honor. His smile is wide when he spots you.

"Big Sis Thalia!" he calls, breaking into a run. He nearly barrels into your legs, arms wrapping tight around your waist. You let out a soft laugh despite yourself.

“You’re filthy,” you murmur, brushing ink from his cheek. “Elena’s going to think I dragged you through the gutters.”

“She always says that,” he shrugs, then looks up with that disarming earnestness only children possess. “Did you wait long?”

You shake your head. “Only a little. Come on. Let’s head home.”

But he doesn’t move. Instead, Nikolas digs his heels into the stone, tilting his head back with a grin that already spells trouble. “Wait—Thalia, can we go to the Hall of Respite? Just real quick? Please?”

You raise a brow. “Why so suddenly?”

He bobs his head eagerly. “They have those honey-glazed flatcakes I like—the really soft ones! And I got a perfect score today. Ask anyone. Master Irenas even patted my head. That never happens!”

You blink. “A perfect score?”

He puffs out his chest, smug in the way only little boys who’ve just conquered the world can be. “I studied really hard. Even Lord Phainon said I should treat myself more. He did!”

You sigh, but it’s mostly for show. “I doubt he meant ‘bribe your guardian into feeding your sweet tooth.’”

Nikolas clasps his hands together dramatically. “Please? I’ll even save you a bite.”

You glance down at him—the sunlight caught in his lashes, the pink blooming across his cheeks from too much running, the way he’s still slightly out of breath and doesn’t care at all. The kind of breathless you used to be, back when days were filled with sea spray and laughter and song.

“Alright,” you sigh again, and this time it’s gentler. “But only one. And don’t think this means I’ll cover for you if you throw up before dinner.”

He whoops with victory, grabbing your hand and tugging you toward the Hall of Respite, where the scents of warm milk, nutmeg, and golden syrup linger in the air like an embrace.

You follow, the goldlight casting your shadows long behind you—but for now, you don’t look back.

The Hall of Respite is a marvel in gold and gentle laughter. Soft harp strings hum in the background, accompanied by the distant trickle of a fountain somewhere beyond the marble colonnades. You and Nikolas sit tucked near one of the arched windows, bathed in dappled light as he gleefully tears into his honey-glazed flatcake, cheeks sticky with syrup and joy. He talks between bites—fast and animated—his voice barely able to keep up with his thoughts.

“—and then he flipped Cassander over with just one arm! Just one! Like this!” Nikolas throws his arms out, nearly knocking over your cup of mulled cider. “And he made us practice breakfall drills until our backs hurt. But he said it was so we wouldn't crack our heads open later, which makes sense, right?”

You blink at him, smiling despite yourself. “What happened to that gentle etiquette instructor you said reminded you of a housecat?”

“Oh, Master Aetius?” Nikolas waves him off. “He’s still there. But this new guy—they say he was a real warrior! Like, a real real one. He's a little scary. But… he’s kind too. He taught me how to breathe when I'm scared.”

Your smile falters just a little.

“You’re scared?”

“Sometimes,” he says plainly. “But not with him around. Master Mydei’s really strong. Like Lord Phainon—but sharper. And he never talks down to us. Even if he looks tired sometimes.”

The name settles in your chest like a dropped stone. Your cup stills in your hands, forgotten. You’re about to ask—Master Mydei?—but before the words even leave your mouth, Nikolas is already wriggling around in his seat, eyes lit with recognition.

“He’s over there! Hey! Master Mydei!” he shouts, waving one syrup-slicked hand in the air.

You nearly choke.

Across the hall, seated near a towering ficus and sipping from a ceramic cup with a journal open beside him, a figure turns his head. And the moment your eyes meet—those same sunlit-gold irises now caught in the warm light of the Hall—time slips. Your breath stutters. He doesn’t look surprised.

A flicker of something unreadable passes across his face before his mouth curves into a small, polite smile. He closes the journal softly and stands.

Nikolas is already halfway out of his seat, grinning from ear to ear. “He’s the one I was telling you about! He—he taught us how to roll without breaking our necks! And he gave me a second try when I tripped the first time!”

You, however, are frozen.

Of all the faces to find in the afterglow of a sun that never sets, it had to be his.

“Master Mydei, this is Big Sis Thalia!” Nikolas beams, tugging on the hem of your sleeve like he’s about to introduce a treasured friend to a local god. “She picks me up after class now!”

You feel your heart thrum a little too hard at that name spoken aloud. Mydei is already making his way toward your table, each step measured and unhurried. He moves like he always does—like someone born of silence and gravity, like someone who’s learned the value of taking up just enough space. He stops just beside the table, gaze dipping to meet yours.

“It’s good to see you again, Thalia.” His voice is smooth and composed, but not cold. There’s a flicker of something warmer under the surface—familiarity, perhaps. Or curiosity.

You rise a little from your seat, unsure whether to bow, curtsy, or offer a nod. You settle for a soft, polite greeting. “Likewise, Lord Mydei.”

He waves the title away. “I’m only ‘Master’ here in the Academy halls, and only because the instructors insisted.”

Nikolas clambers back onto his seat, already patting the bench beside him. “Come sit! You’re not gonna leave already, are you?”

Mydei glances once at you, as if gauging your comfort, then back at the boy. “Only if your guardian doesn’t mind.”

Your mouth feels dry, but you manage a nod. “Please. We were just having a small treat before heading home.”

“Then I’ll join you for a moment.” He lowers himself gracefully onto the bench beside Nikolas, placing his journal aside, hands folded neatly on the table. “You’ve had quite the day, haven’t you?”

Nikolas puffs out his chest. “Got a perfect score on our formations quiz. Even the scary second-year instructor said so.”

“Impressive,” Mydei says, tone light but sincere. “Maybe you’ll be teaching me something before long.”

The boy snickers proudly, and conversation carries on easily enough—for him, at least. You sit across from them, quietly, sipping from your cooling cider and watching the exchange. But before you can get lost in your thoughts, Nikolas looks between you both, his brows furrowing with curiosity.

“Wait... Do you two know each other?” he asks, his voice suddenly serious, as if he’s stumbled onto something important.

You freeze for a split second, unsure of how to answer, but Mydei simply smiles—an easy, natural smile that doesn’t reach too far into anything personal.

“We’ve met a few times,” Mydei says smoothly, his eyes flicking over to you briefly before returning to Nikolas. “Mostly through your mother’s good work.”

Nikolas’s eyes narrow as he looks between you both. His lips quirk, understanding settling in like a quiet revelation. He’s been around enough to know the weight of that phrase, to know what it means when someone mentions meeting through his mother’s “good work”.

A subtle, knowing look passes between the two of you, and you can see Nikolas’s mind working. He doesn’t press it, though; instead, he just nods as if he’s pieced things together in that young, perceptive way of his.

“Got it,” Nikolas says with a slight grin, his voice dropping to something quieter. “Well, anyway... Master Mydei’s pretty cool, right?” He sounds more casual now, as if the conversation’s already shifted away from anything that’s uncomfortable for him. But he’s not blind—he knows.

You meet Mydei’s gaze, and for just a moment, the question lingers in the air between the two of you. But for Nikolas, it’s already passed. He’s not going to make things harder for you. He’s just glad to have his perfect score to boast about.

Nikolas chatters on beside you, still glowing with excitement from his day at the Academy, especially now that he’s seen his new instructor outside the training halls. You try to listen, but your eyes keep drifting toward the man standing before you—Mydei, now dressed in a much more practical outfit than when you last saw him, though no less composed. His gaze doesn’t linger on you long, but when it does, it feels as if he sees far too much.

“Well,” he says at last, with a polite nod toward Nikolas, “I’ll leave you two to enjoy your treat.”

There’s nothing overt in his tone, but something in the weight of those words sticks with you, and you find yourself offering a small nod in return, though your chest tightens.

Nikolas, thankfully, doesn’t notice the shift. He keeps talking, something about how Master Mydei demonstrated a maneuver with a practice spear earlier. You murmur something in response, but before you can fully catch your breath, Mydei is at your side again. You feel the brush of his hand—light, fleeting—guiding you a few paces away from Nikolas and the noisy crowd of the Hall. You don’t resist. The moment feels suspended in air. He leans in, just enough that you feel the warmth of his breath against your ear.

“I’ll see you again tonight,” he whispers, his voice low, meant for you and you alone.

Your heart skips. You’re not sure what you expected—if you expected anything at all—but that wasn’t it. Before you can gather a reply, he’s already stepping away, his touch gone, his presence retreating with effortless grace. You stand there, the din of the Hall slowly returning around you, and wonder if he knows just how much weight his words now carry.

Nikolas tugs at your sleeve, oblivious. “Are you okay?”

You manage a soft smile, though your thoughts are still chasing after the shadow of a prince disappearing into the golden light.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Let’s finish that snack.”

You shouldn’t be fussing this much.

You tell yourself that as you smooth the silken sheets for the third time, as you adjust the folds of your robe for the third time, as you dab perfume just under your jaw, though it’s not the kind you ever wore for clients. It’s subtle, something like rosewater clinging to the memory of seafoam.

Your sisters have noticed. Of course they have. Fewer and fewer names on your ledger, fewer nights where you let your hair down for anyone but him. They don’t say it outright, but you catch the glances. The knowing smirks. A gentle elbow here, a raised brow there. Elena says nothing, bless her, but there’s a glint of worry behind her eyes.

Because girls like you are not meant to hope.

The fourth hour comes, quiet as a whisper. Mydei doesn’t knock. You just know when he’s arrived. The door creaks open, and there he is—bathed in the low amber light of your chamber, looking more god than man. His hair is like a flame pulled taut into a low tie at his nape, loose strands catching the light like cinders. His golden eyes find yours, but they don't linger in lust—they search. For what, you aren’t sure. Answers, maybe. Or something you’ve tucked too deep to name.

Red markings glisten faintly across his skin, crawling down the ridges of his arms, over the firm landscape of his torso. Not painted. Not cosmetic. They pulse faintly with some inner rhythm, as if alive with meaning. You’ve traced them before. With fingers. With lips. But you’ve never asked about them. And he’s never offered.

You rise from the bed.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d come,” you say softly, trying to keep your voice level. “I said I would.” He closes the door behind him. He walks with the silence of someone used to being watched. Every step deliberate—quiet, measured. “I didn’t want to disturb the others.”

You nod, heart beating like a drum. For a moment, you hesitate. This is the part where he usually takes off his cloak. Where hands meet skin. Where everything unravels into motion. But instead, Mydei says, “I don’t want that tonight.”

“...You don’t?”

He shakes his head, steps closer, his expression unreadable—but not cold. “I just want to sit. With you.”

Your body stills, breath catching. No man’s ever said that before. Not in this room. Not with that look in their eyes.

“Why?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just walks past you and sits at the edge of your bed, elbows resting on his knees, eyes watching the floor like it might swallow him whole. “When I’m with you,” he says at last, “I remember I’m still human. That I haven’t been swallowed yet by the weight of everything waiting outside.”

You take a slow breath, and then, you join him.

Silence stretches between you for a while, warm but unfamiliar. You’ve never had to fill it before. Not like this. Not with someone like him. So when you speak again, your voice is careful, hushed. “What did you want to talk about?” You look down at your hands as you say it, suddenly aware of how tightly you’re wringing the fabric of your robe. “I’m… not very good at small talk.”

He glances your way, not with judgment, but with something quieter. Gentler. “Neither am I.”

There’s a pause—he leans back slightly, gaze on the ceiling for a heartbeat, as if weighing the shape of the question he’s about to ask. Then, softly: “Phainon.”

You blink. “What about him?”

“I was just… wondering,” Mydei says, his voice measured but curious, “why he’s always around. Why he’s so close to everyone here. It’s unusual.”

You study his expression. There’s no accusation behind it, no jealousy or condescension. Just a quiet sort of puzzlement. You suppose that makes sense. Mydei walks through the world like a figure carved of duty and divine weight—philos, strategos, prince. A man raised in marble halls where power is either taken or inherited, never simply given away.

So you exhale and say, “Can I tell you a story?”

He nods once.

“There was a man,” you begin, fingers tracing invisible lines along the embroidered edge of your sleeve. “A wicked man. Not in the way people always expect—he didn’t shout, didn’t strike in public, didn’t bare his teeth. He wore silks. Spoke softly. Promised the world.”

You glance up, briefly, and find Mydei’s gaze hasn’t wavered.

“They said he had a collection. Not of art, or relics, or trinkets. But of little dolls. Girls, mostly. Women from across the land. He wandered far—coastal villages, mountain towns, the wine-soaked islands. He’d find the ones with songs in their hearts and stars in their eyes. The beautiful ones. The dreamers. The desperate.”

Your voice drops. “He would say, ‘Come with me. I’ll give you a place to shine. A home. A future. A better life.’”

“But the moment they stepped into his palace, they were no longer people. Just property. Stripped of name, of will, of voice. He dressed them up. Painted them pretty. Locked them behind velvet doors, and called them his treasures.

“And if they cried, he’d say they were ungrateful. If they fought, he’d punish them. But if they stayed quiet—if they obeyed—he’d smile and say they were his favorite.”

You fall silent then, and the memory of it coils like smoke in your throat. The sweet, rotting scent of those early days in Okhema. The illusion before the trap snapped shut.

Mydei doesn’t interrupt. But when you look at him again, there’s a new sharpness in his gaze, tempered only by a sadness you didn’t expect to see. Like the weight of your story has settled somewhere behind his ribs. “And what became of the wicked man?” he asks softly.

You offer the ghost of a smile. “A good man drove a sword to his chest.”

The corners of Mydei’s lips twitch ever-so slightly. You like to think that he was proud. You go on, voice low but even. “When the wicked man still ruled the undercity, we weren’t anything more than possessions. Broken things, caged and bruised, prettied up for those who could afford cruelty. He was cruelest of all.”

The words are flat, almost clinical. It’s easier that way.

“Phainon was sent to take him—dead or alive. I don’t know who gave the order. But when he found us, locked behind his velvet curtains, we weren’t his mission. Just… collateral.” You draw in a breath, remembering the blood, the broken door hinges, the weight of Agamemnon’s silence as it fell to the floor.

“But Phainon didn’t walk past. He stayed. He broke every lock. Carried the ones who couldn’t walk. He helped bury what was left.”

You glance at Mydei now, his golden gaze unwavering.

“That’s why he’s always around. Because even after that day, he never left. Never once tried to collect on our gratitude. He just… checks in. Makes sure the water still runs. The food still comes. That we’re still whole.”

A silence settles between you again. You didn’t mean to say so much. But somehow, with him, the words come easier than you expect. And still, you’re not sure what he’s thinking. Not yet.

But he nods, slow and solemn. “He’s a good man.”

“Better than most,” you murmur, softer still. “He never wanted anything from us. Not even a thank you.”

You don’t say the rest. That in some ways, Phainon taught you that not all men come bearing knives beneath their smiles. And maybe… maybe Mydei could be one of them, too. “Enough about me,” you say after a beat, forcing a lighter tone. “I bet you have stories that are far more worthwhile to hear.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes flitting down for a moment as though considering it. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, lips curving. “Depends on who’s listening.”

You raise a brow at him. “That sounds like a prince’s way of dodging.”

“It’s worked so far,” he admits, unapologetically amused.

But you catch the glint in his eyes—the kind that speaks of walls he’s not quite ready to lower. He’s not being cruel. Just careful. You know that kind of silence all too well. So you pivot, gently.

“Fine,” you say, leaning back on your palms. “Then let me ask you something real.”

That gets his attention.

“Is it true?” you ask. “That you don’t die?”

His expression shifts, just slightly. Not alarm, not defensiveness—but something older. More tired. You continue before he can pretend ignorance. “They say you walked away from death. That not even blades or poisons or the sea can keep you.”

For a moment, Mydei says nothing. Then—

“No,” he says, voice like flint striking stone. “It’s not true.”

“I do die,” the prince adds, and there’s a strange stillness to him now, like a sword balanced on its edge. “Just not permanently.”

“I’ve been killed before. My lungs have filled with blood. I’ve drowned. I’ve been burned. I’ve been sent to the nether realm where the dead drift, where the living are not welcome. And every time—” He tilts his head slightly. “—I’ve clawed my way back.”

“Clawed?” you echo.

He nods ever-so slowly. “The nether realm is not a quiet place. It’s full of things that shouldn’t be remembered. Things that don’t forget. I kill whatever stands in my way. Until the path home opens.”

You can hardly breathe for a moment.

“Sounds lonely,” you whisper.

“It is,” he says simply.

But there’s no sorrow in the way he says it. No anger either. Just the truth. Heavy and hard and worn like old armor. And suddenly, you understand the look in his eyes—the way it always seems like he’s staring through time itself. Because maybe he is. Maybe he’s already lived a hundred lifetimes. Maybe the only thing that’s ever tethered him back to the present… is the choice to return.

“Can anyone else just kill their way out of the nether realm?” you ask, the words half a jest, half wonder.

Mydei's lips twitch, but his gaze doesn't waver.

“…If there was,” he murmurs, “I think I would’ve run into them by now.”

You fall into silence at that, eyes dragging over the lines of him—his broad shoulders, the golden hue of his skin kissed by something celestial, and the red marks that wind down his arms, chest, torso. Not scars. Not tattoos. Something older, etched into him like language itself. Wordlessly, your hand lifts. You rest your palm lightly against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath warm skin. He doesn't move, doesn't flinch. Just watches you. Your fingertips trace the red markings slowly, following the curl of them as they wind over muscle and bone.

“This body is special, then,” you say, voice almost reverent. A beat passes. His breath hitches—barely—but you catch it.

“Cursed,” he says quietly. “Or blessed. Depends on who you ask.”

“And if I ask you?”

His gaze flickers down to where your hand rests, still trailing those strange, divine brands.

“…Ask me later,” he says, softer now.

As though he’s not ready to name what he is. As though something about your touch is unraveling the edges of him. You don’t move your hand from his chest. You feel the warmth of him—too alive for someone who’s clawed his way back from death. Too human for a man on the precipice of godhood. He looks at you, eyes shining gold even in the low light, flickering with something he doesn’t say.

You tilt your head, your voice barely above a whisper. “Later, then.”

And you should’ve pulled away. Should’ve stepped back and said goodnight, like the polite fiction you both pretended to believe in. But you don’t.

Instead, your hand slides higher, fingers grazing his collarbone, resting against the side of his neck. You’re closer now. When did that happen? His breath mingles with yours, his lips parted slightly, like he’s on the edge of a word he can’t find.

Then it happens—slow and inevitable.

He leans in first, but it’s you who closes the gap.

The kiss is soft the moment your lips touch. Careful. Testing. The kind of kiss that asks a question neither of you can put into words. His hand finds your waist, anchoring you like you’ll vanish, like maybe he already thought you would. It’s only when you deepen it, that he lets out the faintest sound against your mouth—half a sigh, half a surrender. And for a moment, there’s nothing holy or tragic about either of you. No gods, no ghosts. Just this. Just now.

You forget what it means to be someone broken, and he forget what it means to be someone burdened. You just feel. Your lips part just barely from his, breath catching between the narrow space that remains. His hand still rests at your waist, his thumb moving in slow, lazy circles against the fabric of your robe. You search his face, trying to decipher if he means to pull back or dive in again.

“I thought you weren’t here for this,” you whisper, your voice trembling not with fear, but the weight of wanting.

His eyes flicker down to your mouth, then back to yours, and a soft laugh escapes him—low and rich, like the crackle of embers.

“Yes,” he murmurs, “but what sort of man would I be if I left you wanting?”

The corner of your mouth lifts, not quite a smile—more like something delicate unraveling. His words coil around your ribs like silk, tightening gently, beautifully. You should say something clever, something to keep this from slipping too far.

But your mouth finds his again before you can even try.

The quiet between you lingers after the kiss, but it’s not empty. It thrums with something unspoken, something deeper than words. Mydei’s breath brushes against your skin, warm and steady, his hands still resting at your waist as if anchoring himself in your presence. You don’t say anything when you lean in again. You don’t have to. The moment folds in on itself, soft and slow, like the hush before a storm. Your fingers trace the red markings on his chest again, not out of curiosity this time, but reverence. There’s something sacred about the way they wind across his skin, the way he lets you touch him like this—open, unguarded.

He follows your lead, hands gliding up your spine, over your shoulders, until they frame your face. When he kisses you again, it’s not with the urgency of want, but with the ache of longing. As though he’s been waiting to do this properly. As though he knows this might be the last night he’s allowed to feel human. The world outside your room fades, replaced by the rhythm of shared breath, the brush of skin against skin, the silent promises made in the space between heartbeats. The weight of your histories—his battles, your chains—falls away for just a little while.

What remains is tenderness.

Your clothes fall away one by one. Amidst the passion that seeps into your very bones, you find it in you to make a quip about how much easier things are when he’s not wearing his armor. Mydei scoffs, but there’s no sign of annoyance on his face. Just the subtle endearment for something—someone he never knew he could connect with so deeply. 

He’s careful with you, even when your hands wander, even when your heartbeat quickens under his touch. There’s a reverence to the way he holds you, like he’s afraid to break something delicate, even though you’ve long since learned to be unbreakable. His fingers slide into you with perfect precision, the slick between your legs granting him enough lubrication to make you feel every sensation there is to give. Your velvet walls clamp down on him with fervor, curling into the heat of his indestructible body as he spreads you open for him. 

“You’re so good for me,” he whispers. “Too good for me.” 

There’s an undertone of something you can’t quite name that accompanies his words. But the notion is lost on you when he curls his fingers just so. A broken whimper escapes your lips, unable to stifle it as Mydei continues to hit that sweet, sweet spot inside you. You feel it far too soon—that telltale sizzle of release. It bides its time, tying your stomach in knots until the pressure in your navel becomes too much to bear. Mydei growls into the curve of your neck when he feels your body spasm beneath him; having given into the pleasure so easily, it awakens something primal within him. It’s like your body is on fire. Sensitive to the touch wherever his skin meets yours. Part of you wants to recoil, to beg for respite. Too much, too much, too much— 

Sensing how deeply he's unraveled you, Mydei tempers the urgency of his touch into something gentler—tender strokes that barely skim your skin, grounding you, reminding you he's still here. That he's not going anywhere. As if in silent apology, he presses a kiss to the tip of your nose—soft and reverent.

“All I want,” he breathes, his voice rough with restraint, “is for you to feel good. Do you trust me?”

You know he already holds the answer in his hands, but still, you blink through the blur of your tears until his face comes into focus—fractured by light and emotion, and yet still so beautiful. With a shaky breath, you reach up, fingers weaving behind his neck, and pull him into a kiss that speaks the answer for you.

“Yes,” you whisper into his mouth, like a vow you’ve been holding your whole life. “I trust you more than anything. More than anyone.”

This kind of vulnerability is something you never imagined you could offer so freely. Not after everything. Not to anyone. But with Mydei, it doesn't feel like surrender. It feels like remembering something you thought you'd lost: the ability to feel safe in someone’s arms, to be seen without shame, to be held without fear. Despite yourself, heat flares in your cheeks at the sight of him—aroused and aching. His leaking cock strains against his abdomen, flushed with a need so primal, he practically grinds the throbbing shaft between your supple thighs. 

“I need you,” you breathe, voice trembling, desperate. Your hand slips between your thighs, guiding him with aching intent. “Please, Mydei… just—please.”

He gives in to your wishes—he’s starting to grow much too weak against them. Mydei guides his length into your dripping heat, the head of his cock penetrating you with the same cautious anticipation he exhibited during your first night together. 

And then, inch by inch, you feel whole again.

For a while, the two of you remain tangled in that moment—heat blooming between your bodies, thick and breathless. The stretch of him should’ve been too much, but all you can feel is how right it is. How perfectly he fits, like he was always meant to be there. He groans, a proud lion reduced into nothingness when you purposely clench the walls of your cunt around his poor length. You find yourself grinning mischievously when Mydei starts speaking in that language long lost to time. You should ask him about that sometime—when your heads aren’t clouded with sheer desire. But for now, you live in the moment. 

“I regret not finding you sooner,” he admits with a quiet laugh. A moment of clarity hovers across your mind, and your first instinct is to tease. “Why? Would you have bought me out of this brothel if you did?”

“Perhaps,” Mydei murmurs before suckling a band of hickeys above your collarbones, initiating slow yet languid thrusts that have your toes curling with bliss. “But if I had found you sooner, you never would have had to live the life you lead. I would’ve stolen you away from Lethe myself.” 

You know those are just the words of a man lost in the throes of pleasure. Men tend to start running their mouths whenever they’re high on the feel of your cunt pulsating around their cocks. But Mydei has a knack for being candid about all sorts of things.

“Would you—hah! W-would you have put me in a cage too?” you taunt and it gets you the exact reaction you want. Mydei snaps his hips harshly, nearly punching the breath from your lungs. “Dress me up in the f-finest of silk and flaunt me to the world?” 

“No. Never.” He grits his teeth so tightly, you swear you hear the strain in his jaw. “I’ll make you mine, but only on your terms. Only if you want me to.”

Even in the haze of desire, he manages to remain the most honorable man in all of Okhema. The thought of it, the weight of his words, makes something warm well up inside you—so overwhelming you could weep with joy. His raw honesty encourages you to wrap your arms around his broad back—holding him so close that he can’t ever hope to slip away. The heat of his skin against yours is grounding, a reminder that, despite everything, you’re here together, tangled in this moment. When his calloused fingers find the sensitive bud of your clit, you jostle beneath him in surprise. You were so focused on how good he’s giving it to you, that you failed to notice his hands wriggling down to your thighs. 

“M-Mydei—!” you gasp, but he only fucks into you harder. 

Mydei’s breath stutters in quiet, devout gasps, the edge of release so close he could reach for it. But he holds back. Draws out the moment like a hymn. He could stay like this forever—just to savor the weight of your body beneath his, just to feel the hush between you stretch into something timeless. You memorize the feel of him—not just the way his body fits against yours, but the quiet sighs that escape when your lips find the hollow of his throat, the way he lingers on every touch like he’s afraid to let go. 

He’s fire and gold and thunderstorms, and yet he looks at you like you’re the miracle.

Mydei spills into you with reckless abandon, canting his hips with clockwork precision as he fills you to the brim. For a moment, the world quiets—like the tide pulling back before the next great wave. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, breath hitching, arms locked tight around you like he’s terrified of the space that might form between your bodies.

You feel him trembling, not from exhaustion, but from the gravity of it all. As if something in him has broken loose—something raw and sacred and entirely yours. But it doesn’t end there.

You don’t realize what he’s doing when he swiftly breaks free of your embrace. But when his face hovers across your soiled cunt, you make the motions to pull him back up—only for your beast of a lover to devour the mess he’s left in his wake.  Mydei laves at your hole like he intends to feast on you for the rest of his life. He scoops his own cum out with his own fingers, slurping your mixed essence with so much depravity shining in his golden eyes, you can hardly believe he’s a prince. No sane man would look so blissed out whilst doing something so—

“I can feel you,” he growls. “Need you to come for me.”

The words are spoken with such authority, it sends a guilty thrill straight to your throbbing cunt. Mydei latches his lips onto your sensitive nub, fucking his cum back into you with those godlike fingers. You thrash around beneath him, but Mydei keeps you in place with a steady grip–making sure you feel everything he’s willing to give. Your body trembles, overwhelmed by the relentless tenderness he wields like a weapon. Every curl of his fingers, every flick of his tongue draws out a fresh wave of pleasure that crashes through you with no mercy. Your cries are half-muffled by the pillow, but he hears them all the same—drinks them in like a sacred prayer.

“Mydei,” you sob, unable to do anything but hold onto him. Your legs shake around his shoulders, your hands tangled in his hair like lifelines.

He doesn't stop. He won’t—not until he’s certain there’s nothing left unsaid between your bodies. Not until your body recognizes him as deeply and completely as your heart already does. When he finally slows, it’s not because he’s spent, but because he’s sated. Because he knows you are too. And as he pulls you into his arms, nestling your exhausted form against the warmth of his chest, you realize—this isn’t just release. It’s devotion. A vow whispered into your very bones.

Time passes strangely in the dark. You don’t know how long the two of you stay like this, curled in the comfort of each other’s warmth. His hand is cradling the back of your neck, his breath evening out as you rest your forehead against his shoulder. There are no declarations. No promises. Only the quiet understanding between two people who’ve found something rare in each other—if only for a night.

And that, somehow, is enough.

You are back on the shores of Lethe yet again. 

The scent of the ocean is heavy in the air, salt mixing with the sweetness of the breeze. The horizon stretches wide before you, the sea infinite and restless, each wave a soft whisper against the shore. But there’s something else—something familiar, something that stirs deep within your chest.

The souls.

They drift across the water, gliding in and out of the mist that rises from the waves, countless and silent. At first, you don’t see them clearly. They’re indistinct forms, like smoke or vapor, just the shape of something that used to be. They are lost, wandering. Some of them move in clusters, others alone, each drawn to the sea like they were always meant to be here. It’s always been this way. You’ve seen it many times before. The souls spill from the nether realm, drawn across the waters, stretching between Lethe and Styxia. You’ve stood here before, in this same silence, watching as they passed by.

This time, though, there’s something different. One soul catches your eye. It’s faint at first, barely distinguishable among the others, but it glows—a soft, golden light, faint but warm, as if it’s radiating from deep within. You’re drawn to it without thinking. The pull is gentle, but it grows stronger the closer you get. The light flickers in the mist, barely visible behind the shadows of the other souls. But it’s there, unmistakable.

You take a step forward, and the light grows, a shining ember in the endless grey. You know, without a doubt, that this one is different from the rest. It moves with purpose, not like the others who are aimless, lost in their endless drift. This one seems... aware. Alive, somehow.

As you move closer, the light brightens, and you catch glimpses of a shape, a form within it. At first, it’s unclear—blurry, indistinct, like the edges of a dream. The golden light wraps itself around a figure, but it’s not fully defined, not yet. You reach out toward it, a quiet yearning stirring in your chest. Then the figure shifts slightly. You feel it, a subtle movement in the water, and your heart skips. The golden glow swirls, growing stronger, as if it recognizes you, as if it’s meant to find you. The warmth radiating from it is overwhelming. It's like sunlight after rain. You step forward again, closer, closer still, the feeling of it wrapping around you, pulling you toward the shore.

But then, just as quickly as it appeared, the light begins to fade. The soul drifts away, slowly at first, and then faster as the current pulls it back. You reach out, desperate to hold on, but your fingers touch only the mist. The light dims, vanishing into the expanse of souls, swallowed by the sea.

You stand still, the warmth that had filled you fading like the last embers of a fire. The mist thickens again, and the souls continue their endless journey, their forms lost to the distance. But something lingers. The feeling. The warmth. The sense that you’ve witnessed something important, something that has been waiting for you all along. You don’t know what it means, but you know, somehow, that it’s a connection you’re not meant to forget. 

Not yet.

The bells of the Academy chime across the courtyard, clean and melodic like everything else in this part of Okhema. As the students depart for dismissal, you wait by the marble fountain just a ways away from the main entrance. A tree that curls over it offers ample shade beneath the unchanging light of the Dawn Device above.  Nikolas emerges from the throng of students scurrying out. He doesn’t run to you anymore, but his steps are quick, a little uneven, like he hasn’t quite grown into his legs yet.

“We talked about the Titans after our drills today,” he says after giving you a quick hug. “One of my classmates asked if Kephale ever puts the Dawn Device down. Master Theon said, ‘Not once in all of history.’”

You smile faintly, brushing a curl from his temple. “That sounds like something you’d ask.”

He grins. “I would’ve made it sound smarter. And I did 'cause Master asked us to make an essay about it.”

Nikolas tries to sound casual, but the way he looks at you afterward like he’s waiting for you to be proud makes your heart twist a little. It’s only been a few weeks since he first walked through the Academy gates—still all knees and elbows—but he’s already grown so much. They don’t ask for perfect speech or polished manners here. Just grit, and enough fire to stand when the Black Tide comes crawling. This isn’t the Grove of Epiphany, where scholars chase after the elusive truth and speak in riddles. Here, boys and girls are shaped into the last line between the dark and everything worth saving.

You have half the mind to ask if Nikolas wants to make another detour to the Hall of Respite. To treat him to some of his favorite flat cakes. But then an unwelcome voice slithers into the quiet moment. 

“Well, what do we have here? The whore walks in daylight.”

It takes effort to turn, to meet the man’s eyes without flinching. He’s older now, more jowled than you remember, but the silk of his robes and the stink of indulgence are the same. Aeson. One of the men who used to come slinking through the undercity when the sun was too high for shame. He once asked you to sing for him while he undressed. Said you had a voice like smoke, a body like borrowed gold. He was never violent, just entitled. And worse, comfortable.

“I suspected that it was you for a few weeks now but even I knew how much you despised the overworld,” Aeson says, condescension dripping from every word. “Then again, you always did love playing mother to that stray.”

You hear Nikolas bristle at the man’s words, and you put out a hand to keep him from doing anything rash. Even at his young age, he’s seen how men treat you and your sisters like gunk beneath their sandals. And you’ve seen how a boy, raised with so much love even in the dark, has tried to give it all back—to protect the women who became that love for him.

But you’re not in some smoke-choked alley of the undercity. You’re in the pristine courtyard of the Academy itself. And there’s no way in hell you’re jeopardizing Nik’s education just to put some pompous old coot in his place. Elena would never forgive you.

Instead, you give him a flat look before saying, “Go pester someone who’s desperate.”

But the man steps in closer, a haughty look painted high on his wrinkly face. “I remember you desperate, girl. I paid for it. You should be grateful that anyone still looks at you nicely, knowing you're old Agamemnon’s trash.”

And that sinks teeth into you. The insult doesn’t surprise you. You’ve heard worse from softer lips. But it stirs something darker: the memory of what it cost you to not belong. The long, awful ache of surviving by grace of what others wanted from your skin. The truth of it is what burns most. Because Agamemnon did claim you. And now his name clings to you like grease you can’t scrub off.

You square your shoulders. You won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing it land. But before you can speak, the air shifts like something heavy has entered the scene.

“I’ll give you one chance to take that back.”

The voice is low, deliberate. Not loud, but heavy with promise. You and the nobleman both turn. Mydei stands at the edge of the courtyard, backlit by the cold radiance of the Dawn Device. His armor catches the light like forged fire, making his presence all the more unmistakable. There is no rage in his face, only clarity. The kind that makes cowards remember their manners.

“Prince Mydei,” Aeson stammers, dipping into a mock-bow. “I’m afraid I didn’t see you there.”

“No,” Mydei replies. “You only saw who you thought you could speak over.”

He draws up beside you, a hand hovering—not touching—but near enough that you feel it like heat through fabric. Similarly to how you did with Nikolas, however you did that to prevent. Mydei does so to protect. “You said too much,” Mydei says, voice iron-flat. “And the next time you think of talking to a woman like that, remember this moment.”

A pause. You don't think you remember how to breathe, not in the face of Mydei's quiet fury. Then, as sharp as a blade, he grates out,

“Leave.”

Aeson recoils—stammers something too low to hear—then stumbles back into the crowd, his velvet trailing like a cloak of rot. You follow his hunched form until he disappears completely out of view. Only then does the tension in your shoulders ebb away. Nikolas looks between you and Mydei, uncertain.

“Was that one of the city’s... uh, patrons?” he mutters.

You exhale slowly, shaking off the sting. “You could say that.”

Mydei’s eyes don’t leave your face. Not even as Nikolas tries to catch his attention with a look.  You don’t meet his gaze, but you feel it—the weight of what he didn’t say. The rage he carried in like a blade still sheathed. “Old men like that never forget a girl they once thought they owned,” you say softly, reassuring Nikolas with a smile that takes more out of you than you thought. “Doesn’t mean they matter.”

“You matter,” Mydei says, quiet but unflinching. It startles you only because you didn’t expect for him to put in another word. “They just don’t know what that means yet.” And for a breath, the city stills around you. Not in reverence, nor silence. But in recognition. “Thank you,” you whisper, not knowing what else to say. “Nik and I will be off now.”

The prince’s gaze doesn’t shift. His hand lingers near yours, and when you hesitate, he takes a half-step closer. His voice is firm, though his tone softens just slightly. “I’ll walk you back to the undercity.”

You open your mouth to refuse, but the remnants of the encounter with Aeson hang over you like a heavy fog, and the words fall flat in your throat. There’s a pull in your chest—a need for distance from everything that just transpired—and you find yourself nodding before you can think better of it.

“Alright,” you murmur.

Nikolas watches the exchange quietly, still unsure of the silent tension between the two of you, but he follows nonetheless, his footsteps light against the cobblestones. Mydei falls in step beside you, his presence unyielding but steady, like the silent promise of protection. The city stretches out before you, its lights distant and hollow beneath the unblinking gaze of the Dawn Device. The hum of Okhema fades into the background as you walk. 

You don’t speak, but you don’t need to. His proximity alone quells any lingering fear, and you find comfort in the silence that comes with it.

Since that day in the courtyard, walking home together just started...happening. 

Mydei never asked. He simply waited outside the gates of the Academy, where the marble gave way to cracked stone and the air grew thick with real life. Nikolas would spot him first, sometimes with a grin, sometimes pretending he hadn’t been looking for him.  It was a strange little ritual, but one that settled into place before you realized it. Nikolas walking beside one of his instructors like it was the most natural thing in the world. And you beside them both, listening, nodding, adding the occasional remark when Nikolas recounted the latest training mishap or philosophical disagreement with a teacher.

It wasn’t how these things were supposed to go—not a prince, not a prostitute, not a boy from nowhere—but it worked.

And then, over time, Mydei’s steps carried him a little farther. Past the alleys you knew like breath, and the entrance to the undercity that you insisted was far enough for a chaperone. 

Today is one of the two rest days that Nikolas has within a school week, and you spend a chunk of your time helping around The House. It always feels different on slower days like this. Softer, almost. Less like a cage and more like a secret place between worlds—where laughter could still echo against peeling walls, and perfume hung in the air like memory. You hear the rustling of his armor before you see him—familiar now, no longer something that makes the girls stiffen or reach for the knives tucked beneath silk pillows. Just outside, the lanterns have begun to glow gold, and from the hallway, a voice calls out:

“Thalia, your knight’s here again!”

You roll your eyes as you round the corner, but you can’t stop the smile that forms at the sight of him. Mydei stands in the foyer with a small basket of fruit in one hand—dates, you guess, or maybe honeyed apricots from the upper district market. He's still donned in his armor, though he’s unstrapped the shoulder pauldrons. Less imposing that way. Still unmistakable.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be busy,” he says, a touch uncertain, as if his presence might overstep.

“Penelope’s braiding Iris’ hair,” you reply. “The rest are pretending not to peek.”

As if on cue, the door behind you creaks. Penelope leans out, a wry grin curling at her lips while Iris stammers out apology after apology for eavesdropping. 

“Thalia, really,” Penelope says, mock-scolding. “You keep bringing in decent men and setting the bar too high for the rest of us.”

You snort, and even Mydei’s mouth twitches in something that’s not quite a smile—but it’s close. “I can leave the fruit and go,” he offers.

“No,” you say too quickly. Then, gentler, “Stay. They like you here now, but don’t let it go to your head. Elena’s already figured out how to turn your visits into good business.”

Mydei nods with half a smile gracing his face. He steps further in, letting the warmth of The House wrap around him. One of the younger girls, quiet Calliope, flits by and steals an apricot from the basket. He lets her. 

Later, you find him sitting cross-legged on the floor while Penelope retells some outlandish story about a drunk client who mistook her for a goddess. Mydei doesn’t laugh, not loudly—but there’s light in his eyes. One you don’t often see up in the sanctified marble of Okhema’s spires. And maybe—just maybe—The House feels a little safer with him in it.

The following morning, the sky in the overworld is bleached bone-white. The unsetting sun hums high above, softened by distance and with it, Okhema shines, immaculate and hollow. Despite your more frequent visits due to your new job as Nikolas' guardian, you haven't grown to like it much. Too polished. Too sanctified. But today you’re not alone.

Mydei walks beside you, his long stride unhurried, matching yours. He carries your satchel without needing to be asked. You’ve got a list—written in Alexandria’s looping hand—and a basket slung over your arm. There’s something gently absurd about it all. You, running errands in the overworld. Choosing peaches. Haggling for bath oil. The sort of thing the other girls usually do. But today, you offered.

You’re not sure what’s more startling: that no one questioned you, or that you meant it.

The Marmoreal Market is alive. Vendors cry out over pyramids of citrus and hanging lanterns of glass. Incense smoke curls in lazy spirals above marbled stalls. A bard plays something languid on a flute near the olive barrels. The air tastes of brine and roasted almonds. It should be overwhelming. Once, it might have been. But today you just walk. Mydei doesn’t fill the silence. He lets it breathe between you like he always does. You pause to examine a twist of lavender soap. He waits patiently while you hold it to your nose, frown, and mutter, “Too much oil, not enough flower.”

When you change directions suddenly to get to the honeyed fig vendor—the fig vendor, the only one who doesn’t cheat the glaze with sugar water—he follows without question. You almost feel normal. Not broken. Not fallen. Just here.

“Thalia?”

You turn. And it’s like the sun tilts sideways. Daphne.

She looks... different. Or maybe not. Maybe you’re the one who’s changed. Her hair is coiled into a gold-pin bun, her robes the sort nobles wear when they want to look effortless. There’s a softness around her now—a shine to her skin, a plumpness to her face, like love and safety have filled her out. Her bracelets tinkle when she steps closer.

“Gods,” she breathes, laughing. “I almost didn’t recognize you. You look... good! Healthier than I remember. And your hair—still doing that wave in front, huh? I always said it made you look like one of those Lethean sirens.”

You manage a thin smile. “It’s you.”

She steps in like she might kiss your cheek, and you let her, though every inch of you braces like it's being touched with salt. “It’s been what—two years? Maybe more? I kept asking Elena about you, but she always just smiled and changed the subject.” Daphne’s eyes flick to Mydei, then back to you with a teasing grin. “And here I thought I was the only one who came out of that place lucky.”

She twirls a lock of hair around her finger, feigning modesty. “Did I tell you? No, of course I didn’t—you’ve been hiding down in the bones of the city. Well, you remember Heron, don’t you? The grain magnate with the crooked teeth and all the rings? Turns out he wasn’t just talk. Married me proper.” She lifts her hand, lets you see the band. “I’ve got a little garden now. A cook. We’re thinking of getting a dromas of our own, but I thought that would be a bit too much!”

You say something. You think you do. It sounds like “That’s nice,” but your mouth feels numb. Daphne laughs again, easy and breezy as a woman who’s forgotten how deep The House used to cut.

“I still remember how Agamemnon used to spoil you, you know. Oh, don’t look at me like that—it’s not jealousy. I used to think, ‘She must have Lethean blood in her veins to bring a man like that to his knees.’” She tilts her head, studying you. “Funny how things turn out, huh?”

Your grip on the basket tightens. Mydei hasn’t moved. You don’t have to look to know he’s watching her. Watching you. You lift your chin. Even if you know the man keeping you company is more than capable of stepping in like a guard dog, you don't let him. There are some things in this world that you'd rather not rely on Mydei for.

“I should get going,” you say, and your voice doesn’t crack. “We’ve got things to pick up.” Daphne blinks, surprised. “Oh. Of course. I didn’t mean to—well. You look well, Thalia. Really. I mean that.”

You nod once and turn. Mydei doesn’t speak until the crowd swallows her up behind you. His voice is quiet, but certain.

“Are you all right?”

You keep your eyes forward. “She didn’t mean it cruelly.”

“No,” he agrees. “But she still cut you.”

The fig vendor appears ahead. You make a beeline for it, needing something solid to do with your hands. Something to hold onto. Mydei doesn’t press. He stands beside you as you weigh fruit and speak numbers and pretend the world didn’t just tilt under your feet. And when you walk away, his hand grazes yours again. Not demanding, but simply offering.

It pains you to pull away—to refuse something he's always given freely—but you avoid his hand altogether. You turn the corner, pushing through the crowd, trying to breathe again. The air feels tight, sharp, as though the weight of everything that just shifted in your chest is pressing down on you. Daphne. A wife. She’s happy now. And yet—something about her—something about the way she carries herself now, so light, so untethered—bothers you.

The House. Agamemnon. The way the air used to feel thick, like every breath was a crime, and the walls hummed with all the things people would never say. Did the time away make her forget the way he used to drag you through rooms like cattle, like property? The way she’d walk in and out of those same halls, always knowing the price of every touch, the cost of every whispered word?

You shake your head. It’s not her fault, you remind yourself. Daphne’s not the one who held your body hostage, not the one who let it break beneath the weight of his need. But...why does it feel like she’s forgotten? A soft laugh. A garden. A gods damned dromas. And in her voice, in her smile, you hear the echo of a life away from all of that. As though the past was just something easily shaken off. It gnaws at you, that inconsistency. The way she walks with ease—like she didn’t have to bleed for it, didn’t have to drown in every unspoken rule of The House, its suffocating power, its price.

You feel it again, in your chest. A tightness, a rawness. And as you push your hand against the basket's rim, trying to steady yourself, the question lingers, still unanswered:

Did Daphne truly forget? Or is it just that she’s moved on, and you... you’re still here, carrying pieces of it, like shards of glass you can’t pull from your skin? You don’t realize how tight your grip’s gotten on the basket until Mydei speaks—softly, like the sound might startle you if it were any louder. It didn't occur to you that even if you evade him, he'll follow you like a shadow either way. 

“Do you want to go home?”

You glance at him, caught between the din of the market and the roaring in your own head. His eyes are steady. Not prying. Just there. Like a door already open, waiting for you to step through. He takes the basket from your hands without asking. The tension eases just enough for your fingers to ache. He doesn’t rush you. He stays close as you weave through the crowd, his presence a quiet shield against the glances, the voices, the past. He doesn’t say anything about Daphne. Doesn’t ask what she meant or what it meant to you. And that’s what makes you want to cry.

Not because he doesn’t care, but because he does—and he knows better than to pick at a wound that's still bleeding.

By the time you make it back to The House, the light above has cooled to its twilight hue—soft gold thinning into rose where it filters through the grates. The sun doesn’t set in Okhema. It only shifts, like a watchful eye half-closing. The undercity glows beneath it, wrapped in the kind of light that feels like the end of a long breath.

Inside, things are loud again. Familiar. One of the girls calls out about a client who tried to pay with temple scrip. Someone else has braided jasmine into the worn curtain rods, and the scent clings stubbornly to the air. You smile when you need to, nod when you must, and brush off any lingering edges from earlier like it’s routine. Because it is. No one notices the way your shoulders hitch too quickly when you laugh. Or the way you avoid the looking glass near the stairs. No one, except the man who’s still standing by the door like he doesn’t quite belong—but doesn’t want to leave just yet.

Mydei shifts slightly, readying himself to depart, the way he always does once you’re safely home. But something in you rebels at the thought.

“If you’re not busy,” you say, quieter than you intend, “could you stay? Just for a little while.”

He pauses, brows rising ever so slightly. “You want me to?”

You nod. “Only if you want to.”

A beat of stillness. Then: “Then I’ll stay.”

You turn before your face gives you away. You don’t lead him to the front parlors where guests are meant to lounge. You don’t steer him toward the back alcoves where girls entertain more private company. Instead, you climb the stairs. Past chipped paint and perfumed cloth. Past laughter behind closed doors and one girl humming a tune you haven’t heard since Lethe. You walk until you reach your room.

Your room.

You’ve never brought anyone here apart from your sisters and Nikolas. Phainon’s the only outsider who’s ever crossed its threshold, and even then, only when you couldn’t stand to be alone. This room is yours. A sanctuary carved from hand-me-downs and half-stolen quiet. The walls are soft with age, the bedding faded but clean. There’s a tiny dish of dried figs near the window, even though you'll never finish them. They don't taste the way they do back at Lethe.

There are no doors to your room. Only a curtain of seashells—bright, iridescent, strung together in delicate strands. A gift from Elena, thoughtful as she is. It reminds you of home, of the sea, of the ebb and flow of tides. It’s not a door, not really, but it’s enough to separate your space from the rest of the world.

You open the curtain, casting a sidelong glance at Mydei in a quiet invitation. He hesitates only briefly as his eyes scan the room before he steps inside. The prince says nothing. Doesn't gawk or wander. He simply stands in the middle of there like someone waiting for permission. You amble across the wooden floor, the tension finally unspooling from your spine. Mydei stays close—but not too close—and it strikes you again, how careful he always is with you. Not delicate. Just…respectful and measured.

“Not what you expected?” you ask, gesturing vaguely at the modest space.

“I wasn’t expecting anything,” he says softly. “But it suits you.”

You look down at your hands, then up at him. “I didn’t want to be alone,” you say. The words fall like something confessional.

“I’m glad you called for me,” Mydei tells you, honesty bleeding into his voice, and there’s something in it that makes you look at him again.

In the silence, you walk over to a shelf in the far end, one that the prince has been eyeing since he stepped inside. A small, eclectic collection of trinkets are lined up together on its surface. You can feel his gaze touch each item, but there’s no judgment in it—only quiet wonder.

“These are the pieces I kept,” you murmur, and his eyes flick to you as if waiting for a story, a reason.

A small glass vial, still corked, filled with syrupy red wine the color of dusk. “From the lushest vineyard in the entire island. I stole it,” you say with a faint smile. “Ran all the way down the hills with red hands and a mouth stained purple.” Beside it, a faded ribbon, sea salt-blue and frayed at the edges, tied in a lazy bow. “For the dances,” you murmur. “We wore them on our wrists, so even the shy ones could be pulled into the revelry.”

Next, a small, tarnished flute—its surface dulled by time, but the carvings of swirling waves and grapevines still visible. “It only plays when the wind is right,” you say, lifting it briefly to your lips. A single note spills out, thin and wandering. “My mother bought it for me. Said no Lethean should be without music.”

There are seashells, of course—real ones, not like the ones strung in your curtain, but pale and pink and lavender, collected from the shallows. One of them still smells faintly of brine when warmed by your palm. Another is cracked down the middle, but you never threw it away. “The ugly ones are often the ones that lived longest,” you explain, as if it matters.

And then, near the end of the shelf, sits a delicate pendant, the size of a coin, fashioned from mother-of-pearl and set in brass. Its surface has worn smooth from years of handling, but if the light catches just right, the faint outline of a chalice brimming with waves and fruit still glimmers—the old symbol of Phagousa, the Titan of Plenty. You used to wear it around your neck. Now it just rests there, like something left at an altar. You don’t explain that one.

Mydei is silent, not out of discomfort. He watches you with a strange, quiet intensity, as though your memories hold a significance beyond words. His hand brushes lightly across the ribbon, then rests on the shelf’s edge.

“You brought Lethe with you,” he says, almost to himself.

You nod, slowly. “I didn’t want to forget. Even if everyone already did.”

In that moment, everything floods back. The deal you made with Agamemnon. How you packed what little you could into a single satchel and left behind the life you knew. How you walked away from the island you once called home without so much as a goodbye to your mother. But it doesn’t matter now. Agamemnon is dead, and Lethe is gone. Not wanting to spiral back into what Mydei did his best to haul you out of, you walk towards your bed, patting the space beside you.  Oddly enough, he joins you without complaint. Not touching. But close enough that if you shifted an inch, you would. You both sit in silence, the air between you warm, but not heavy. The soft flicker of twilight outside dances across the walls, casting long shadows that stretch with time. The quiet is comforting. It doesn’t feel like the heavy silence of distance, but something closer, like the stillness of two souls finally aligning.

Mydei’s presence in the room feels different now. Less like a visitor and more like someone who belongs here, who fits with the gentle rhythm of your life. His armor clinks softly as he shifts to make himself more comfortable, but there’s nothing forced about the movement. You look up at him, your gaze tracing the familiar red markings on his arms and chest—his half-worn robes draped in a way that speaks of battles fought and distances traveled. 

He doesn’t try to hide anything, not the weight of what he’s carried, not the quiet strength that lingers in every measured movement. His stillness is calm, but you sense the storm just beneath it, the tumult that never fully goes away.

You can feel the question in the air—the unspoken one, hanging between you, something about where this moment will lead. But neither of you needs to speak it. You’ve crossed unspoken lines before, danced on edges, and tonight, the edge feels softer, more accepting. You shift a little, a quiet invitation—your leg brushes his, just enough to send a ripple through the calm. 

Mydei doesn’t pull away. 

Instead, his hand shifts to the space beside you, fingers barely grazing the fabric of your bedding, as if this is something he’s always respected. Your eyes meet, and there’s a quiet understanding there, a promise wrapped in the kind of intimacy that doesn’t demand. He moves slowly yet deliberately. When his hand finally meets yours, it’s as if the world outside this room falls away, and all that’s left is the soft brush of skin against skin, the way your breath hitches when his thumb runs over your knuckles, grounding you in the here and now.

The space between you disappears with that small touch.

Mydei doesn’t rush. There’s no hunger, no desperation—only the kind of stillness that comes after a long journey. You feel it in the way his fingers thread through yours, slow and certain, like he's holding something precious. Like he’s afraid if he holds too tightly, you’ll vanish. Your other hand lifts without thinking, drawn to him as if by instinct, fingertips brushing the line of his jaw. He leans into it, and you can feel the weight he carries, heavy beneath his skin, and still he lets himself soften here, with you.

His forehead presses against yours. Neither of you speak. His warm breath fanning against your face tells you enough. The silence between you isn’t empty—it’s full. Full of the things neither of you could say before. Of every stolen glance. Every almost. Every ache that built into this moment. When he kisses you, it’s not a question. It’s an answer. Warm, unhurried, and steady. His lips taste like memory and promise all at once. And when Mydei pulls you closer—closer still—it’s not possession. It’s presence. It’s the quiet vow that, here in this moment, he is entirely yours.

You fall into him like tide to shore. And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like something adrift. You feel found.

Sounds of lovemaking fill your room in a way that has never happened before. It's a given that privacy in The House is close to none, but all the girls who managed to catch you bringing your fiery-haired lover into your sacred space knew better than to intrude. They also told the others that upstairs is off-limits until either you or Mydei emerged again. What they don't know is that with Mydei, sex takes a very good while.

He starts the way all men usually do—missionary. Simple, straight to the point. But where you'd often just lie there and let your patrons take you sloppily, Mydei grounds you beneath his weight like he wants you to remember the moment. He doesn't piston his hips with the intent of chasing after his own sweet release. But lets that gaze of molten fire seep into your very bones, his girth spreading your aching walls far apart with each thrust.

You moan his name like you're stringing a litany of prayers. Mydei is all too happy to heed each desperate plea. He hoists one of your legs over his shoulder, tilting your body just several degrees sideways. The angle confuses your brain for a moment, unused to being positioned in such a way. But your thoughts are eventually lost to pleasure when his cock breaches your wet heat once more—bullying past gummy walls that yield all too easily to his touch alone.

"More, more, more," you dole out mindlessly, tears catching in the corners of your eyes. "I need you more."

You're not sure if any of your words even make sense, but Mydei reads between the lines anyways. He slants your lips together, like stars melting into each other. His kiss swallows your cries, tender and consuming all at once—like he’s trying to hold you together with his mouth alone. His hips roll deeper still but slower now, savoring the tremble in your thighs, the desperate way your fingers clutch at his back.

“I’m here,” he murmurs against your lips, voice frayed with restraint. “I’m always here.”

The words break something in you. Maybe it’s the past you’ve tried so hard to outgrow, or the girl who once believed no one would ever stay. Either way, she shatters—and in her place is a woman who is being seen, held, loved in a way that feels like becoming. Mydei presses his forehead to yours, breath uneven. The rhythm of your bodies is a language now, spoken in heat and motion, in the slick slide of skin and the muffled gasps you share like secrets. 

And when you come undone, it isn’t with fireworks—it’s with something quieter. A tremble. A sigh. A sense that, for once, the ache inside you has been met with something that understands it.

He's carrying you by your thighs before you can even form another thought. You think you bleat out a weak protest but Mydei presses your back against the nearest wall like he didn't hear a thing. You feel something dig into your spine, but the pain is eclipsed by raw ecstasy when he slots himself inside you again—a shuddering gasp stolen from his chest while he noses at the crook of your neck. Your nerves are still burning with sensation, but the slide of his cock makes you want him more. Desire him deeper. You're past the point of caring whether or not he'll break you, because you know he will and he'll do it deliciously. 

"You're more than what your past made you out to be," he huffs hoarsely, teeth scraping across sweat-slicked skin. "You're more than just some dead monster's favorite."

Your breath catches as his words sink into the tenderest part of you, far deeper than where his body touches. It makes your pulse throb in places untouched, makes your body arch for more of him, for all of him. Ever since the first time, Mydei has never made you feel like some sort of commodity. 

He makes you feel human. Always. 

His hands are rough where they grip your thighs, but there’s reverence in the way he holds you open, like you’re nothing short of a miracle even now, especially now. His pace slows, deepens. Not to tease—no, it’s devotion. Every thrust says, I see you. Every breath he steals from your lungs is a promise that he’s not here to use you—he's here to worship what's been denied worship for far too long.

"I don’t care what they called you,” he murmurs, voice ragged, forehead pressed to yours as if he needs to feel your thoughts against his. “You're mine now. If you’ll have me.”

And gods, you do.

You meet him stroke for stroke, mouth chasing his with a hunger that borders on holy. There’s nothing soft left in the room—not the air, not the wall, not your shared breathing—but there is something real, raw, and rising fast. Like the sea in a storm. Like love, if you're brave enough to call it that. His lips find your throat, trailing heat and tremble in their wake. He doesn't kiss you like you're fragile. He kisses you like you're fire—meant to be burned by. Tongue and teeth dragging along the slick curve of your collarbone, he groans your name like it’s some sort of invocation he’ll never stop repeating.

“You take me so well,” he breathes. “Every time.”

And Titans, you do—greedy and trembling and insatiable, taking all of him because you can, because you want to. Because his desire doesn’t just touch your body—it drenches it, floods it, marks you in places no one else has ever dared to reach. The rhythm builds again, languid and punishing in its control. He doesn’t fuck like a man trying to get off—he moves like he’s trying to memorize you from the inside out. Etching himself into your marrow, into every twitch and gasp and please. He cups your face with one hand, forcing your eyes to meet his. The look in them nearly undoes you.

“You’re not allowed to forget,” he growls, lips brushing yours with maddening restraint. “Not how this feels. Not what you are to me.”

You nod before you can speak, the sound caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. But he sees it. He feels it in the desperate flex of your hips, the trembling grip on his shoulders, the way your mouth parts for his without needing words. You don’t forget—how could you, when he’s everywhere? Inside you, around you, underneath your skin?

His kiss turns hungry again, all heat and tongue, no gentleness this time. Just raw need—his and yours, tangled and indistinguishable. You drink each other in like you’ll never have another chance. His thrusts deepen, rougher now, but still precise—his cock dragging just the right way, hitting every spot that makes your eyes roll back and your breath shatter in your chest. Your thighs start to shake around him, and he feels it, curses low under his breath as shifts your weight to tether further against the wall. One of his hands slips between your bodies, fingers finding that slick bundle of nerves already pulsing.

“Come for me,” he murmurs, and it’s not a request. It’s a command, one laced with reverence and heat and a promise that he’s going with you.

The pleasure rips through you—white-hot and blinding. You shatter around him, trembling and crying out, clinging to him like he’s the only real thing left in a world gone molten. He follows with a broken sound, burying himself to the hilt, forehead pressed hard to yours as he spills into you with a groan that sounds like it’s been clawed from his soul.

For a long moment, all you can do is breathe together, chests rising and falling in the same rhythm. Your skin sticks where it touches, but you don’t pull away. He doesn’t either. Mydei's thumb brushes your cheek, catching a tear you didn’t know you shed.

“I meant what I said,” he whispers. “You’re more than what they made you believe. So much more.”

And somehow, in the quiet between heartbeats and aftershocks, you believe him.

The morning carries a softness that feels borrowed—like it wasn’t meant to belong here, but slipped through anyway. At breakfast, the House begins to stir fully, louder with each passing minute. Girls laughing down the hall. Doors creaking open and shut. Water being drawn. Someone tuning a string instrument with off-key determination.

And Mydei is still here.

You spot him in the tiny galley kitchen, sleeves rolled up, red markings stark against the pale curve of his forearms as he folds dough with a focus that borders on reverence. His half-worn robes are still askew from the night before, hair tousled but face composed. You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching as he flips a pan with entirely too much grace for someone who used to command legions.

“Didn’t think you’d stay,” you murmur.

“I said I would,” he says, not looking up. “Besides, Elena refused to take any money as payment for...”

He pauses, face flushing only for a moment. You feel like he's embarrassed by the prospect of paying for what you suppose was a rendered service, but you're past the point of caring about those little nuances. Elena clucks approvingly as she bustles by, balancing a tray of sweet tea. “This one’s more helpful than half the men who’ve ever darkened our doorstep,” she says. “You sure you’re not already married, Mydei?”

He almost smiles. “Wouldn’t want to subject anyone to that.”

Calliope, who's lounged in a chair with her legs over the armrest, perks up. “I heard a rumor once,” she says, grinning, “that the Crown Prince of Kremnos has a secret love of cooking and baking. Thought it was ridiculous, but…” She gestures at the evidence: golden pastries cooling by the window.

“It wasn’t a secret,” he says, quietly. “Just not something I could do often. Before.”

The mood shifts for a moment. A faint shadow touches the edge of his voice. But it’s gone as quickly as it came. Shortly after your sisters and Nikolas have helped themselves to Mydei's surprisingly good cooking, you find two clay cups. Inside, you pour the pomegranate juice from the jug Elena leaves on the counter before offering one to Mydei. He takes it and raises a brow when you offer him a pitcher of milk.

“Try it,” you say, smirking. “It cuts the tartness.”

He mixes the two with a flick of his wrist and takes a cautious sip. Blinks. “…Better than I thought.”

That draws a laugh from you. “Funnily enough, there's actually a story about that.”

He glances over curiously as you cradle your cup in your palms, leaning against the counter. “The legend says Phagousa offered pomegranate juice to Nikador after he emerged from the battlefield drunk on the blood of his enemies. Said it would calm the fire in him—make him less likely to kill the wrong people. He took it. Said it tasted like war and sweetness in equal measure.”

Mydei is quiet. He drinks again. “A Lethean offering peace to a Kremnoan,” he says after a pause. “Fitting.”

You smile around the rim of your cup. “And did it work?”

“For Nikador?” He shrugs, then looks at you. “Maybe not. But I think it’s working on me.”

You don’t say anything, just nudge your foot against his under the table. You’re still smiling when the kitchen curtain rustles—and someone stumbles in, awkwardly frozen mid-step. A young man, clearly from Kremnos by the style of his cloak and the glint of bronze on his collar. His gaze darts from Mydei to you, then back again. His face drains a shade paler.

“My—uh—Master Mydei. Sir.” He clears his throat, eyes flicking quickly away from your legs, bare beneath a short sleeping tunic. “I—I didn’t realize you were… here.”

“You are?” Mydei asks, calm as ever.

“Andreas, sir,” the man says too quickly. “I-I'm a patron here. Not often. Just…sometimes.”

You exchange a look with Mydei. He doesn’t smirk, but his silence feels like one. The soldier straightens with a snap. “A-Also, General Krateros is looking for you, sir. Told the entire battalion to let you know it was urgent if we ran into you.”

Mydei nods once. “Tell him I’ll be there.”

The man retreats in a flurry of embarrassment and half-bowed apologies. You and Mydei are left alone again, the moment suddenly fragile with the knowledge that it’s ending.

He sets his cup down. Then, without ceremony, leans in and kisses you. Not a lingering promise—just enough to make you feel like you’re being remembered. When he pulls back, you catch the brief return of that storm behind his eyes.

“I’ll see you soon,” the prince says.

You nod, but your gut twists. You’ve seen too many men vanish behind words like that. And this time… something in the air tastes different.

Like milk stirred into blood.

They meet in the outer sanctum beneath the Marmoreal Palace, where gold and obsidian twist in solemn pillars, and the air always tastes like old fire. Mydei stands alone, back turned, watching the Dawn Device cast long beams across the chamber floor.

“You’ve been difficult to find,” Krateros says, voice echoing off stone. No preamble. Just that.

Mydei doesn’t turn. “You found me.”

Krateros crosses the room in measured steps. His armor creaks with each movement—clean, precise, like the man himself. “That’s not an answer.”

“You vanish for days at a time,” Krateros continues, quieter now. “And when you return, you say little. No reports. No council. You’ve always kept things close to your chest, but this…” He trails off, the restraint in his voice pulling taut.

Still, Mydei says nothing.

Krateros studies him. The faint burn of the Dawn Device catches the edges of Mydei’s profile—the worn robes, the exposed red markings pulsing like coals. He looks less like a prince, more like a relic. A weapon waiting to be wielded.

“I know what you’re doing,” Krateros says. “I know where you’ve been.”

Now Mydei turns. There’s no guilt in his expression, only that cold, unreadable stillness he wears when he’s weighing whether or not to unsheathe something sharp. Krateros doesn’t flinch.

“I’m not here to scold you,” he says. “But you are a Chrysos Heir. The last son of Kremnos. You carry the blood of kings and the fire of a dying god in your chest. You don’t get to drift like this.”

A pause. Then:

“Distractions,” he says, “will cost us more than time. You know this.”

Mydei’s gaze narrows, unreadable. “And what would you call your lectures, Krateros, if not a distraction?”

“I call them necessary,” Krateros replies, jaw tightening. “You think I don’t understand? That I haven’t been tempted to take some warmth where I can find it? But we don’t have the luxury of choosing comfort over cause. Not with the Coreflame waiting. Not with the Black Tide pressing in on all sides.”

He steps closer now, not as a soldier, but as something older—friend, brother-in-arms, the last remnant of a broken home trying to hold what’s left together. “You led us here,” he says. “We followed you. Through fire. Through exile. Through the death of everything we once knew. Don’t let your crown slip now, Mydeimos.”

There’s a long, brittle silence. Mydei’s jaw ticks, something flaring behind his eyes—anger, maybe, or something far more human. And when he speaks, his voice is low and measured.

“I haven’t forgotten who I am,” Mydei answers, low and steady.

Krateros watches him. “Yet you act otherwise.”

A beat passes, and he feels like the entire world has tilted several degrees off its axis. “I don’t begrudge you wanting something that’s yours,” his general adds, quieter now. “But you don’t get to lose yourself in it. Not when all of Amphoreus is watching.”

For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then Mydei lifts his chin, that same old stubborn steel in his voice. “I know what I’m doing.”

Krateros stares at him for a long moment, then nods once. “Then don’t make the rest of us pay for it if you’re wrong.”

And with that, he turns and walks away—boots echoing through the temple like the sound of time running out.

When you go to pick up Nikolas with the intent on celebrating his first quarter at The Academy, he tells you something unusual. 

“Master Mydei wasn’t there today,” the boy says, even before you can ask how his lessons went.

You pause, blinking. “No drills?”

Nikolas shakes his head, scuffing the ground with his heel. “He hasn’t been there all week. The other instructors are taking over, but it’s not the same. Master Mydei made the exercises feel like... like they mattered.”

He says it lightly, already moving on to recount how one of the boys tripped over his spear and brought the whole line down with him. You smile when he looks up at you, but your thoughts lag behind. You try to brush it off. It’s not like Mydei’s vanished—he still comes to The House often enough. Still lingers in the quiet hours when the world outside feels far away. But… you realize that it's been a while since he last walked the two of you home. Since you last saw him leaning against the sun-drenched pillars while waiting for Nikolas' day to end.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. He’s a Chrysos Heir. Of course he has other things to tend to—greater things, things that were always meant to take him elsewhere. And yet, a small, unwelcome unease begins to settle just behind your ribs. Not loud, not sharp. Just there. Your fingers curl a little tighter around the strap of Nikolas’s satchel as you walk, listening to him talk and laugh beside you.

Something had shifted. You just don’t know what yet. And it’s not just at the Academy.

Mydei still visits The House—but not like before. The frequency of it has thinned, like footsteps fading further down a hall. And when he does come, he doesn’t stay long. Sometimes, he barely speaks. Sometimes, he stands in your doorway for all of two minutes before offering some small, unreadable look and leaving again. He doesn’t touch you anymore. Not like he used to. Not with that quiet hunger that made him feel almost human. He doesn’t reach for you in the way a man reaches when he’s afraid he might fall apart if he doesn’t. He used to take comfort in the simple closeness—in being held, in pressing his brow to your shoulder and saying nothing at all. Now he barely lingers long enough to sit.

You try to rationalize it. Maybe he’s tired. Maybe he’s too burdened, too pulled in a dozen different directions to find room for softness. You tell yourself that. Again and again. But the warmth is waning, and with it, something unnamed and precious slips quietly from between your fingers. That golden silhouette in the Sea of Souls has begun to plague your dreams again, despite having nothing but peaceful sleep weeks before. And day by day, it's slowly beginning to resemble Mydei—drifting further and further from the shore. 

You're still lost in that thought when the sound of soft footsteps pulls you back. Elena approaches you at the foyer, her gaze steady as ever, but softer than most get to see.

“Come,” she says gently, placing a hand at your back. “Let Iris fetch Nikolas today.”

You open your mouth to protest, but she shakes her head—just once. “You need a moment,” she adds, lower now. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”

You don’t argue.

You let Elena guide you, her hand steady between your shoulder blades. She doesn’t speak again as she leads you through the quieter halls, past the small garden and into the corridor at the back of the House—the part that used to feel off-limits, even if no one ever said so aloud. She opens the door without ceremony. You realize where you are only once you're inside.

Agamemnon’s old quarters.

No—Elena’s room now. The heavy furnishings are gone, replaced by soft lamplight and shelves lined with small comforts: books, folded blankets, glass jars of dried herbs and sealed ink pots. The walls still wear the same paint, but the presence in the room is wholly different. The old chill that once haunted it is gone. She took it back. Firmly. Like reclaiming stolen ground.

She gestures to a cushioned seat in the corner, and you sink into it, your limbs suddenly heavier than they ought to be. She doesn’t sit—not yet. She pours a bit of warm tea into a cup and sets it on the table near your elbow. “You’ve always been good at reading people,” she says, tone gentle but without pity. “But you never let anyone read you.”

You don’t respond right away. The room smells faintly of citrus peel and ink. You stare into the steam curling from the tea. “There’s nothing to read,” you murmur.

Elena lets out a quiet, unimpressed sound. “Then you won’t mind if I guess anyway.”

You almost smile. Almost. She finally settles across from you, folding her legs beneath her like she has all the time in the world.

“It’s about him,” she says. Not a question.

You close your eyes. “He still visits.”

“Mhm.”

“But it’s different. He barely stays. Doesn’t even—” You stop yourself. The words catch on something sharp. “He used to reach for me like he was trying to stay tethered. Now he comes and goes like... like it’s a task.” Elena doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers drum once against the arm of her chair. “It’s always hardest to hold onto something when it stops reaching back,” she says finally.

You nod, just once. You can’t bring yourself to say more than that. “I don’t think it’s because he doesn’t care,” Elena adds. “But whatever path he’s on now… it’s pulling him somewhere you can’t follow.”

You stare down at your hands. “I know. But it still feels like losing something.” She leans forward, brushing her thumb briefly over the back of your hand—a rare gesture of softness from her. “Then mourn it,” she says. “And if it comes back to you, you’ll meet it where you stand. Not where you’ve been.”

You don’t cry. Not here. Not in this room reclaimed by strength and memory. But you let yourself be still for a while, with Elena beside you, the tea growing cold between you, and the truth settling like dust in the warm silence.

No matter how much you hoped, the distance just widens—slowly, then all at once.

At first, it’s just a missed day. Then two. Then a week, and another. Until eventually, Mydei stops coming to The House altogether. No familiar footfall. No pause outside your curtain. No voice saying your name in that low, quiet way that once felt like it belonged only to you. You try not to let it bother you. You tell yourself he’s busy. That he’s important. That you were foolish to expect anything different.

There, you try to return to old rhythms—take patrons again, smile when you need to, pretend your body is yours to give rather than a thing left behind like an empty shell. You let your sisters dress you up in gold and laughter, let yourself be seen again, touched again, admired again. But nothing fits quite right anymore. None of them are him. None of them have his silence, his gravity, the way he made you feel like you were the one thing in the room that mattered.

You should’ve known better. He’s a Chrysos Heir. The future of Okhema. He carries burdens most men would shatter under. You had no business placing your heart in hands already full with destiny. Mydei is not like the others—you know that. He didn’t use you. He didn’t forget you. He just… had somewhere else to be. Something bigger than you to answer to. But that doesn’t make the ache any smaller.

In a moment of foolish desperation, you even try to reach out to Phainon. You think maybe he’ll know something. Maybe he’ll tell you what happened. Maybe he’ll offer some sliver of truth that makes it easier to bear. But Phainon, too, is gone. Not a whisper of either Chrysos Heir's presence left to trail after. And for the first time in a long while, you start to wonder if you're the one being left behind—not because you were unworthy, but because some things aren’t meant to stay.

Just like that, you’ve slipped back into your old life.

The one you had before Mydei ever crossed The House’s doorway. Silk draped over your shoulders, bracelets tinkling at your wrists, voice low and teasing when it needs to be. You smile the way you’re meant to, laugh when it’s expected. To anyone watching, you’ve returned to form—graceful, poised, untouched by the ache he left behind. But in private, you still let the pain simmer.

You still wake in the middle of the night, clutching your sheets, heart thrumming with the echo of dreams you can’t fully name. Always the same: a golden silhouette adrift in the Sea of Souls. Always just out of reach. Always walking away. And still, you go on.

Tonight is no different. One of your regulars has come by—a young man, handsome in that polished, golden-boy way. Elena says he likes you. Really likes you. She catches the way he watches you like you’re more than just a passing indulgence, like he wants something real. Something lasting. But you’ve already gone down that road. You know better now. You light the lamp. Offer him wine. Let your fingers graze his shoulder as you guide him down the hallway—not to your room, never your room—but to one of the House’s standard chambers. Comfortable, detached, forgettable. Just how it should be.

You’re halfway through undoing the knot at your shoulder when the front door slams open. Not gently. Not cautiously. It’s the kind of sound that slices through everything—through music, through laughter, through the sighs of someone trying to forget. It echoes down the halls, startling a few girls into silence. The hush that follows isn’t just surprise. It’s recognition.

You barely hear Elena’s voice from beyond the corridor, sharp and uncertain: “Thalia.”

You pause. The young man on the couch shifts, half-rising, brows furrowed. You don’t give him a word of explanation. Just press your robe back into place, step out into the hall, and follow the tension crawling down your spine. You round the corner. And there he is.

You’ve seen him in lamplight before, cloaked in shadows and quiet rage. But this time—this time he looks like something pulled from another realm entirely. His hair has grown longer, burnished gold streaked with fire, one side neatly braided, the other loose and tangled like he hasn’t slept for days. His skin is dusted in sweat and ash, and the red markings on his arms burn brighter now, like veins of molten ore running beneath his flesh. His eyes find you. And gods, they’re tired. Not in the way of men worn down by time, but of someone who has looked too long into a fire he could not escape. There’s distance in them now. Not coldness—but something deeper. Like he’s gone someplace you can’t reach, and left the door half-open behind him. He doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t need to. Because standing there in the House's low flickering light, Mydei looks nothing like the man who used to listen to your stories in the quiet after midnight.

And yet, for one awful, aching second, you wish he did. You don’t know what he’s lost. What he’s won. Only that whatever road brought him here, it was not kind. You want nothing more than to throw yourself into his arms. To forget the silence. The ache. The long, hollow stretch of nights he wasn’t there. But time has carved you into someone sharper. Someone careful. And when you finally speak, your voice is cold enough to frost over the doorway. Whatever softness once lived in you for him has learned to hold its breath. You’ve patched yourself up too many times to tear open at the seams now.

So when you speak, it isn’t tender. “What are you doing here?” Your voice echoes in the narrow hall, too poised for how fast your heart is beating. You don’t give him time to answer. You straighten your shoulders, glance behind you at the door you just stepped out of. “I’m busy tonight. With a patron.”

The words taste sour, but you say them anyway. You watch the shift in his face, subtle but unmistakable. His gaze hardens, jaw tightening like he’s biting something back. There’s a fire in him—there always was—but now it crackles at the edges, no longer tempered by gentleness. Not rage, not quite. But something close. Still, you hold your ground. You won’t let him look at you like that. Like he still has the right. You’ve taken yourself apart piece by piece to survive without him, and now he shows up—unannounced, unchanged in all the ways that still hurt. You clench your fingers in your robe, exhale through your nose. “You don’t get to come back and expect everything to be the same,” you say, quieter this time.

He doesn’t respond. Just watches you with eyes that have seen too much, and a silence that says he knows it. But you’re not ready. Not yet.

For several days, Mydei attempts to reach out, and for several days, you refuse him. 

Elena constantly tells him that he's the last person you need to see. But Mydei has Kremnoan blood running through his veins—stubborn, unyielding, relentless. He doesn't take no for an answer. His presence lingers like a shadow, and it becomes a silent war of wills. Finally, Iris, sweet, gentle Iris, who’s always been the heart of this place, is the one to snap.  You hear it from the hall—a raised voice, sharp with frustration, followed by silence. The next thing you know, Iris is standing between Mydei and the door, her face flushed with the strain of trying to be firm.

“If you don’t leave now,” she warns, voice trembling with quiet fury, “I’ll call the guards.”

It’s a rare thing to see Iris so resolute. But you know she’s doing it for you, for the pieces of you that have been broken and scattered too many times. Later, you overhear the girls talking, gathered in hushed voices. You stand just out of sight, pretending to be absorbed in something else, but the words sink into you like a slow poison.

“I never wanted to turn him away,” Iris whispers, the sound of her voice raw with something you can’t quite place. “But... If he left and vanished without a trace, maybe... maybe that would be better for her. He was the one who made her happy once. I haven’t forgotten that. But now...” Her voice cracks. “Now, he’s the reason she’s in so much pain.”

You feel the weight of her words like a stone in your chest. And for the first time in days, you allow yourself to feel the ache of it all—the loss, the betrayal, the gaping hole that used to be filled with his presence.

Is this all that's left between the two of you after all?

The next morning, The House is quieter than usual. Even the laughter from the girls seems dulled, as if they, too, are caught in the fog of yesterday’s storm. You wake early, before the sun has fully risen, and the weight in your chest hasn’t left. If anything, it has settled deeper. The ache is no longer sharp. It's something quieter now. Constant. You leave without telling anyone. No makeup. No disguise. Just a long shawl draped over your shoulders and sandaled feet slapping against cold stone. You don't know where you're going until you're already there.

The Marmoreal Palace gleams under the light of the Dawn Device, pristine and untouched. Here, the world feels distant—like something imagined rather than lived. Inside, the air is warm and still, a mix of sea-salt and something floral you can’t place. Steam curls in lazy tendrils around the painted columns. You disrobe in silence and slide into the water with only the barest splash, letting it cradle you like a memory you can’t shake. The baths are quieter than you expected. Until they aren’t.

“You’re here,” comes a familiar voice.

You flinch, not because you’re afraid, but because you weren’t prepared to hear him. Phainon stands at the edge of the pool, looking only mildly surprised to find you already there. His long white hair is damp at the ends, his robe half-slipped from his shoulders. He hasn’t changed, not much—but your heart clenches anyway.

You narrow your eyes. “You disappeared too.” He blinks at you, as though he hadn’t expected that to be the first thing you’d say. “I did,” he admits, quiet and unapologetic. “I had to.”

“Of course you did,” you murmur, sinking further into the water. “Everyone has to.”

A silence stretches between you. You’re too tired to keep the edge in your voice, but it’s there nonetheless. The warmth of the bath does little to ease it. Phainon doesn't enter the water right away. He sets his robe aside and sits on the pool’s edge, feet dipping into the blessed waters. “I go here a lot when I need to get something off my mind,” he says instead of answering. “I suppose the same is true for you as well?”

You don’t respond. You don't trust your voice not to break. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks again. “The Black Tide started rising faster than any of us expected. We had no choice but to act—quickly.” You shift, water rippling around your shoulders. “So you just vanished.”

“I told him we should say goodbye to you first,” he says softly, finally looking at you. “He wanted to. But there was no time. We left at dawn the next day.” You don’t realize you’ve curled your fingers into fists until your nails bite your palms beneath the surface. “So where did you go?”

Phainon exhales. “Castrum Kremnos.”

Your gaze snaps to him. He continues, slowly, like the words are stones he must carry across a river. “Mydei needed to reclaim something that was lost. Something his people had forgotten. Nikador’s Coreflame. The power that was once theirs before the Titan fell into madness.”

“He fought for it. We all did. The Coreflame is back where it belongs now, in the Vortex of Genesis. Waiting for someone worthy to take it up.” You look away. Your voice is thin when it finally comes. “So that’s why he left.”

“He’s not just trying to be a prince anymore,” Phainon says. “He’s preparing to become something else. A protector. A demigod. The Bastion of Okhema.” You close your eyes, letting the steam soften your expression, though it can't quite dull the ache in your chest. “And you?” you ask. “Are you becoming something too?”

Phainon smiles faintly. “I’ve always been someone in the background. That hasn’t changed.”

That's not an answer. You want to laugh. Or cry. Or both. Sensing your unease, he leans forward slightly, voice lower now. “I just didn’t want you to keep waiting in the dark, thinking he abandoned you. He didn’t. Not really.”

You don’t respond right away. You’re still trying to fit all the pieces together. The silence stretches again—only this time, it doesn’t feel so lonely. Outside, the golden light deepens, catching the mist like spun thread. You don’t feel lighter, not yet. But at least now you understand what happened. The mist swirls around you both, catching golden in the morning light. For a long time, you say nothing. Just the sound of water, soft and steady, and the occasional hush of distant footsteps echoing in the marble halls. Then, finally, you speak—your voice low, but clear.

“I was cruel to him.”

“I didn’t see him,” you go on. “Not once. Not when he knocked. Not when he waited in the hall. I made my sisters turn him away. I let Elena speak for me. I didn’t even... I didn’t even ask why he left.” Your voice catches. “I didn’t want to hear it. I was too angry. Too hurt.” Phainon looks at you, not with pity, but with something gentler. Something like understanding. You draw in a breath, steadying yourself. “He tried. And I—I let my silence answer him. I thought it would protect me. I thought... if I didn’t open the door, it wouldn’t hurt as much when he disappeared again.”

“But it still did,” Phainon says softly.

You nod, just once. “And now I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance to say anything to him again.” Phainon’s expression is hard to read. The bathwater reflects golden across his features, giving him a soft, solemn glow. “He wouldn’t fault you for it,” he says at last. “He doesn’t carry anger the way most people do. But he does carry weight. The kind that never really leaves you.”

You let the silence stretch again, letting his words settle in the spaces your regret has carved out. “I thought he was choosing something else over me,” you admit, your voice almost a whisper. “But it was never about that, was it?”

“No,” Phainon murmurs. “It was about all of you. All of us. The people of this city. The ones who still believe in something better.”

You lean back against the stone, letting the warmth seep into your bones. The water may have been blessed by a goddess, but it can’t wash away everything. Still, it helps. “I think,” you say after a moment, “I just wanted to feel like I mattered. Like I was worth saying goodbye to.”

“You were,” he says simply. “You are.”

You don’t thank him for the words. But you don’t argue either. Phainon stretches his legs out into the water, letting the silence settle between you again. There’s something almost peaceful about it now—like the ache has found room to breathe. Then, casually, as if he’s commenting on the weather, he says, “If you ever want to get away from the city... there’s a spot by the eastern slopes. Hardly anyone goes there. You can see all of Okhema from up top. Even the Dawn Device looks small from there.”

You glance at him, narrowing your eyes slightly. “That sounds oddly specific.” He just shrugs, the corner of his mouth curving. “Just thought you’d like the view.”

There’s something veiled beneath the words—something left unsaid. But Phainon is too practiced at deflection. You don’t press him, but the suggestion lingers in your mind like a note in a half-finished song. One you intend to see through until the end.

Later that afternoon, after making Phainon swear he won't disappear without a trace again, you leave the marble gates behind. The route he mentioned winds through the less-traveled parts of the city—stone paths lined with ivy, stairways sun-bleached and cracked, quiet courtyards where birdsong carries between empty alcoves. The air feels different here. Less ostentatious. More honest. The slope rises slowly, and the buildings thin out. Eventually, you're left with wildflowers brushing your ankles, old roots breaking through forgotten stones, and a sky that feels far too big.

And then you see it.

Tucked into the edge of a cliff, half-forgotten by time, is a small, crumbling terrace. Vines have crept through broken latticework, and moss clings to the faded stones. There are remnants of garden beds—empty, but outlined lovingly, like someone had once planned to grow something beautiful here. It would’ve made a lovely garden. And standing at its edge, back turned, bathed in gold and shadow, is Mydei.

He’s not in armor. Just loose robes, wind-tossed, the markings on his skin catching the light in flickers of red and copper. There’s a weight to his stance—heavy, as if he might as well replace the Titan who bears the world on his back. But there's also a quiet sort of anticipation lingering there. As if he’s been waiting. You stop. The wind carries the scent of dried leaves. And in that instant, all the breath you’d held over these past weeks escapes you.

He turns—slowly, carefully, like the world might shift beneath him if he moves too fast. And when his eyes find yours, they soften. He looks like someone who’s walked through fire just to make it here. Someone who never stopped hoping you would come. You don’t say anything, but your feet carry you forward. Because he’s here. And somehow, so are you.

He watches you approach. Still, unmoving—as if the moment might scatter like birds startled from branches. But you've committed enough mistakes to know when you're supposed to make up for them. 

“Mydei,” you breathe, unsure if you even want to say his name. It tastes like salt and grief on your tongue.

His eyes meet yours, steady. He doesn't address you with Thalia like the rest of the world, but with a name you trust only his voice to say. The sound of it makes warmth simmer beneath your skin, slipping into the cracks that time has broken into your soul.  You stop a few steps away. Mydei doesn't come closer. He just stands there, hands at his sides, waiting. You try to hold it in, all of it—the storm, the ache, the betrayal you swore you'd buried. But it frays at the seams. And once it starts, it doesn’t stop.

“I was cruel,” you say. The words come through clenched teeth, tears spilling even as you try to swallow them. “You tried to see me. I wouldn’t even look at you. I didn’t let you speak. And now…” Now you’re the one standing here, hoping he’ll listen to what you have to say. “I thought you left me,” you whisper. “Not just me. Everyone. But especially me.”

It sounds selfish, yet he doesn't deny it. He doesn’t make excuses. He just lowers his gaze, jaw tightening for a breath before he says, quiet as dusk, “I should’ve told you.”

You shake your head hard. “I didn’t make it easy.”

“That’s not why.” He looks up again. “There wasn’t time. It all happened fast. The Coreflame… Castrum Kremnos…” His fingers curl slightly at his sides, like he’s reliving it. “I didn’t want to go without saying anything. But I had to.”

Your chest caves, air escaping you like a punctured wineskin. “And when you came back…”

“I didn’t know where to start,” he says, and his voice carries the sort of quiet that borders on sadness. “You looked at me like I was a stranger.”

“Because you were.”

He accepts that. Just nods, slow and quiet. You glance around the terrace, at the garden-that-never-was, and back at him. “This is where you’ve been?”

He gives a small nod. “There’s a place just down the slope. An old house where it’s quiet enough for me to hear my own thoughts.” He looks out toward the city. “I didn’t want to stay in the Marmoreal Palace. It’s… easier to think here.”

You wipe at your face again, suddenly self-conscious about how much you’re crying and how dry his eyes are.

“So you’ve been alone all this time?”

His voice is soft. “Not really.”

You look at him again, confused. Finally, Mydei steps forward—not all the way, just close enough that you can hear the breath he takes before he says, “You were always with me. Even when you hated me.” Your mouth trembles from his honesty, and you don't know what to make of it. He challenged a god and won, yet his thoughts still drift to you?

“That doesn’t make this hurt less,” you whisper.

“I know.”

In the silence, he doesn’t ask if you want to come with him. Mydei just starts walking down the slope, and when you don’t stop him, when your steps fall in beside his, it’s enough. Your footsteps fall quietly along the worn path. Behind you, Okhema glows with its usual light—soft and steady, as it always is. The sun never sets here, but the city feels quieter now, like it knows to dim its voice when the world needs rest.

The place he stays in is small. Unremarkable. Worn wood creaks beneath your feet, and the stone floors have seen better days, their surface chipped and cracked in places. The room is sparsely furnished, without any of the pomp you might expect of someone of his lineage.

There are no guards. No banners. Just a kettle by the hearth, a narrow bed with a folded blanket, and a half-finished meal on a plain wooden table. It feels like a room for someone who wants to be forgotten. Or perhaps just needs the space to remember.

He pours you water from a ceramic jug and offers it to you wordlessly. Your eyes catch the bottle of wine sitting beside his bed—an afterthought, a companion for moments too heavy to be filled with words. You take it, uncork it with a quick twist, and drink. The liquid is sharp, its warmth moving down your throat like a slow burn. Mydei doesn’t comment.

His gaze lingers on you, and in the quiet of the room, it feels heavier than any words could be. You sit on the edge of his bed, and it’s strange, the intimacy of it. The way it feels small beneath you. The way his presence feels familiar enough that it cuts deep. He stays standing at first, watching you for a beat too long, before slowly sitting beside you. 

"Phainon told me about the trial," you say, your voice unsteady, more vulnerable than you mean it to be. Your fingers curl around the neck of the bottle, your eyes still not meeting his. "Nikador’s Coreflame. That you’re going to take it."

He nods, barely a movement. “I am.”

“When?”

A long pause hangs between you, thick with things neither of you can say.

“Tomorrow.”

Your chest tightens. You close your eyes for a moment, as if trying to gather the pieces of yourself back together. “Of course.”

It should have been easy to accept. Yet you swallow hard, the words tasting like ash in your mouth, and your hands tremble slightly as you take another drink from the bottle. He watches you quietly, and for a long moment, you just sit there, caught between the past and the future, each breath heavy with things you wish you'd said earlier.

"It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Mydei murmurs, his voice heavy with the weight of all the things he’s already lost.

You laugh, but it's bitter, a raw sound that catches in your throat. "It never was, but we're here anyway." The wine burns as it slides down, but it feels like nothing compared to the burn in your chest, the ache that’s been there since the first time you pushed him away. The silence between you isn’t sharp anymore. It’s softened, worn, tired. And you know it’s not just the long day that’s tired. It’s you. It’s him. It’s everything in between.

“You know," you begin, your voice quiet now, more frayed than angry, "we could’ve had more time. All those days you waited outside, and I—” Your voice cracks on the last words. "I thought pushing you away would make it easier. But it didn’t. I just...wasted what little we had left."

His eyes are soft when they meet yours, as always, there’s no judgment in them. Just understanding. And maybe that’s worse. Because understanding makes the hurt feel heavier.

“I would’ve waited as long as it took,” he says, and his voice breaks, just a little. It’s the quietest thing, like he’s afraid you might shatter if he speaks too loudly.

You meet his gaze, and for a moment, you forget how heavy it all feels. The reality of what you both are about to face. The gravity of your mistakes. You look at him, really look at him. Not the demigod. Not the prince. Just Mydei. The man sitting right next to you, exhausted and hurting, full of things he’s never said, and so much he’ll never get to. And then, almost without thinking, you cross the space between you.

The distance doesn’t feel right. It never does. So you reach out and kiss him. Not out of desperation. Not even out of need. Just out of acknowledgement. Of everything you were. Of everything you are. And everything you’ll never get to be.

The kiss is tender, slow, like you’re both trying to savor it before it slips through your fingers. His hands come to rest on your back like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. Your fingers tangle in the fabric over his shoulders, and you feel the rough texture of the red markings beneath your touch.

His body is warm, solid against yours, like the only thing holding you together in the midst of the unraveling. But in spite of it all, you climb on top of his lap and his hands meander to your hips like clockwork. Mydei breathes out your name again—your real name—and it takes every ounce of self-control to not unceremoniously spear yourself on his hard, leaking cock.

Instead, you hold on to the tenderness in his voice, guiding his length slowly into you as you sink yourself inch by inch. His golden eyes observe in quiet rapture as you envelop him in the heat of your cunt. And for a moment, time stills. It's only you and him in this world. No higher calling. No inescapable destiny.

Just two lovers entangled in each other's embrace. 

You both linger not because you have to—but because neither of you can bear to end it. When you kiss him again, his mouth tastes like grief and gratitude, like unspoken apologies and quiet forgiveness. When you finally part, it’s not with a gasp, but a breath.

“I should’ve told you sooner,” you whisper, your voice shaking against his skin. “That it wasn’t just comfort. It wasn’t just—just survival. I chose you. Even when I pretended I didn’t.” Mydei lets out a quiet exhale, one that sounds like it’s been locked in his chest for too long. “I know,” he murmurs. “And I chose you too. Every time.”

You swallow hard, and it burns. Like all the things you’ll never get to say are rising up at once. “But you have to go,” you say, and you hate how much it sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself.

The prince nods. Not because he wants to. But because he has to. There’s no anger in it, no bitterness—just that quiet, devastating calm he always wears when the world asks too much of him. And this time, it’s asking for everything.

He brushes his knuckles along your cheek, trailing them down to your jaw, memorizing the shape of you like it might be the last time. Maybe it is. “I’ll come back,” he says, softly, reverently. “Even if I’m not the same. Even if I come back a god, or a shadow of one—I’ll still find a way to be yours.”

You shake your head—wanting to refuse, wanting to insist that he shouldn't choose you over the rest of the world. But your voice fails you when you bring your hips down once more and the tip of him kisses a spot inside you that makes you see stars.

“Just… don’t forget this,” you manage, struggling with sincerity when your mind is overloaded with pleasure. “Don’t forget who you were before.”

His lips press to your brow—firm, steady, lingering—and the warmth of it spreads like a vow you’ll carry in your bones.

“I won’t,” he says, a shadow of regret already flitting to the surface. “Because you’ll be the part I remember most.”

You want to say more. You want to tell him that remembering won’t be enough. That memory is fragile, easily rewritten by divinity or time or duty. But instead, you stay there, wrapped in him, letting the silence fall like a shroud around your tangled limbs. Words feel too small now, and besides—he’s still human. For just a little longer.

You lie against him in the quiet, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, his warmth grounding you. The world outside doesn’t shift—there’s no setting sun, no stars to blink into view. Just the bright, aching stillness of Okhema, stretching on like it always has.

Mydei shifts slightly beneath you, his voice low and gravelly. “What do you want most in the world?”

You blink, not expecting the question. The wine dulls the edges of your thoughts, but not enough to soften the truth. You tilt your head up, looking at him. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes search yours like he needs an answer—one that matters.

“In this moment?” you whisper. He nods once. You swallow. The answer feels foolish, but it’s the only one that comes.

“You.”

Something flickers across his face—regret, maybe. Longing. Love, too, but buried beneath it all is something heavier. Something finite.

He shakes his head slowly, gently. “That’s not something I can give.”

It doesn’t feel cruel. Just honest. You exhale, the breath shaky, and let your gaze wander to the walls, the table, the pale jug on the hearth. The silence presses in again, not oppressive but inevitable, and you dig past the ache, the wanting, to something deeper.

So, softer now, more to yourself than to him, you say,

“A fig tree.”

Mydei's golden eyes startle as he tilts his head. “A fig tree?”

“Mm,” you nod, eyes still on the ceiling. “A big one. Sweet fruit, low branches. Shade so thick, you could sleep under it all day and no one would find you. And it’d be mine. Just mine. Not in someone else’s garden. No clients, no watchers, no debts.” You smile, but it barely lifts your lips. “I’d name it something stupid. Figgy, or Kephale’s Ass.”

That gets a laugh from him—low and surprised. But when you glance his way, he’s already watching you differently. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of the wish beneath your joke.

“You’re serious,” he says.

You shrug. “I’m tired of wanting things that cost too much.”

He doesn’t answer. Just reaches for your hand where it rests between the folds of the blanket, his fingers brushing yours—tentative, warm. You don’t pull away. And in the silence that follows, you both know: he’ll claim Strife's Coreflame tomorrow, and you’ll remain here with this—this moment, this ache, this impossible tree blooming behind your ribs.

You close your eyes. And when you finally sleep, it’s not peace that cradles you—it’s the ache of knowing morning always comes. Because when it does, nothing will be the same.

News of a new demigod spreads like wildfire.

Trumpets blare from the upper terraces, their notes caught and carried by the ever-blazing sun. Laurel garlands are tossed from balconies. The Kremnoans, long-suffering and scattered, gather in droves across the plaza steps of the Marmoreal Palace, crying and singing in a tongue most in Okhema don’t understand. But you recognize the shape of it—reverence. Relief. Rapture.

Their king has risen.

The rest of the city does what it always does when faced with something greater than itself: it hopes. Whispers pass from market stalls to sun-washed colonnades. He’ll stop the Black Tide. He has to. He has the strength now. Maybe the nightmares will end. Maybe the tide will be driven back into the deep where it came from.

But you don’t go aboveground to hear any of it.

For a long time, you don’t leave the undercity at all. The lamps still flicker, The House still bustles, Alexandria still braids jasmine into the curtain rods. Everything is exactly the same. Except it isn’t.

You don’t read the news scrolls. Don’t look at the mural of the Dawn Device glowing gold above. You pass the stairs leading up without a glance. And when others mention the name Mydei, you simply excuse yourself, as if you’ve grown bored of the story.

But Elena notices. She always has. The way you pause by the seashell curtain longer than you mean to. The way your makeup is lighter these days, your smile more practiced. How you move through the House like you’re carrying something delicate and heavy all at once.

She doesn’t say anything, but the tea she leaves by your bedside is your favorite kind. The chores she assigns are quieter, further from the crowd. On days when the sun feels too loud, she dims the lanterns near your corner without a word. Nothing big. Nothing obvious. Just the kind of help that doesn’t ask you to admit you need it.

And then, one day, Phainon comes.

He doesn’t knock—just waits outside your curtain, patient as ever. When you finally let him in, he looks older than you remember, like something behind his eyes has sunk deeper into itself. You sit on the floor. He doesn’t offer pleasantries, nor does he mention the revels or the rumors.

“Mydei’s gone,” he simply tells you straight away.

You say nothing.

“He left this morning. Headed east, back to Castrum Kremnos. There are reports of the Tide breaching the mountain passes. He’s going to defend the border.”

Still, the silence persists.

“He didn’t tell me where exactly. Didn’t tell anyone, really. Just said it was time.”

It’s that last part that does it.

Something in your chest—fragile and waterlogged for days—splits down the middle. The breath you pull in is shuddering, tight, and the laugh that escapes you is barely a sound at all. You press the back of your hand to your mouth like you can stop it from coming, but you can’t. Phainon stays with you. He doesn’t try to stop you from crying, nor comfort you with false words. He just sits there as you fold in on yourself, as your body heaves with the grief of it, the hollow and the heat of it. The kind of grief you only feel when you lose something you were never meant to keep.

He reaches over, quietly, and squeezes your shoulder. In the distance, the bells of the Palace ring again. Not for you. Not for him.

For the god they now call Strife Incarnate.

For the man you loved.

And ultimately lost.

Years pass in the blink of an eye.

Okhema, still burning beneath the tireless light of the Dawn Device, becomes a sanctuary for the displaced. City-states once proud and untouched by ruin collapse beneath the weight of the Black Tide. Their people arrive in droves—haunted, half-starved, wide-eyed with grief—and the city takes them in. The sanctity of its alabaster spires strains under the weight, but it does not break.

Mydei and the other Chrysos Heirs push back with fire and fury, golden shields against a growing sea of death. They are everywhere and nowhere—always spoken of, rarely seen. Even when they stem the tide in one corner of the continent, it seeps through another. Victory comes in fragments. Defeat is slower, quieter.

But still, life goes on.

Nikolas has grown into adulthood. Taller. Sharper. These days, he wears the armor of one of Okhema’s elite guards—the kind that gleams like polished sunstone. These days, he's too busy to live anywhere other than his company's assigned barracks. But he brings gifts sometimes—candied nuts, new thread, secondhand books for the girls. He doesn’t linger long, but when he sees you, his expression softens. He bows his head, always. Not with ceremony, but with something gentler. Something that says: I remember where I came from.

Down to the undercity. To the House.

The House that is much different now. No longer a brothel, but a resting place for the weary. At the start of the exciting change, Penelope asked, why didn't we turn this into an Inn the moment that old bastard died? A sentiment echoed by yourself and your other sisters. Elena answers simply.

"Because I wanted us to start, not from the wealth Agamemnon made off of our suffering, but with the money we all earned on our own terms." 

Rooms that once held secrets now hold stories. Travelers sleep beneath patched roofs, fed by kind hands that ask nothing in return. You stayed through every change. Through every wave of newcomers. Through every whispered prayer sent up toward the unblinking sky.

You haven’t heard from Phainon in years. The last thing you received was a letter, edges sun-bleached and curling. He didn’t say much—but what he did say stayed with you. That it was no small thing, to keep a soft heart in a world that rewarded hardness. That kindness, in hands like yours, meant more than most people would ever understand.

At the end of the letter, he told you: If you ever need a breath, a moment, a sliver of peace—go back to the eastern slope. The place where the light hits just right. Where hearts had once been laid bare.

You hadn’t thought of it in a long time. But today, while clearing out a drawer, you find it again. The edges of the paper are curled. The ink faded in places. But the words remain. You read it three times before setting it down. Then you pack a small bag with water, a slice of flatbread, and nothing else.

The walk is longer than you remember—not because the distance has changed, but because the world has. This part of the city, once overgrown and forgotten, is no longer deserted. Homes have been built into old stone. Children run barefoot down winding paths. Lanterns hang from beams softened by age, and laughter drifts like wind through the open spaces.

You almost turn back, unsure if this place remembers you.

“Are you lost?” a voice calls from the side of the path.

You turn. An older man with silver in his beard and a scar across his brow stands beside a cart of firewood. His sleeves are rolled up, arms weathered from work. Not a soldier anymore, but something about his posture says he once was.

“I’m looking for an old terrace,” you say. “The one that looks over the eastern rise.”

He studies you. Something flickers in his expression—recognition, maybe, though you don’t recognize him. Still, he nods and sets down the bundle he carries.

“This way,” the man says, ushering you further.

You follow him in silence. Through quiet lanes. Past gardens planted with practiced care. The city didn’t build these homes—people did. Survivors. Settlers. Refugees who carved something that's now theirs from the wreckage.

“The people of Castrum Kremnos live here now,” the man says, almost offhand. “Most of us settled after the last wave several years ago.” He glances back at you. Slows. “Rumor has it that this is where Mydeimos spent his last days as a man. Before he crossed the threshold into divinity.”

You say nothing, despite that same exact scene flashing behind your eyes, but the bitter memory is cut short the moment your eyes find the once-abandoned terrace.

The garden plot is still there—but it’s not wild anymore. It's thriving. Every inch of soil breathes with care, with memory. Herbs spill over low stone borders, blossoms lean into the sun, and trailing vines curl like quiet laughter around hand-hewn posts. It doesn’t shout its beauty—it hums with it, steady and sure.

And at the heart of it all stands a fig tree.

Tall and deeply rooted, its bark dark and knotted with age, its limbs outstretched like open arms. The leaves catch the wind with a soft rustle, and from its branches hang ripe fruit—heavy, sweet, and low enough to reach.

A big one. Sweet fruit, low branches. Shade so thick, you could sleep under it all day and no one would find you.

And it’d be mine. Just mine.

The man slows beside you. “That tree’s been here a while now. We were told to plant it. Given seeds and a spot. It was the prince's final order before leaving for Castrum Kremnos.”

You look at him. “He… Mydei asked for it?”

He nods. “Didn’t say why. Only that it had to grow. That it mattered because it belonged to someone important.”

You step closer to the tree, fingertips brushing the bark. You recount the past several years, where it always felt as if you were wading through a sea of mist. You would even think to yourself that maybe you're becoming one of those wandering souls in your dreams. But this very tree that was planted here on the whims of a man who still thought of you even past his divine countenance.

It mattered... 

Even after all this time. Even after he became something more than mortal. This fig tree—this patch of earth—tells you he remembered. That part of him stayed.

You stand beneath its branches, and for a long while, you say nothing at all.  The wind rustles the leaves above you. The figs hang heavy in the warm light—sweet and low.

Here, at last, something is yours.

Something he left behind.

When you return to The House, the sun is still high above Okhema, as it always is. The basket in your arms—given by that kind old stranger who you know now as Krateros—is heavier than you remembered, brimming with ripe figs, their skin warm from the walk.

Nikolas is the first to spot you. He bounds over, looking like he was still fourteen despite being in full uniform, and snatches one from the top before you can say a word. “These are real?” he says, mouth already full. “Where’d you get ‘em?”

Your other sisters drift into the foyer like petals on a breeze, drawn by the smell, the sight, the rare smile tugging at your lips. They ask what the occasion is. You shrug, setting the basket down where everyone can reach.

“No occasion,” you say softly. “Just… felt like it was time.”

You don’t tell them about the eastern slopes. Or the fig tree. Or the man who once stood beneath that sky beside you, heavy with a goodbye neither of you could speak. You don’t need to. Because for the first time in your life, you are not looking back.

You're no longer the girl from the sea, from an island long lost to time. The one who only lived out of fear and anger at the city who made her the way she was. You like to think it was Mydei's presence who made you realize all the things you're not, but part of you knows he would say something along the lines of, No. This was all you. 

And it was. 

You sit among your sisters and the boy you all raised together, the sweet taste of fruit on your tongue, and let the moment hold you—not as someone who was left behind, but as someone who still remains.

And in the warmth and laughter around you, you begin to understand:

Some loves don’t end.

They simply grow roots in the quiet parts of you.

...and keep on living.

© cryoculus | kaientai ✧ all rights reserved. do not repost or translate my work on other platforms.

[prettyflyshyguy]

OK I HAVE NO TIME CAUSE I'M PREPPING FOR ART MARKET

HOWEVER.

You know what time it is. I need to do this quick because otherwise I'll explode if I don't know what's going on. You know the drill! Thought's under the cut:

GIRL ME TOO WHEN SOMEONE TRIES TO FLIRT WITH ME

stop looking at people with those huge wet stupid eyes

"we can't fix the hopper because you wanted to download a show"

I'M FUCKING SOBBING HOLY SHIT GO OFF MENSAH THAT ENTIRE CONVERSATION WAS PHENOMENAL THE WRITING AHAHAHA

THE WAY SHE JUST SUDDENLY REALISES AFTER ALL THE TIMES IT'S BEEN COLD, TERRIFYING, UNCOMFORTABLE THAT IT'S JUST HOARDING SHOWS IN ITS HARD MEMORY AND SHE'S JUST SO FUCKING DISSAPOINTED GNOANHGEGJRNIJGERIOGHNE

both of them just have such good fucking expression acting I'm dead I love them both sm

Interesting. Very. Interesting.

It's like she's bouncing between very targeted information gathering and suddenly being very boundary pushing.

Bharadwaj I love you I love you I love you you are SO funny and SO wonderfull (ALSO GURATHIN'S FACE MY MAN'S JUST TRYING TO GET WORK DONE AND NOT THINK ABOUT SECUNIT PENIS GRAFTING)

"Can't you print new wiring?"

"Oh."

LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE the way it's now completely mask off. This is its real genuine personality on display. Mensah is experiencing the actual true face of this thing and how it thinks and feels and operates and it's fucking delightful to see the complete shift in tone, body language, the OPENNESS of it's self expression.

"sit on this bunker"

"YOU SIT"

sobbing. I'm sobbing-

"Sanctuary. Fucking. Moon,"

THE WAY MY JAW FUCKING HIT THE FLOOR ON THIS LINE DELIVERY I AM GOING TO DIE THIS IS SO FUCKING FUNNY

MENSAH'S JUST LIKE ME FOR REAL I GET SO ANGRY WHEN I'M PANICKING AND SOMEONE DOES THIS -- but it's the initial pain response. This hurts to watch because I'm Mensah. I've been Mensah.

"DON'T TOUCH"

SCREAMS

this entire conversation is utterly brutal and so, so, so fascinating

Once again: I love her and she feels like she keeps bouncing between saying something very genuine "I want to have kids" and something very REHEARSED - the maps.

"Why dont you tell me what you saw?"

"I think I'd rather not"

GURATHIN'S ONTO HER YESSSSSSS MY MAN YESSSSSSSSS

YEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS HAHAHAHAA YEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS I LOVE AN EVIL WOMAN YEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

they use cloned neural tissue in transport vehicles!!!!!!!!!????????

ALSO HELLO THIS SCENE HELLO HELLO HELLO HELLO

IT USING DIALOG FROM MED CENTRE ARGALA I'M CRYING

"i'm a vegetarian"

"you dont have to eat me, just cut me"

"scalpel"

"wrench"

THIS IS THE BEST SCENE IN THE WHOLE FUCKING SHOW THIS IS THE EBST TV IVE WATCHED IN YEARS

OH MY GOD THIS WAS BEAUTIFULL

THE WAY ITS WALKING AROUND WITH ITS ENTIRE BACK EXPOSED LIKE THAT PUT THAT AWAY YOU SL-

god

THIS SHOW IS SO SNAPPY AND I LOVE IT SO MUCH IT WASTES NO FUCKING TIME

finally we get Murderbot murdering someone on screen!!!!

THE GUTS ABSOLUTELY SMOTHERING EVERYONE IN THE ROOM

OH MY GODDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD

"but then I exploded Leebeebee's head. And that. Felt good."

WHAT A WAY TO END THE EPISODE HOLY FUCK

The prexaux team finally get to see MB for who it truly is and MB also gets to do some self discovery of a very cursed variety but there's so much undercurrent of internal conflict there. Like yeah buddy I'm sure it felt good to obliterate her, she came onto you, said some rancid depersonalizing thing's about your body and penis grafting, and endangered your entire crew which you keep trying to convince yourself you don't care about in the way that you clearly do.

Why else would you have felt that bad when Mensah scolded you. Why else would you work so hard to not be the monster when you were almost taken over by hostile code. Why else would you work so hard to keep them all safe even when you didn't ever need to, when you could half half assed it and gotten away with it too.

[ckret2]

Chapter 96 of human Bill Cipher kinda just vibing in the Mystery Shack with Mabel at this point: the girls interrogate Bill about his love life; Bill emotionally bonds with... *spins a wheel* ...Grenda; Bill and Ford have a moment that means a lot more to Bill than Ford realizes; and a monster comes to town.

The girls had taken a snack break in between movies; and Bill had left them in the living room singing "I Love 2 Believe U Believe N Our Love" while he went into the kitchen to grab a drink.

He longingly eyed the cider six-pack he was currently working on. This was about the time of night he usually ran out of distractions and energy and resorted to drinking himself past the nighttime racing thoughts, and his body knew it. The mug he'd had at Skull Fracture had barely given him a buzz that had already faded. He was itching for another drink. It didn't help that last night he'd missed his usual dose of medicine, what with dealing with Powers...

With a sigh, he passed it over. He was already sleep deprived; if he wanted to keep up with these kids, he had to have a sharp mind tonight. Instead he picked up the coffee pot, chugged the stale dregs at the bottom, squeezed a packet of soy sauce down his throat as a chaser, and headed back into the living room.

As he came in, Grenda was saying, "Oh, Marius? Yeah, it's going alright! We talked about how clingy he is, it's cool now. He's taking me skiing in August!"

"I am full of envy," Candy sighed, draped tragically off the edge of the sofa. "Does Marius have any cute single prince friends?"

"I don't know! I can ask!"

Candy raised her fists in the air. "Yesss."

"Hey Mabel," Grenda asked. "Do you want a blind date with a hot European prince too?"

Mabel sighed deeply. She was laying flat on the floor, one hand absentmindedly scratching Waddles's head. "I don't know," she said. "I'd like a date. Seeing the people around me find love makes me want that, too. But I spent all last summer trying to get a boyfriend and all I got was disappointment. And you guys know all about that thing with the robot and the Sadie Hawkins dance..."

Candy and Grenda nodded sympathetically.

"I think that was my last straw."

(Bill quietly died inside as he realized he had no idea what she was talking about, but he couldn't ask without revealing he didn't know something that big about the timeline Mabel was on. He'd only missed a few months of earth time—no big deal if you were an all-powerful all-seeing eye—but what a difference it made if you were stuck as a human.)

"Aw, c'mon, Mabel," Grenda said. "Don't be like that. You're too young and beautiful to give up on love!"

"I know, I know. I haven't given up, I just... think I might've been chasing love too hard? Maybe I'll try again if the perfect guy just falls out of the sky and crashes into my window! Buuut i'm not wasting my time looking anymore. From now on, the boys have to come to me." She sat up to flop on Waddles's back. "This is the only boy I need!" Waddles snorted in his sleep.

"Smart," Candy said. "You are a catch! Any boy who won't chase you isn't worth your time!"

"Exactly!" Mabel said. "Until then, I'm focused on matchmaking other people." She sat up. "Speaking of which..."

All three girls turned to grin evilly at Bill.

Bill perched uncomfortably on the edge of a sofa cushion and wondered if he should be trying to escape the room before it was too late.

"Soo-oo-oo," Grenda said, eyebrows waggling. 

This was it, the interrogation over Bloody Mary. He prepared to bolt from the room. "What."

"How about that secret agent?"

"Oh!" Not quite as bad as he'd been expecting. When had Mabel told them about that? Bill laughed nervously. "That was just a job! I'm not interested in the agent."

"Yeah, but you got along, riiight?" Candy crossed her legs, propped her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, and leaned into Bill's personal space bubble. "Did you kiiiss?"

He wasn't about to tell them just how far they'd left kissing in the dust. "Uh, yeah, but—"

Mabel shoved straight past the personal space bubble and propped her elbows on Bill's knees. "Would you see him again?!"

"No way!"

"Aw, c'mon!"

Grenda said, "Aren't you on the run for war crimes or something? That'd make dating a secret agent super dangerous."

"Way more romantic though," Candy said.

Grenda nodded, "Way more!"

"Look look look," Bill said. "I can appreciate the noir star-crossed femme fatale narrative you kids are trying to write for me. But it's not gonna happen. He's not my type. We don't even agree on politics!"

"What politics do you disagree on?" Candy asked.

"He thinks President Trembley is a raving lunatic—but in a bad way. I think he's a genius visionary whose policies are centuries ahead of his time." Which was why he'd slipped Trembley a little dream tip to preserve himself until the rest of the world was ready for his brilliance. The peanut brittle, however, had been entirely Trembley's own idea. "That's a total dealbreaker!"

"Aw, whaaat?" Mabel scrunched up her face. "Trembley's awesome, who could hate him!"

"I know!" Bill poked Mabel's nose. "You're breathing my air, kid. Get your own."

Mabel got out of Bill's face and flopped on Waddles again. "So if Agent Powers isn't your type... what is? I bet we could find somebody in town for you! No dodging the question this time!"

Candy said, "You're surrounded and outnumbered!"

"This is a sleepover so you can't leave!" Grenda jumped up and blocked the doorway with her arms outstretched. "You've gotta answer!"

"You can't make me do anything! I plead the fifth! I know my rights!"

Candy narrowed her eyes. "Maybe we can guess what you're into. We know it includes Bloody Mary."

He should've made a run for it while he had a chance.

"Yeah!" Mabel said. "What's with that? What's the story there?"

"Nothing! I shouldn't have called her my ex, she's not my ex. In fact, we barely know each other. We just hang out in the same social circles sometimes. I don't even know her last name."

"Yeah right," Candy said. "Okay, so—are you into long, straight hair?"

"And skinny girls," Mabel added. "Super skinny! Bony! Literally just bones!"

"And he said he likes her dress," Grenda said. "I don't actually remember what her dress looked like! I was busy staring at the blood!"

Loudly, Bill said, "You're all ice cold! Not even close!"

"Is it her personality?" Candy asked. "What's her personality like?"

Mabel said, "We can compare and contrast his exes! He told me what his last girlfriend was like." A thoughtful look crossed her face as she began to put two and two together. "And... wasn't there a president that you—"

"All right fine I'll talk," Bill said quickly. "I surrender. You girls are persistent!"

The girls crowded around him. "Spill," Candy commanded.

"You said you like freaks, right?" Mabel asked.

"No I didn't. When did I say that?"

"I dunno, a while ago."

Huh. Well, it was true, so he must have. "Yeah, that's pretty high up on my criteria. Freaks and weirdos! They've gotta lean into it, though. If they spend all their time trying to be normal, they're more boring than the normies they're imitating."

"What kind of freaks," Mabel asked. "Like, people with antlers?"

"Sure, I'd give 'em a shot!"

Candy asked, "Tattooed ladies?"

"Absolutely! There's nothing better than a self-made freak."

"What do you think about bearded ladies?" Grenda asked carefully.

Bill grimaced and tried to picture it. Seemed pretty normal to him. Sometimes he forgot which humans were supposed to have what facial hair. "I'm gonna be frank, that doesn't even register as freaky to me. But, sure, beards are fine." Humans had such a bizarre fur pattern—a fluffy little puff on top, an optional fluffy little puff on the chin, a few strips over the eyes and under the arms and between the legs, a sparse covering that served little practical purpose spread in patches everywhere else—it was hilarious to look at. Made humans cute, in a sort of pathetic way. Like a poorly-shaved poodle.

Grenda seemed relieved at the answer.

Candy threw in, "What about piano-playing contortionists who can put their feet on top of the piano while they play?"

"Oho! If you know one, get me their number!"

Mabel said, "Okay, so what else besides freaks?"

"Pff..." He rolled his eye up as he thought. "Oh, you know, other kinds of nonconformists. Criminals, psych ward escapees—never date in the ward though, d'you know how wolves in captivity will go full Lord of the Flies on each other and start fighting over who's king?—uhh, psychics, wanna-be prophets, those nuts who put off college to go backpacking across a continent..."

"Poets?" Grenda asked.

"Only if their poetry doesn't suck."

Candy asked, "Anime fans?"

"Never," Bill said. "Oh, and I need someone who's fun enough to keep up with my lifestyle. I'm a hard partier, they've gotta match my energy. And they've got to be ready to spend some serious moolah on me. I'm not a cheap date! Plus they need to worship the ground I walk on, do anything I want, and believe everything I say."

The girls nodded along to his list. "That sounds reasonable," Candy said. Grenda agreed, "Respect and trust is important!"

"Right?! If more of my exes understood that, we wouldn't need to have this conversation! Speaking of—I've got a reputation. I'm something of a bad boy! Whoever I'm with has gotta be 100% okay with eyeballs-to-the-walls crazy..."

####

"...preferably somebody bright enough that talking to them is more intellectually stimulating than talking to myself—which is a high standard! I can be friends with an idiot, and I can be fffphysical buddies with an idiot, but I can't date an idiot. Unless they're a really, really rich idiot." Bill was laying on his back, legs over the sofa armrest, talking toward the ceiling: "And it doesn't hurt if they're the tortured artist type. I'm a complete sucker for a tortured artist! It's my only weakness. If somebody with a Göthhäus band shirt and haunted look in their eye asks to draw me, pffft, that's it, I'm done for. I'll do anything they want!"

"Good to know, good to know..." Mabel was furiously taking notes. She'd filled up six pages and was working on a seventh.

"But most importantly: I need somebody who gets me. That's—that's a lot rarer than you think. Nobody can truly understand me unless they've been through what I've been through." He squinted mysteriously toward the ceiling. "I've lived a complicated life."

The girls absorbed this in thoughtful silence, contemplating the depths of their mysterious friend's unfathomable history.

Then Mabel chucked the seventh page aside, grabbed another, and asked, "So what do you want your dream partner to look like!"

"Oh, well," Bill said, "pretty eyes are the most important thing—the more, the better—but that's easy, every species on this planet has pretty eyes. Love vivid coloration; extra points for iridescence, multiple hues, or color changing. Not a big fan of people with heads. Venoms and poisons are always a sexy little bonus, but not the numbing kind, it's gotta really sting."

Mabel stopped writing, staring at Bill.

Candy said, "That... opens up some options."

Mabel nodded slowly. "Thanks for the info! Don't worry, I'll find you your dream guy. Or girl. Or... monster or whatever. I'm on the case!"

Bill asked, "Kid, why are you so determined to set me up with someone anyway? It's not like I've said I'm looking for love. Are you just trying to keep me away from other prey, or...?"

Mabel looked Bill in the eye and said solemnly, "I think love would fix you."

"Ha! Okay, sure!" It had never "fixed" him before, but who was he to argue with the power of love and Mabel.

####

"You're sleeping through the best part of the movie," Mabel complained. "You're missing the whole dance battle for the fate of the world!"

"I'm not asleep," Bill said, laying on the sofa with his eyes shut, sound asleep. "I'm just appreciating the sound design."

"Yeah, right." Mabel poked his arm. He poked her head.

As the credits rolled, Candy jumped to her feet and ran from the room. "BRB, toilet break! Don't start the next movie without me!"

"Oh, me too!" Mabel ran after her.

Grenda waited until they were gone; then crouched next to the couch and poked Bill herself. "Hey. Gold-o. Are you awake?"

"Yes," Bill lied.

"Can I ask you some stuff?"

Sounded like he needed to be awake for this. He cracked open an eye; the dim views from his other eyes around the shack fizzled out. "What kind of stuff?"

"Like, uh..." Grenda sat back, wrapping her arms around her knees. "You're a guy, right?"

Was that what he'd told them last time? He didn't remember. It sounded likely, though. "More or less, sure."

"But you have boobs," Grenda said.

Astute observation. No no, no getting sarcastic with Mabel's friends, keep that one to yourself. "Sure do!"

"So... um... do you have, like..." Grenda lowered her voice, awkwardly fiddling with the hem of her nightgown, "a hormone problem, or..."

Aha. Grenda was looking for common ground. She was going through those awkward body changes pubescent humans had and grappling with the fact that hers were awkward in a way none of her peers' were. Bill might not have cared about who had what facial hair, but he knew the humans did, and sometimes they could be so uptight about their reproductive binary.

Bill sat up—he probably wouldn't be getting back to sleep for a while. He mentally flipped through the potential realities he could invent, and then—why not?—he settled on the one that had the best odds of winning this kid's loyalty for life. He could always use more devotees who looked at him like he'd hung the stars in the sky. "Nail on the head, Grend-o." It wasn't entirely untrue. He did have a hormone problem. His problem was that he was in a body with hormones.

A relieved smile broke out across Grenda's face. "Cool!" she said. "I mean not cool. It's the worst! But I have one, too!"

"Wow, you don't say," said Bill, who was fully aware of the medical history of Grenda, Grenda's mom, and Grenda's grandmother.

"I hate it," Grenda said. "When the other girls at school started growing boobs, I started growing a mustache! Any time somebody looks at my face, I'm afraid they're gonna notice and start making fun of me!" She clapped her hands over her mouth and cheeks, as though she was afraid somebody might be staring at her right now. "Even when I shave I'm afraid everybody will see my stubble!"

"You've got nothing to worry about," Bill said. "It's unnoticeable." (He noticed, but that was the All-Seeing Eye's job.)

"That's what my mom says." By her tone, she didn't find it very convincing when her mom said it, either. She gave Bill a big-eyed, hopeful look. "Are you worried people will make fun of you for having boobs?"

"Eh," Bill spread his hands apathetically, "I'm fat enough to get away with it. People expect that." He'd actually had a pretty remarkable success rate with getting people in town to view him as male with only a little prompting—though part of that was probably the culture in town.

But Grenda was still looking at him hopefully. She didn't want to hear that everything was great and he was doing just fine. She wanted somebody who could empathize with her.

"Buuut it was harder when I was younger." Bill pulled up a mental list of human puberty side effects in case she needed any made-up symptoms to solidify his credentials as a kindred spirit. "And I don't exactly spend all my time in a hoodie because I like people looking at my body." (That was true.)

"Ugh, yeah! Tight clothes make me feel weird. Puberty! I hate it!" Grenda flopped back on the ground. "My mom and my friends and Marius tell me I'm pretty, but..."

"But it doesn't help, does it."

Grenda shook her head.

"Now, me? I'm gorgeous," Bill said. "9 out of 10. I'm just about as handsome as a human can get."

"Do you really believe that?"

"Sure I do."

"Hmm." Grenda stared at the ceiling thoughtfully.

"And I still hate this body."

And he had Grenda's attention again. She sat up to look at him.

"Who cares if this body looks pretty if it doesn't look like me," Bill said, smiling bitterly. "Everyone on the planet could call me good-looking—and they'd be right!—but it feels like they're complimenting a stranger and I'm getting the credit. Worse, they're complimenting me for something I don't want to be!"

"Yeah!" Grenda blinked heavily. "Yeah, I-I don't want everyone to tell me I'm pretty! I just wanna look different! I wanna be less hairy and I wanna have smaller shoulders and I wanna be skinny and I want my old voice back and—and..." Her voice cracked. She furiously rubbed her eyes against the back of her arm.

Ah, heck, he'd made a kid cry. Hopefully it was one of those catharsis things and he wouldn't get in trouble for this, but he'd just doubled the amount of effort he had to put into this conversation. All right, buckle up Cipher, time to dust off the compassionate mentor act again.

"Hey. Hey, c'mon. It's not that bad." He slid off the sofa, sat by Grenda, and slid an arm around her shoulder. This was always the worst part of dealing with emotionally unstable humans he wasn't personally invested in.

Voice thick, Grenda asked, "How do you deal with it?"

Haha. How did he deal with it? Drank away the urge to claw off his own skin. Hid his depressingly alien shape under baggy clothes. Burned off his hair. Regrew his hair. Covered the mirrors. Dreamed he was a triangle.

He was taking too long to answer. He searched for a response that wouldn't get his sleepover privileges revoked if Grenda repeated what he said to an adult. He didn't want to say I don't know, he didn't want to say badly—he wasn't about to admit that to anyone, much less a half-grown human on the cusp of looking up to him. He was tough, he was a champion, he had all the answers. What would somebody who'd already solved this problem say?

"Nobody's gonna tell you this, but loving your body is optional. It's good enough just to get along with it." The words rang false in his mouth. He was picking and choosing advice he'd overheard humans give each other back when he had trillions of eyes to spy on their conversations, but he couldn't imagine getting along with the body he was in. He soldiered on anyway: "Just... don't worry about how it looks. Let it look however it wants to look, who cares! Focus on what it does for you that's useful."

Grenda sniffled and nodded. "What do you focus on?"

Ouch, way to put him on the spot. His honest answer was that this body was a downgrade from his true form in just about every conceivable way; the few genuine positives (he did like binocular vision and the ability to physically interact with Dimension 46'\) would just bring up more questions; and he went blank on lies (believable lies, anyway—no way he'd convince her that he'd gone to the Olympics). He grasped for something else. "Me? I like dancing!"

Grenda nodded; then she flung her arms around Bill, hugging him tight enough to squeeze the breath out of his lungs. "Thanks."

Right answer. He'd won this kid's loyalty for life, and he was guaranteed to get another gold star from Mabel for being so nice to one of her friends. Not bad for a night's work. "And if that doesn't work, there's always plan B: makeup, hormones, and plastic surgery!"

Grenda laughed weakly. "Mom says we're gonna talk about hormones at my next doctor's appointment."

"See? You're just going through an awkward phase. Sure, it's more awkward than most kids', but you'll come out of the other side of it just fine, guaranteed!"

Bill, on the other hand, was uncomfortably aware of his stretchy skin and his awkward bones and all the slippery pulsing meat in between.

He wasn't getting out of his awkward phase until he got out of this body.

####

After anime night, when Soos had parked his truck at the shack and everyone had climbed out, Ford immediately headed inside; but Melody and Soos lingered outside. "So, uh..." Soos pointed toward Melody's car, which she'd parked at the shack that morning for work. "Gonna head back to your aunt's?" The implicit follow-up: or, do you want to stay over?

Leaving had been the plan; since Bill had started haunting the shack and Soos's bedroom had stopped being a safe refuge from Melody's sleep paralysis nightmares, she'd started staying with her aunt the way she had last summer.

But if she was gonna get sleep paralysis no matter what, she'd rather wake up next to her fiancé than alone. She missed Soos. Tonight, she missed Soos more than she feared Bill.

"You know—it really is late," Melody said. "It's probably best if I don't try to drive at this hour."

Soos's face lit up. "You sure?"

"Sure I'm sure." She wrapped her arms around Soos and pecked his lips. "Besides—I like my blanket here better than the one at my aunt's."

"Oh, really? It's just a tiger stripe blanket I got cuz it makes me think of Tiger Fist, I was actually thinking about upgrading... to..." Soos trailed off. "Oh wait. You meant I'm your blanket."

Melody laughed. "I totally meant you." They headed in together, arms wrapped around each other's waists. "What would you upgrade that blanket to?"

"I was thinking about getting an official Tiger Fist blanket."

"Sounds perfect. We could get orange bed sheets too."

"Nice, color coordination!"

She froze in the entryway, making Soos stop with her.

Mabel and her friends were asleep in the living room with the lights still on, splayed over various pieces of furniture.

But Bill wasn't with them. He was sitting on the bottom stair, leaning against the wall, just outside the light cast from the living room.

Soos whispered, "I think he's asleep. He does that on the stairs sometimes?"

Melody nodded. It was fine. He was just a human now. She walked carefully to the stairs, trying to avoid any creaking boards.

She'd barely set her foot on the bottom step when Bill's eyes flew open. "Need me to move—?"

Melody squeaked, reflexively kicked Bill, and bolted halfway up the stairs. Bill parried her kick with one arm, laughing shrilly.

"I'm so sorry I didn't mean to kick you—" Melody caught her breath. "Hey! Did you do that on purpose?!"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Bill said unconvincingly. "All I did was ask if you want me to move! I'm trying to be helpful!"

Sure he was. Melody gave him a dark look; but stomped upstairs rather than get into a fight.

Soos stopped next to Bill, gave him his most disapproving and disappointed, "Dude," and then hurried after Melody.

Ruffled two birds' feathers with one stone. Bill smirked up after them; then settled back against the wall to sleep again.

And immediately opened his eye back up when he heard someone approaching. He turned his body to looked up at Ford. "Can I help you?"

"I heard a scream."

Bill pointed up the stairs with his thumb. "Melody didn't notice me on the stairs until she nearly stepped on me."

"Ah." Ford surveyed the scene. Light from the living room, Bill in the shadows—sure, maybe her eyes weren't adjusted to the dark to see Bill. Story checked out as plausible enough not to question. "You really shouldn't sleep on the stairs like that."

"M'keeping my eye on the kids." Bill yawned. "What's that look for?"

"What look?"

"You keep looking me up and down."

Ford flinched. Oh. He supposed he had been. "You, er—I just noticed that you... turned your whole torso toward me to talk."

"Yeah?" Bill said. "So?"

"Most humans would only turn their heads."

"Yeah? So?"

"Ah." Ford self-consciously stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I... suppose you turn your torso because you didn't have a neck to turn for most of your existence. It just—stands out to me. That your body language sometimes still reflects your..." he bobbed his head, trying to think of a fitting word. "Your... triangularity?"

"Oh." Bill's face was blank in the shadows. "Well—sure! I've never been a fan of necks anyway."

"No?" Weird thing to say. (Weird if Bill had been a human, anyway.) "Are they... What, is it something about the anatomy?"

"Just an aesthetic preference! I think they look goofy." Bill spread his hands dismissively. "A torso with a head always looks to me like a cell halfway through lopsided mitosis. It makes me wanna help out and pinch the head off!"

"There, you did it again."

"What?"

"You tend to shrug with your hands and arms instead of your shoulders. You move them like..." He copied Bill's dismissive gesture, felt foolish, and stuffed his hands back in his pockets. "Why am I telling you how you move. Sorry. I know better than to call attention to someone for, ah—looking weird."

"Weird's just another word for interesting, Sixer!" Bill stretched out, propping an elbow on a higher stair step, his cheek against his hand, and his other hand on his hip. "Feel free to observe me any time you want, o scientist. For a human, you always make such interesting observations."

"Is that just another word for 'weird observations'?"

"All the most interesting observations are!"

Ford huffed, shook his head, and headed back to the guest room.

And Bill leaned against the wall again, thoughtfully. His body language "reflected his triangularity," huh. Maybe the ghost was still in the machine. It was reassuring to think it was.

Reassuring that Ford was still looking for it, rather than seeing Bill as a human.

####

Melody woke in the middle of the night.

She felt trapped beneath Soos's tiger stripe blanket, like it was too heavy to move, smothering her skin. It was too heavy for her to lift her lungs. The bed was too soft; she was sinking into it like quicksand. She couldn't climb out.

Bill Cipher—his shape triangular and sharpened like the knapped edges of an arrowhead, his yellow flesh textured like the mushy skin of an overripe banana—clung with black branch limbs to the ceiling above her like a spider, eye wide and bloodshot.

Melody was getting really tired of the latest form her sleep paralysis nightmares were taking.

It dropped at her face. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, refusing to look at it until she could move again. She heard its hissing breath in her ear, felt it reaching through the blanket like a ghost to claw at her arms—

Then nothing.

She sat bolt upright with a gasp. The dream was gone, as it always was. Nothing on the ceiling. No scratches on her arms. She sighed.

If she went back to sleep, though, she'd fall right back into the same dream, and she'd spend an unpleasant half hour yo-yoing back and forth between half-asleep and half-awake. She had to keep herself awake long enough for the remaining dream gunk to clear out of her head before she could go back to sleep... by which time she'd be fully awake and it would take her another hour to fall back asleep.

Soos stirred beside her. "Mmwussup?"

"Sorry," Melody sighed. "Sleep paralysis."

"Again?" He rolled over and wrapped his arms around her.

"Yeah. Third time this week." And two of those times while spending the night at the Mystery Shack. "I haven't had sleep paralysis this bad since college."

She'd been majoring in folklore, in her third year, and gearing up for a big research project in her fourth year; she'd chosen to study the evolution of unicorn legends after the Renaissance. But shortly after choosing her topic and going into finals season, the stress of her college workload had caught up to her—she'd started waking up from nightmares multiple times a week and could barely function in class. She'd missed one final paper and flunked one final exam before she realized there was no salvaging this semester and withdrew on mental health grounds.

Her family concluded she must've been burnt out—her mom suffered from sleep paralysis too, the family was old hat at using poor sleep to gauge subconscious stress—so Melody took a semester off. But when she tried to register for the next semester her nightmares came back and her anxiety flared back up; so she'd taken the full year off, gone to visit her aunt in Gravity Falls for a summer to see if getting out of the city and clearing her head helped, and here she was.

The idle sleepless year she'd spent trying to recover from burnout had been the worst of her life, and the year she'd spent in Gravity Falls with Soos had been the best. She didn't want her mental health to backslide because of Bill.

"If this keeps up, I... might have to stop spending the night here," Melody said. "I'm sorry, Soos. I don't want to stop coming, but I can't keep going without sleep."

Sadly, Soos said, "My protective cuddly aura... is failing..."

"Shhh, Soos." Melody chuckled tiredly. "It's not your fault."

"I know. I just wish I could, like..." Soos shadowboxed vaguely into the air. "Punch your bad dreams for you. You know? I hate not being able to help."

"Thanks." Melody kissed him lightly. "You're helping just by being here."

All the same, Melody wished Soos could punch her sleep paralysis nightmares, too. It was too bad they were just figments of her subconscious.

####

Coffee had been a bad idea. Now that the girls had conked out, Bill was the only one still up, dozing but not sleeping. A can of cider couldn't hurt—nobody would get on his case for drinking at a sleepover after the kids were asleep, right?

He was standing in the kitchen and halfway through a can when he heard something wrong.

He peered into the entryway. "Yello?" There was no answer. Just an ominous, hair-raising scraping that cut through the silence. It was coming from above.

Bill crept out of the kitchen, looking up the stairs, keeping close to the wall—putting himself in between the staircase and the living room doorway. "Hellooo?" He peered up into the dark.

There was something slender and misshapen up on the landing. Just around the corner, stiff body tilting out into view at an angle that defied gravity, head cocked unnaturally so only one wide unblinking eye was visible.

Bill met its gaze with a single open eye. He said, with the voice of a burnt-out minimum-wage shelf-stocker who'd just caught a customer in the staff room and who was on his last day at this job and consequently feared no god nor customer: "'Scuse me, can I help you?"

In a flash, the thing stagger-lurched on all fours down the stairs, torso twisted and limbs akimbo in all the wrong directions, and jerked upright in front of Bill, face far too long and head tilted, one wide icy eye staring into Bill's from beneath long limp tangled bangs, letting out a deathly wheeze like a strangled train whistle—

Bill immediately grinned in relief, as though the customer in the staff room had turned around and he'd recognized them as a new hire with a name tag on. "Ohh! Oh, you're a nightmare! Haha, sorry pal, at first glance I thought you were some ghost squatter trying to move in! Either that or this tokoloshe I owe— Well, point is, there are too many people under this roof already and we do not need another roommate." He waved off the nightmare and leaned against the wall. "Didn't realize you were here for work! Don't let me get in your way, buddy."

The nightmare stared silently at him.

"Oh—if you're after one of the Pines, lemme know. I've been in most of their dreams, I know what really haunts 'em." He gestured toward the three girls in the living room. "Not that Pines, though. She's under my protection." He tipped back his cider can to drain it, wheeling around to head back into the kitchen as he did. He held the empty can over the trash, let go; the can hovered in the air, twisted itself up and crushed down into a flat disk, and dropped.

The nightmare stared at this human who moved with strange slightly-inhuman jerks, elbows held out to the side in an unnatural way, moving through total darkness completely unhindered, one eye shut and the other reflecting the dim light—fully awake, yet able to see the nightmare. Voice raspy, it cautiously asked, "What—are you?"

"Someone in a similar line of work." Bill's smile was wide enough to show off his fae tooth.

Not breaking eye contact, the nightmare's features melted off as it backed away from the human, leaving only impenetrable shadow and bright red pinprick eyes; it sank into the house's shadows and slunk out beneath the door. It was creeped out. This human was creepy.

Not a very social guy, was it? Now that Bill thought about it, it was probably just here for Melody. Well—if that was the case, he was sure he'd see it around again.

####

(The mentions of Bloody Mary were added post-TBOB. And I rewrote the paragraph where Bill talks about being attracted to outsiders to specify "criminals and psych ward escapees" since in TBOB he makes a point of how those are the people he helped set free after he took over the Nightmare Realm.

The next plot arc we're moving into is about the sleep paralysis nightmare! Without giving any spoilers, I'm gonna say up front: you're gonna read it and think the lore was inspired by details from TBOB. It was not. I came up with my lore a year ago; and TBOB matched it, so I slid TBOB in as supporting details to what I had already plotted. I'll explain in more depth once y'all get a chance to see what I mean.)

[this-is-exorsexism]

I use it/its exclusively.

In queer spaces, more precisely, more "general" trans spaces, I get misgendered constantly, either they/them or he/him or she/her, depends on how I'm perceived.

I'm never called it/its, I correct people, and they brush me off and call me they/them. Some say that I'm very obliviously "more of trans man/woman" to justify using he/him or she/her, even after knowing I use it/its. Sometimes after correcting them, they start using they/them instead of he/him or she/her, never it/its.

Also, I'm quite often told that my pronouns gives the person I'm talking to flashbacks about being called it/its, and that I'm a terrible monster for asking them to use it/its for me because I "should know better", even though we had just met. I've been told to put a trigger warning on my bio because I say to use it/it's for me, and that it very likely could trigger another trans person. I've been told that I caused someone to have an anxiety attack, and that I was a narcissistic asshole for "torturing" this person with their trauma, all I had said so far was: "hi, I'm [name] and I use it/its, what about y'all?".

Do people use it/its to make fun of trans people? Yes. Does that mean I'm an asshole for wanting people to use it/its to refer to me because they're my pronouns? No!

If me using it/its triggers you so badly, then just don't interact with me or even block me. I don't care if you do, in fact I'd appreciate it if you did, you're not the kind of person I'd wanna be around. Stop making this my problem.

(by "you" I mean those people, not you, you're great and I love your blog)

this is exorsexism.

[withluvvenus]

　

　　𝐀 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐄 on 𝓬reating your first m͟a͟z͟e͟ ͟r͟u͟n͟n͟e͟r͟ reality 　　 　 written by a sixteen year old who 　　　　wanted to shift to TMR when she was twelve

　　

　well i sure do wonder why you're reading this , is it perhaps because you want to shift to the maze runner reality ? or is it because you are sooo bored that you will ready anything that is given to you right now ? well , if it's either of the above , or even a secret third option , i'm glad you're here ! enjoy the guide !

　i. 　 faq　

　　what even is the maze runner ? if i shift here , what can i expect ? is it more on the dangerous side ? do i have to be a boy to shift to the maze runner ?

　　hmm good questions ! first of all , i'd like to mention something before we start . a little synopsis on the maze runner if you will . basically , thomas wakes up in the box , almost gets killed by ben ( who was a runner who got stung by a griever ) , teresa comes up in the box , chaos happens , maze doors don't close , grievers raid the glade , people die , the gladers escape the maze , and other background details that i definitely glossed over !

　　i guess that knocked out the first question , right ? anyways , moving on !

　　what can you expect if you shift here : danger , friendship , hard work , passion , and whatever your heart desires ! it's your dr , do what you want with it ! but please , please , PLEASE make sure you know what you're getting yourself into when you shift here . this . will . be . YOUR . life . this won't be the books or the movies , this will be your LIFE .

　　and do you have to be a boy when you shift ? that is such a silly question to ask , i'm sorry . but yeah , you do NOT have to be a boy when you shift . remember teresa from above ? yeah , she's not a boy . there's some ideas below for what you can do with your drs , if you need some brainstorming juice .

　ii. 　 warnings , bright red warnings　

　　this is an emphasis on the bolded words from the section above . no matter how much you alter your reality , this is the maze runner . you're stuck in a place with a bunch of strangers , no memories , four walls trapping you in . there are monsters , evil , vile , vain monsters out there . ones you hope you don't cross paths with . you will see things you don't want to see , hear things you don't want to hear , and oh my god , you WILL smell things you wish you never smelt .

　　okay , this might have been an overdramatic emphasis , but seriously . please . know . what . you . are . getting . yourself . into . this isn't a fanfic on wattpad or a blurb on tumblr , ok ? understood ? good ! let's continue .

　iii. 　 slang . terminology . shank ??　

　　when you wake up with no memories of your past life and only basic facts , you will create your own slang . introducing you , to the glader's slang and other terminology that would be helpful to be aware of !

　　G͟L͟A͟D͟E͟R͟ ͟S͟L͟A͟N͟G͟

　　　　klunk - crap 　　　　shank - friend 　　　　slim it - shut up 　　　　greenbean/greenie - new arrival in the glade 　　　　jacked - messed up in the head 　　　　keepers - leaders of a particular job

　　M͟I͟S͟C͟

　　　　glade A - the ' boys ' group 　　　　glade B - the ' girls ' group 　　　　the flare - the disease spread over the world 　　　　the cure - cure for the disease 　　　　W.C.K.D / WICKED - organization who put the kids in the glade 　　　　cranks - people who are infected by the flare 　　　　grievers - monsters in the maze

　iv. 　 ( key ) locations in the glade　

　　they don't provide you with a map and a flask of hot tea when you show up to the glade . no , honestly ? they just leave you be as long as you don't act up . but me ? i'll give you the locations , your welcome ! or well , at least the key areas .

　　first , we have the box . the box is where the greenie of the month is sent up . it's a compartment in the floor and it makes the loudest noise ever .

　　and then we come to the gardens . the gardens . . . are the gardens ? this is where the crops and produce are grown in the glade !

　　okay , actually you know what ? i'm gonna speed run the locations . the homestead is where the keepers sleep , ONLY the keepers , first in command , second in command . the blood house is where the butcher stuff happens with the animals , the medjack hut is basically a hospital for the gladers . the deadheads is the woods but it has a graveyard in it . the map room is where the runners discuss and has all their resources . the slammer is basically the jail cell or the glader's version of the timeout corner . the kitchens is the . . . kitchen ! done !

　v. 　 rule #1 , everyone plays a part　

　　i probably mentioned random words above that made zero sense because there were no definitions on them in section three . well , here they are ! the definitions and job information .

　　first in command - leader of the wholeee glade 　　second in command - co leader , if that makes sense ? 　　keeper - leader of the specific job

　　runner - only people allowed in the maze , trying to find a way out 　　medjack - doctors 　　slicer - butchers 　　cook - cooks 　　track-hoes - gardeners 　　builder - builders 　　bagger - deal with dead bodies 　　sloppers - cleaners , other tasks people wouldn't want to do 　　map-makers - create the maps for the maze

　vi. 　 idea4u　

　　let's be so for real , it's sometimes hard to come up with who you are and what you want to be in a reality . lucky for you , i'm here ! haha , hey .

　　idea a .　　follow the plotline of the book / movies ! you're the first girl in the glade , or the first boy in glade b .

　　idea b .　　you were sent by W.C.K.D as a warning . the gladers do NOT trust you whatsoever . or they do ! your choice .

　　idea c .　　you're the first person ever to show up in the glade .

　　idea d .　　you were found by the runners in the maze instead of the box , how did you get there ?

　　idea e .　　scientist from W.C.K.D sent to the glade , kind of like teresa

　　idea f .　　you've never been in the maze , but the one time you did enter , the grievers seemed to be scared of you instead ?

　vii. 　 misc script　

　　-　　everyone has good hygiene 　　-　　there are good toiletries in the glade 　　-　　the box sends up period supplies every month 　　-　　the clothing is comfortable 　　-　　no bugs 　　-　　the food is delicious 　　-　　if you're immune to the flare or not 　　-　　your code ( like newt's is A5 ) 　　-　　there are private spots in the glade that's just not the deadheads 　　-　　you don't get random illnesses 　　-　　you don't get hurt a lot

　　　　　　　　　　　　　 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗹𝘂𝘃 ✶ 𝘃𝗲𝗻𝘂𝘀

[mangio-formaggio]

spuffy in s4 are actually so special to me. the petty jealousy in The Harsh Light Of The Day, borderlinling with weird familiarity of knowing about each other's previous lovers, the raw playful necessity to poke fingers in open wounds. and then reluctant compromising in Pangs, bruised egos have been shoved aside, cause okay it's the truce and we done it like one and half time before. what the worst can happen? and then it's the beginning of Something Blue and they've been in a close proximity and at each other's throats longer than ever before. but the spell hits and oh, we gonna keep arguing actually. we gonna keep bringing up our exes and making fun at each other's names. no pink glasses here, actually. but also what if we suck faces a little and that will successfully end any conflict we face during that night? what if all that cravings of a good fight is in our tongues now? wouldn't that be a good alternative to punches and kickings? what if nothing changes except hate is love and violence is sex? wait, the spell is over? yeah it wasn't nice at all. not like we both ever thought it could possibly be nice. oh, a cookie.

and then they're trying so hard not show that things changed for the rest of the season, just to fail miserably. he's always in the corner of the room with the rest of the group, rarely talks to her personally as if cautious, but is marginally pulling her hair with words as much as he can. my nemesis wants to stake himself? idk go ahead, babe. not so much keen to do the job myself, I guess. so my nemesis won't come to see me move into a new cool crypt? rude. Giles needs help in New Man , Spike will help, but never crosses paths with Buffy who's actively seeking Giles at the same time. Anya brings Spike to a party, Buffy is trapped in an endless sex dream upstairs. oh well, he wants to help her? oh wait, he doesn't care. really, he doesn't. he's just being a little shit, look at him not caring like a pro, laughing off a nobility nobody believes in a first place. he meets Buffy at the club and she acts horny and provocative. weird I guess, but actually that what she's always does, isn't she just a sodding tease? someday, we gonna have a confrontation. the Jonathan's spell covered the town, but those two worsties will be totally normal about each other. his hands in her hair, on her cheek, her chest. she will allow it. maybe lean to it a little. something is deeply wrong with the world tonight, so glad to let you know that we still gonna have a confrontation one day. a confronting thought. a sensual grounding touch of an enemy. he can't fucking wait. will make an alliance with a psychotic Frankenstein monster build by a military organization that castrated him. the world (that he actually quite likes) can burn, but he will get the chip out of his head and kick Buffy's ass. maybe she will ride him till she breaks him at first. it's negotiable. meanwhile Buffy looks at his traitorous face and once again chooses not to stake him. cause whatever. it's just Spike. his plans never works. not on her. not like he caused a lot of damage, more like provoked a friend group therapy session. not like he put his heart into this scheme. he can annoy her a little longer. she got used to it anyways.

they start season with The Harsh Light Of The Day and by the end of it, in a harsh light of the day, in front of other people, they're kids at the playground. but whenever they're in shadows, more or less alone, they're two tigers circling around each other, knowing now that they both too unpredictable for the fight not take some truly wild turns.

[seoulmatez]

𝓈𝓅𝑜𝓉𝓁𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉

being itoshi rin's publicist is no easy feat.

itoshi rin x reader ﾉ sfw ﾉ fluff ﾉ pro athlete!rin ﾉ publicist!reader ﾉ thinly veiled feelings lol :3

“Jeez, Rin, you’ve really done it this time.” You click your tongue and close your laptop, setting it beside you on the couch. The sun has barely risen and you can already feel a headache coming on. The catalyst for it seems entirely unbothered, turquoise eyes closed, limbs stretched purposefully out on his yoga mat that’s situated on the floor.

His utter indifference toward the matter (despite his silence, you’re positive he knows what you’re referring to)  is almost enough to make you laugh. For as long as you’ve known him, perhaps you should have seen this coming. 

An event Rin’s entire team was set to attend took place last night, and, as his publicist, it was your job to make sure he looked good. An amazing stylist handled his attire and you were sure you did your part well too, preparing a date to accompany him for the night. An up-and-coming model with promising prospects, you believed that the two would make an ideal pairing, at the least for the duration of the event. 

You turned away for one second, which was seemingly more than enough time for Rin to go against all the advice you’ve spent who knows how long drilling into his head for these occasions. The moment happened with your back turned—the woman’s hands had clasped around Rin’s, nothing out of the ordinary for what anyone would expect of a date. Though, Rin has never been too keen on physicality off the field and he made that much known when he snatched his hand back.

He made the incident out to be minor when he recounted it to you after you pestered him for details on the commotion and just why his date became so distant. Only after seeing the video of it do you realize how bad it really looked.

“You couldn’t play nice for one night? Every media outlet with that clip is painting you out to be some cold, unloving monster now.” You stretch your leg out to nudge his shoulder with your foot, a show of your disapproval. Whether it’s that or your words, something seems to have finally caught Rin’s attention, coaxing him to open his eyes and turn to face you.

“She touched me. You know I don’t like being touched.”

You do know that. It’s something you make sure to mention to all of his dates—you just never thought he’d have such a visceral reaction. Watching the video back made it seem like he touched a hot stove with his bare hand. He’s never acted that way with you.

“I get it, but it’s not a good look, Rin—different dates to every event, barely making eye contact with them.” No one can deny his talent on the field and, in that aspect, he’s quite likable. Though, outside of his athletic prowess, the name Itoshi Rin doesn’t conjure pleasant and positive thoughts. You know him better than most people, maybe better than anyone, and all you want is for people to see him the way you do. He’s not a bad guy; you wouldn’t have stuck by his side for so long if he was. “Isn’t there someone you have at least a little bit of interest in? Someone you wouldn’t mind talking to every now and then? Say the name and I’ll make it happen.”

His gaze is locked onto yours, and it’s almost hard to believe that he was barely paying you any attention just a moment ago. “Can’t you just come to this sort of stuff with me?”

“Your first choice is your publicist?” You know that, outside of work, Rin doesn’t foster many relationships, platonic or romantic. Still, the fact that he didn’t even hesitate to mention you makes you wonder just how few connections he’s made on his own. “That’s sad, Rin.”

You don’t miss the way he rolls his eyes at that. It’s almost like when you’d poke fun at him in high school for not asking anyone to the dance, for practically darting your way whenever a partner project was introduced. Dots start to connect in your mind as you think back on the past, painting a picture that’s just now becoming clear. You’ve always been his first choice.

“Before you’re my publicist, you’re my friend,” he tells you, eyes still locked onto yours. The intensity in his stare convinces you that he means it, but you never doubted that. “Besides, you said name anyone.”

“I did, but don’t you think you should at least try to explore your options?” You’re sure that if Rin allowed anyone to get to know him, they’d like him just as much as you do. You don’t want to be the reason he’s so closed off—unwilling to look at someone and see a friendship or something more. “I don’t want to be someone who’s holding you back.”

“You aren’t holding me back,” he assures you, leaning forward on his mat, fingers stretching to reach for his toes. He pauses, and silence envelops the room for a few seconds, only the chirping of the birds outside audible before he speaks up again. His voice feels quieter, softer, a bit more distant. “You’re more than enough for me.”

More than he deserves, he thinks to himself.

He can feel your gaze practically burning a hole into his back, so sharp that he simply can’t bring himself to meet it. He clears his throat and closes his eyes like they had been earlier. “It’s either you or no one.”

You chuckle, leaning back against the couch cushion. It’s not often that Rin gets pushy with this kind of stuff, demanding over work matters. It’s oddly refreshing to see him opinionated about something that he usually tasks you with handling. And maybe, you’re the tiniest bit flattered that, even after all these years, you’re still his person.

A smile lingers in your voice with your next words. “You got it, boss.”

It’s muffled, but you can hear Rin scoff from his folded position on the floor. “I told you not to call me that.”

“Fine, fine.” You should leave him alone—work talk this early in the morning annoys the man and you’re sure that your teasing isn’t helping much either. Despite that, you can’t help but fit one more jab in before breakfast. “You’re not going to freak out if I try to hold your hand, are you?”

He clicks his tongue in annoyance. “No.”

Not in the way you’re implying, anyway.

manon here ( ≧ᗜ≦) thanks for reading! if u enjoyed, reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[fayelero]

ⓘ 03. ANATOMY OF LOVE !

⤷ ANGST ﹫ michael kaiser x fem!reader ﹫ I love angst so bad guys it’s not healthy anymore.

⚠︎ angst, heavy mental health struggles (kaiser), PTSD (kaiser), insults .ᐟ.ᐟ

Kaiser had always thought love was a fable.

Not the kind told at bedtime by mothers with warm voices and softer eyes, but the kind whispered between bleeding mouths and clenched teeth—a myth, twisted and fantastical. A word too sweet for the world he came from. Where love meant bruises hidden under school uniforms, silence at dinner tables, and the heavy, choking stench of fear disguised as obedience.

He had learned early on that people only got close enough to hurt you. That affection was conditional. That kindness was currency. And he never had enough of it.

So he became beautiful. He made himself golden, magnetic, cruel when needed. He climbed through the mud wearing a crown of thorns he forged himself, teeth bared, never looking back. The world praised him for it. For the shine. For the swagger. For the calculated charm. But beneath it all was rot. Something broken and trembling.

And then—

You.

You, with your laugh that didn’t sound like it was practiced. You, who looked at him not like he was a god or a ghost, but a person. Someone real.

He hated that.

He hated how you saw him.

He hated how your eyes lingered on the pieces he tried to bury—the trembling hands when the crowd got too loud, the way he flinched at sudden noises, the exhaustion in his smile when the cameras turned off. You saw those things. You noticed. And you didn’t turn away.

No one had ever stayed when they saw him like that.

He remembered the first time you touched his face gently, like he wasn’t made of war. Your palm on his cheek, thumb brushing over the scar no one else mentioned. He’d frozen. Not because he didn’t want it, but because he didn’t understand it. And he remembered the way you said, “You don’t have to be anything with me.”

And he believed you.

God, he wished he didn’t. But he did.

That night, after you fell asleep in his arms, he whispered an apology into your hair. He didn’t know what it was for—maybe for letting you love something so wrecked. Maybe because, for once, he wanted to believe he was more than just damage with a smile.

But the sickness came back.

He didn’t understand how to hold something soft without breaking it. He didn’t know how to be loved without sabotaging it. So he tested you. In little ways, at first—cold words, late replies, sharp sarcasm. He waited for you to leave. He wanted you to. It would be easier if you did.

You didn’t.

So he pushed harder. Cancelled plans. Didn’t say “I love you” back. Picked fights over nothing. Tried to become unbearable. Because a part of him—too loud, too cruel—kept screaming:

“You don’t deserve this. You’re filth. You’re fucked up. You’re nothing but your father’s son.”

“You’re a pretty face with a rotted soul. And she will see it. She will leave. Let her leave.”

But you didn’t.

You stood in the doorway of his penthouse after another one of his episodes, eyes filled not with anger, but something worse—compassion.

“Why are you doing this?” you whispered.

And Kaiser, who had faced thousands, who had stood untouched beneath stadium lights, who had smiled through agony and danced with demons, crumbled like a boy. He sank to his knees in front of you, hands shaking like leaves in winter, and finally told you the truth:

“Because I don’t know how to be loved.”

You knelt with him. You took his face in your hands. And you cried.

Not because he was broken—but because he’d been made to believe that was all he was.

“I love you,” you said, again and again, like it was a prayer. Like if you said it enough, it could stitch him back together. “I love you even when you hate yourself. Especially then.”

He tried to shake his head. “You shouldn’t. I’m not—fuck—I’m not human. I’m a monster in disguise. I manipulate. I lie. I don’t even know who I am when I’m not pretending to be someone else.”

But you held him tighter. “You’re mine. And I see you.”

And for the first time in his life, he let someone hold all of him.

The darkness. The boy who used to cry himself to sleep. The man who turned fear into arrogance. The heart he thought had died a long time ago.

You loved him through every terrible version of himself.

And he loved you for it—too much, almost. Like worship. Like madness. Like a man clinging to a lifeline he never thought he’d find. He memorized the curve of your lips, the sound of your heartbeat when you fell asleep on his chest. He began to believe that maybe—just maybe—there was a version of him worth loving.

But the guilt never left.

Even on the happiest days—when you laughed with him, when you whispered dreams into his skin—he would catch himself thinking: I don’t deserve this.

He would sit alone sometimes, long after you were asleep, whispering to the dark:

“I’m sorry I exist. I’m sorry I ruined you. I’m sorry I can’t be better.”

But you never let go.

Even when he gave you every reason to.

Even when he screamed. Even when he cried. Even when he tried to disappear behind the armor he had worn for years.

You held on.

You loved him not because he was easy to love—but because you saw the boy inside the monster. Because you knew love was not something earned, but something given. Freely. Fiercely.

And he—

He would burn the world to keep you warm.

He loved you with the desperation of a drowning man, with the reverence of someone who had never known what it felt like to be held without bruises.

You became his home.

The only one he’d ever known.

And even on the days when he still hated himself, when the ghosts were too loud and the pain too sharp, he’d look at you and remember:

That once upon a time, someone saw him not as broken, but as human.

And that, maybe, was enough to keep going.

Even if he cried for it.

Even if it hurt to believe.

Because loving you was the first beautiful thing he ever did.

And being loved by you—

Was the only miracle he’d ever known.

[scarletskiesinthepaths]

i do absolutely think Levi having some sort of sexual trauma has been built upon over the years. There’s just so many small things that point to that kind of trauma, and Bad Boy just compounds on those things.

his aversion to sleep has always been very strange to me, he doesn’t even lay down to do so and only ever gets a few hours. it could just be a general unease/feeling a lack of safety but Levi isn’t exactly an outwardly anxious person. im sure his ability to sustain himself on only a few hours of sleep has something to do with his Ackerman power, but he almost seems to have a tendency to avoid laying in beds as a whole. i’m not sure we ever see him in one (perhaps the barracks in No Regrets?) outside of his major injury towards the end.

honestly even though his obsession with cleanliness can be associated with growing up in a dirty environment like the underground (very common IRL w people who grow up in poverty or hoarding etc) something about it always raised an eyebrow to me. feeling somehow “filthy” in a way that is difficult to shake is a very common trauma response for SA victims. He’s also particular with human gore in a way he isn’t with Titan gore. to be fair Titan blood literally steams off, but idk the elaborate get up in the torture scene stick with me, why is a guy who constantly cuts down giant meat monsters full of blood and sinew suiting up with an apron and rubber gloves to punch a human?

When Kenny finds him with Kuchel’s body he’s only wearing of one of her old shirts (if i remember right) which could also be just associated with the neglect he faced as Kuchel’s health declined and she wasn’t able to keep working, but it could absolutely have much worse implications. he’s surely under-clothed for a child that age.

and speaking of Hange i think this is also a huge indicator of how important their friendship w Levi was. i think the “Levi has to knock Hange out to bathe them” lore was mostly a joke, but i absolutely believe that Hange would have a knack for working themselves into exhaustion and neglecting their personal hygiene and the fact that Levi, who is adverse to dirtiness and probably physical touch, would still be willing to help Hange take care of themselves on that level is very important to me.

idk, again there’s just so many small things that compound. i think ppl who refuse to even consider that possibility are ignoring a huge subtext in his writing.

the writing in Bad Boy reminds me a lot of an RPG character from Dragon Age called Zevran, who has a very similar backstory (prostitute mother, grew up in a brothel after she died giving birth) and SA/sex trafficking is a huge part of his writing, it’s never explicitly said but he gets incredibly close to saying it multiple times.

Absolutely, anon, I'm really glad you brought this up. I agree with you. Your observations are thoughtful and deeply grounded in the subtle, but persistent, cues throughout Levi’s characterization. There’s a strong case to be made that Levi’s childhood experiences, especially as hinted in Bad Boy, suggest sexual trauma as part of his backstory, and I agree that this thread has been quietly but consistently built over time across multiple Attack on Titan texts, including the main canon itself, Bad Boy, and the A Choice with No Regrets manga and OVA.

I’ll be honest, though; I sat on this ask for a little while. Not because I disagreed, but because I’ve grown cautious about diving back into this particular conversation, lol. I hope you're still around to read my response! There’s been pushback in the past, and it’s easy to get worn down by the defensiveness and bad-faith interpretations that inevitably come with it. But ultimately, I don’t want fear of fandom backlash to silence a valid reading of the text.

Just to be clear, I’m not saying there’s any explicit confirmation that Levi was sexually abused. What I am saying is that there is a consistent body of subtext—textual, visual, and behavioral—that makes this interpretation both plausible and worth discussing. It’s one lens among many, and it’s one that aligns with real-world trauma responses in a way that deserves thoughtful attention.

For anyone curious and looking to read more on this topic, including some of my older posts and others’ contributions, here are a few links:

To actually address your message and your points, anon:

When Kenny first discovers Levi, the imagery is haunting. Levi appears severely malnourished, neglected, and ghost-like. He’s wearing only a shirt, which not only suggests poverty but also emphasizes how profoundly vulnerable he is. While it’s never confirmed whether the shirt belonged to Kuchel, the idea that it might have is a valid and plausible headcanon. What is confirmed is that Levi is shown curled up on the floor in the same room as her decomposing body, completely alone. In the context of a brothel—where Kuchel worked as a sex worker and where strangers would have regularly entered and exited the space—Levi’s state of undress takes on more disturbing implications. We never learn who had access to that room after Kuchel’s death, nor how long Levi was left to fend for himself there. And as you pointed out, for a child that age to be so underclothed in such a setting is more than just a sign of deprivation—it casts a shadow over the kind of dangers he may have been exposed to during that time.

Now, I’m aware there’s some debate in the fandom about whether Levi and Kuchel actually lived in the brothel where she worked. Personally, I do believe they did. But even if they didn’t, Kuchel’s notoriety as "Olympia"—a well-known prostitute—means that clients familiar with her could very well have come looking. Regardless of the precise location, the threat would have remained the same.

It’s also important to consider how the Attack on Titan universe establishes the Underground as a site of rampant exploitation, especially sexual violence and trafficking. In "Chapter 6: The World that the Girl Saw", we learn that Mikasa, who lived on the surface, was nearly trafficked into sexual slavery. The traffickers planned to sell her specifically to the Underground, where such exploitation was evidently common and profitable. If that was the fate planned for a surface child, it paints a grim picture of what life must have been like for children born in the Underground. Levi wasn’t just born there—he was the son of a sex worker, raised alone in a brothel after her death. In Bad Boy, we see that even as a child, Levi was almost sold into the same system by thugs looking to profit off him. On top of that, he was well-known locally as a “whore’s son,” a stigma that would have marked him as vulnerable. Given this context, and considering how openly the narrative depicts trafficking as a real danger even for children with more protection than Levi had, it’s tragically plausible that Levi endured violations that the text never directly names. Whether or not his trauma is ever confirmed in explicit terms, the setting, circumstances, and behavioral cues all suggest that he was not spared from the kind of exploitation that was normalized in the world he grew up in.

A Choice with No Regrets further deepens this portrait of Levi. As an adult in the Underground, he’s strikingly hyper-independent, emotionally guarded, and instinctively distrustful. His stoicism goes far beyond what would be considered adaptive for someone in a harsh environment—it reads instead as the psychological armor of someone who learned, early and brutally, that vulnerability is dangerous. What’s telling is how this contrasts with Furlan and Isabel, who also grew up in the Underground but retain a more open emotional register. Levi, by contrast, keeps himself closed off—even from those he clearly cares about. Another subtle but telling detail is his relationship to sleep. As you noted, Levi rarely lays down to rest. Even after Return to Shiganshina, when he’s critically injured, we only see him in bed when he’s completely incapacitated. His irregular sleep habits suggest that rest—and the vulnerability it entails—is something he instinctively avoids. It’s also worth noting that Isayama has confirmed in interviews that Levi typically sleeps in a chair. That choice feels significant: what is it about beds, specifically, that feel unsafe to him? It’s a small detail, but one that subtly reinforces the idea that Levi's avoidance of rest is tied not just to environmental danger, but to deeper psychological trauma.

One moment from A Choice with No Regrets that I think is often overlooked—or, worse, completely misread—is the scene in the manga where Levi kills Isabel’s attacker. There’s a strong implication that the man had either raped or was planning to rape her. Isabel returns visibly shaken, and the fact that her hair was forcibly cut—while some try to minimize this—is itself a physical violation. That kind of act doesn’t happen without bodily restraint, humiliation, and intent to dehumanize. Levi’s reaction isn’t casual vengeance or impulsive rage. It’s swift, cold, and deliberate. And it stands out all the more because Levi is consistently portrayed as someone who does not enjoy killing, especially when it comes to other humans. He doesn’t take satisfaction in it, and he’s shown to feel the weight of taking lives. But in this moment, he kills with no hesitation. That’s not just about protecting Isabel; it’s also about what that kind of violation represents to him. This scene adds another layer to the subtext that Levi may have experienced sexual trauma himself. His actions suggest not just outrage on her behalf, but a deep, visceral recognition of what was done to her. When you consider his background—being raised in a brothel, growing up in a community where sexual violence was commonplace, and being personally threatened with it—his response in this scene becomes far more layered. It's not about bloodlust; it's about survival and protection.

As for his obsession with cleanliness, I completely agree that it likely stems from both his impoverished upbringing and something deeper. Like you stated, the trauma of feeling “unclean” in a psychological sense is a known marker in many survivors of sexual abuse. Levi doesn’t just value hygiene—he’s almost compulsive about it. In chapter 15, when he enters Trost HQ, his first instinct is to clean, even in the midst of military chaos. It’s a trait that speaks to more than just surface disgust; it feels ritualistic, like he’s trying to scrub away something intangible. We also know from the Smartpass AU Levi Close-up Report that part of the reason Levi cares so much about cleanliness is because he associates filth with disease. That alone demonstrates that the cleaning is a coping mechanism for something greater.

The A Choice with No Regrets OVA also contributes to this subtext in a subtle but unsettling way. In one sequence, a group of thugs corner Isabel, and after she bites one of them, he implies he wants to assault her—saying, “She’ll pay for bitin’ me. Lemme have some fun with her before we do anything else, ’kay?” Levi isn’t present for that threat, but it establishes that these men are sexual predators and underscores how normalized sexual violence is in the Underground. Shortly afterward, when Levi confronts the same group, one of the thugs touches the collar of Levi’s shirt. Levi immediately recoils and snaps, “Keep your filthy hands off me. I don’t want you smudging my shirt.” His tone is cold and sharp—disproportionately intense for such a minor touch, unless read through the lens of trauma. What’s especially notable is how Furlan quickly intervenes, almost too casually, saying, “Sorry, 'bout that. We're clean freaks here. You prob'ly shouldn't come back, but if ya do, be sure to wash your hands first.” It’s a strangely timed comment, bringing up hygiene in the middle of a tense confrontation, and it reads more like a deflection than comic relief, at least to me. Furlan’s response seems like a practiced redirection, as if he’s accustomed to covering for Levi in moments like this, aware that Levi’s aversion to touch and obsession with cleanliness may stem from something deeper. The way Levi reacts to even an incidental touch, especially from a man he clearly perceives as threatening (and was established as a sexual predator earlier), raises red flags. Within the broader context of the Underground, where exploitation is rampant and children are especially vulnerable, this interaction adds another layer to the growing subtext that Levi’s boundaries around touch aren’t just about personal preference, but about learned survival.

A common counter-argument I’ve seen is that Levi couldn’t have experienced sexual abuse because, in Bad Boy, when the thugs threaten to sell him into sexual slavery, he awakens his Ackerman powers and kills them. But I think this interpretation misreads both the mechanics of his awakening and the emotional weight of that scene. Levi doesn’t react violently when the men first threaten to traffic him. In fact, he stays relatively passive through much of the assault, even as they kick him and beat him down. What ultimately triggers his Ackerman powers isn’t the threat of trafficking alone—it’s a combination of two far more visceral elements: first, the insult to his mother (“whore’s son”), which cuts directly at the only attachment and source of comfort he’s ever known; and second, the imminent threat to his life. When the men begin slamming his head into the ground, it’s not just brutal—it would have been fatal. That moment of near-death, combined with emotional provocation, is what pushes him to awaken. This is consistent with how Ackerman power is described elsewhere in canon: it’s often activated in a life-or-death situation.

Importantly, most sexual trauma, especially in childhood, is not marked by that same level of immediate physical lethality. It’s often coercive or normalized within the environment, particularly when it occurs repeatedly over time. If Levi had experienced prior instances of sexual trauma, there’s no reason to assume his powers would have activated. The context simply wouldn’t have matched the threshold required. What Bad Boy shows us, in fact, is how long Levi endures violence without fighting back. His gentle, quiet demeanor in that scene says a lot; he’s not someone who reacts with aggression instinctively. He internalizes pain. He withdraws. And that, in itself, is a trauma response. The idea that Levi could only have been victimized if he had physically fought back or "activated" sooner misunderstands both trauma and how the Ackerman lineage functions in canon.

And yes, the way Levi interacts with Hange is one of the clearest examples of how touch and boundaries operate differently for him with people he trusts. The oft-joked “Levi knocking Hange out to bathe them” anecdote, while humorous in fandom circles, does imply a certain level of trust and care on his part that cuts directly against his usual physical avoidance and aversion to filth. If you believe Levi is touch-averse because of trauma, then the fact that he’ll tend to someone else’s body—grime, sweat, and all—speaks volumes. It reflects a profound emotional bond.

Btw, I've never played Dragon Age, but I agree that the situation with Zevran sounds similar to the situation with Levi. Isayama never explicitly states that Levi was sexually abused—but neither does he shy away from leaving the space open.

The resistance from some parts of the fandom to even consider this reading is telling. It reveals discomfort not just with the possibility of Levi being a victim, but with the idea that masculinity and vulnerability can coexist. For some, Levi must remain a stoic archetype of masculinity, not someone whose past might include being violated or exploited. But the reality is that Attack on Titan is saturated with trauma, and Levi’s trauma is one of the most underexplored and underacknowledged parts of the narrative, precisely because it’s so coded in subtext.

In short, the subtext is there. The behavioral patterns are consistent. And your instinct to read between the lines is absolutely justified. Bad Boy doesn’t explicitly confirm that Levi was sexually abused, but it significantly strengthens the already persistent implication. Acknowledging that possibility isn’t reaching—it’s a valid interpretation of the character and the narrative choices surrounding him.

Thanks for the ask, anon! I hope my answer was interesting to read.

[crownmemes]

Discussions of Childhood Sentences

(Sentences for muses to discuss their childhoods. Adjust phrasing where needed)

"Even as a child, there was something in your brain that was a puzzlement."

"What kind of a monster raised you?"

"If you're good at reading people, it's mostly because you learnt as a child, trying to stay one step ahead of whatever tormented you."

"What do you remember about your childhood?"

"You must have been a very boring child."

"My books have been my only true companion since childhood."

"This is my childhood bedroom, so I'd appreciate you not criticising it."

"When I was little, I was fascinated by stars. I thought they were magic."

"What were you like as a child?"

"Did you have a happy childhood?"

"Children do not simply forget trauma. No one simply forgets."

"What is your worst memory of childhood?"

"I had no real childhood. I was an imitation adult because that was what was expected of me."

"Were you an outstandingly brilliant child?"

"Were you always so serious? Even as a child?"

"I can't imagine you having any kind of childhood."

"Tell me something - were you ever young?"

"You ever do magic as a kid? You seem like the type - lonely, obsessive..."

"I think people have always thought I was strange - or worse: defective."

"I have very positive origins. Inexpressible, maybe, but positive."

"I've been alienating people since I was three."

"Did you ever stutter as a child?"

"I think you and I had very different childhoods."

"'Home' doesn't mean the same for me as it does for you."

"There aren't any pictures of me as a kid."

"Since I was a child, I've always loved little puzzles."

"Look at me; nobody grows up wrong."

"Did you have a childhood sweetheart?"

[acute-crashout-jeyuso]

The Mariachi Uso - Jhea

People’ id sing Beyoncé for: @spiicii @maineventabbey @acknowledge-reigns @xxwhatcouldhavebeenxx @love4brutality @isabella-2025 @minteagalaxea @cheappop

Jey wasn’t eavesdropping on purpose.

He was just vibing, humming “Play That Funky Music” to himself, ice bucket in hand… until he heard Dom’s stupid little whisper-voice echoing from around the corner.

“Yeah, bro. I hired the band already. She loves Selena. I’m having them do ‘I Could Fall In Love.’ It’s gonna be so romantic.”

Jey froze mid-step.

Dom kept going.

“I’m setting them up right outside her hotel window. Like old-school. Notebook vibes. I think after this, she’s gonna see me differently.”

Jey’s brain short-circuited. He dropped the ice bucket. Ice scattered across the carpet like emotional shrapnel.

Notebook vibes?!

Mariachi band?!

SELENA?!

That was a bold choice. Selena was sacred. That was power-move-tier music. That was not for a man with a rat tail and no beard.

Jey ducked back around the corner and yanked out his phone with trembling fingers.

THE BLOODLINE🩸

Jey: emergency

Jey: CODE RED

Jey: DOM IS SERENADING RHEA

Jey: A MARIACHI BAND

Jey: HE’S DOING SELENA

Jimmy: bro what

Sami: you okay??

Solo: tf kind of sidequest is that

Jey: he’s doing “I COULD FALL IN LOVE” OUTSIDE HER WINDOW

Roman: why do you care

Jey: because she’s MY girl

Roman: didn’t she hook up with you at her birthday party?

Jimmy: yeah u said she rode you like a monster truck

Sami: that was a direct quote

Solo: you made us high-five you

Jey: THAT’S NOT THE POINT

Jey: dom thinks he still has a chance

Jey: he still looks at her like she’s his soulmate and I can’t take that risk

Jey: HE’S USING SELENA. THIS IS WAR.

Jey: we can’t let this happen

Jey: if he wins emotionally he wins sexually! I can’t let that happen! She sucked the soul out of my dick…

Roman: tf do you need from us then

Jey: something that will make me do your laundry for a YEAR

Jimmy: hold up

Jimmy: like my sweaty gear bags??

Jey: yes

Jimmy: my fish taco socks??

Jey: YES

Solo: I’m listening

Sami: you don’t even do your own laundry

Jey: that’s why it’s a BIG OFFER

Roman: u better be dying

Jey: I AM. HEARTBREAK IS DEATH

Roman: what’s the plan

Jey: WE STEAL THE BAND

Solo: you want us to…

Jimmy: hijack a live mariachi band

Jey: YES. intercept them BEFORE they get to Rhea’s room. put on the outfits.

Jey: I’ll take lead. Sami sings. Solo holds the trumpet. Roman just stand there. intimidating. sexy.

Roman: u lucky I’m bored

Jimmy: Mariachi Uso boutta go platinum

Sami: I hope you know “I Could Fall In Love” has falsetto

Jey: I’ve BEEN in falsetto since Dom said “Notebook vibes”

—

8:37 PM

The van door slid open and five mariachi musicians stepped out, dressed to slay, instruments shining under the streetlights.

Jey adjusted his hoodie and stepped forward, nervous.

Before he could even open his mouth—

One of the band members gasped and shouted:

“¡ROMÁN REIGNS!”

The whole band lost it.

The violinist grabbed his phone. The trumpet guy dropped his mouthpiece. One of them literally pointed at Roman like he was seeing Cher and the Pope at the same time.

“El Jefe Tribal!”

“El Campeón más sexy!”

“Dios mío, es EL REIGNS.”

Roman blinked. “What the fuck?”

Jey whispered, “Uce… you’re over in Mexico.”

The leader of the band stepped forward, breathless.

“For you, Señor Reigns? We give you everything. Our jackets. Our instruments. Our souls.”

Roman shrugged. “Cool.”

Ten minutes later: Costumes exchanged. Guitars tuned. The real band is chilling in catering with backstage passes and a gift bag of Bloodline merch.

Jimmy was holding a vihuela like it was a baby.

Solo kept plucking one string and nodding like he understood music theory.

Sami was standing beside a man named Ernesto, getting a crash course in how to seduce vocally in A minor.

“Breathe like you love her,” Ernesto whispered, clutching Sami’s chest.

“I don’t love her,” Sami said.

“Then fake it, gringo.”

Meanwhile, Jey stood in front of the mirror of a parked SUV, adjusting the tight mariachi blazer over his chest.

“Okay,” one of the musicians asked, “what song do you want to perform?”

Jey didn’t hesitate.

“Young Forever. Beyoncé and Jay-Z.”

Jimmy choked. “Uce… that’s not even Mexican.”

Roman blinked. “That’s not even MARIA—”

“TRUST ME.”

Jey looked up at the hotel, wind hitting his mullet dramatically.

“This is about legacy. About love. About showing up and showing out.”

He held the mic like it was a promise and whispered:

“I’m Jay-Z. She’s Beyoncé. Dom is just a fan.”

—

Dom perked up, grinning like a kid who just got his Hogwarts letter, listening to the distant music,

“Hey… sounds like someone got you something.”

Rhea looked up from her phone, visibly annoyed. “Huh?”

“Outside. That’s probably the mariachi band I… a friend set up for you.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You got me a band?”

Dom sat up straighter, puffing his chest. “You know… I mean… yeah.”

Rhea, already losing interest by the second, sighed and walked to the window. She cracked it open.

The sound hit instantly:

“Let’s dance in style,

Let’s dance for a while…”

Rhea squinted. “…is that Beyoncé ?”

Dom frowned. “What the fuck..”

He leaned over her shoulder.

“Heaven can wait, we’re only watching the skies

Hoping for the best but expecting the worst

Are you gonna drop the bomb or not?”

Jey, in a tight-ass mariachi jacket, was singing his heart out like he was fighting demons on the X Factor stage. Voice wobbling. Notes crumbling. Emotions high. It was the kind of performance that made you wince and root for him.

Dom’s face dropped. “That’s… that’s not my band…”

Rhea covered her mouth.

Not from emotion.

From laughter.

Because this was deranged.

Because Jey sounded like he was being waterboarded in falsetto.

Because she was obsessed.

And then—

“Let us die young or let us live forever

We don’t have the power, but we never say never

Sitting in a sandpit, life is a short trip

The music’s for the sad man…”

That’s when the rest of the Bloodline joined in:

“FOREVER YOUNG!!

I WANNA BE…

FOREVER YOUNG!!

DO YOU REALLY WANT TO LIVE FOREVER?!

FOREVER!

AND EVERRRR!!”

Jimmy doing backup vocals with too much hip.

Solo hitting wrong notes but full commitment.

Sami attempting to do an interpretive dance.

Roman in sunglasses, arms crossed, mouthing the words with zero passion but god-tier intimidation.

Dom stepped back from the window like he’d just watched his dreams get dropkicked by his own father.

“He… he STOLE my serenade!!!”

Rhea leaned further out the window.

“I think I like this version better.”

Dom’s face was stuck between shock, rage, and total public humiliation. He backed away from the window slowly.

“No. No no no. He did not just Beyoncé-block me with a mariachi remix.”

Rhea turned slightly. “I don’t remember asking you to do anything, Dom.”

That was the final nail.

Dom pulled out his phone, shaking with anger.

“Finn. JD. Damian. You at the gym?” He whispered angrily.

“Yeah?”

“They’re here. Outside Rhea’s window. The Bloodline. Playing music. Wearing mariachi suits. I need backup. Take them out.” Dom ordered silently.

“…be there in 3.”

Dom stormed out of the room like a man possessed. He didn’t even close the door behind him.

—

Jey was glowing. Sweating. His jacket was two buttons away from exploding off his chest. The crowd of random hotel guests that had formed on the lawn were cheering. He looked up at Rhea.

“Did you like it?” he called out breathlessly.

She smiled, leaning on the windowsill like goth version of Juliet in fishnets.

“You sounded like you were being choked by love… but yeah. I liked it.”

Jey clutched his chest. “Mami. I meant every word.”

And just as he opened his mouth to finally say it—

BANG.

The gym doors behind them flew open.

Damian Priest, Finn Bálor, and JD McDonagh stormed the courtyard like it was WarGames.

Finn pointed. “You stole our performance at her birthday!”

JD: “Now you’re ruining Dom’s chances.”

Jimmy: “Oh shit.”

Solo: “They’re in gym shorts. That means they’re serious.”

Jey turned to the others. “Uce—we got incoming.”

Sami ripped off his mariachi sash. “Battle-ready.”

Roman sighed. “Should’ve stayed inside.”

The Judgment Day charged.

Jey turned to Rhea one last time.

Breathless. Glowing. Finally brave.

“I LOVE YOU. I BEEN IN LOVE WITH YOU. I FELL IN LOVE WHEN YOU HIT ME WITH THE BRIEFCASE ON ACCIDENT. I’D LET YOU DO IT AGAIN. OKAY BYE—”

And then he dropkicked JD straight into the violin stand.

The first dive was done by Solo, naturally.

He didn’t hesitate. No warning. Just sprinted toward Damian and shoulder-tackled him into the decorative fountain like a linebacker with anger issues.

SPLASH.

Damian came up soaked, mascara running, screaming in rage like an angry raccoon.

“YOU RUINED MY EYE LINER!”

From there?

All hell broke loose.

Jimmy picked up a mariachi guitar, screamed “THIS IS FOR SELENA” and smashed it over JD’s back, sending splinters everywhere. JD yelled in Irish and tried to suplex him into a bush.

Sami used a tambourine as a shield while Finn swung at him with a busted trumpet. Every time Sami blocked, it jingled like a Christmas fight scene.

“YOU STOLE OUR BAND!”

“YOU STOLE HIS GIRL!”

“WELL SHE STOLE MY HEART!!” Sami shouted, ducking a punch and spinning.

Roman just stood there, watching, sipping from someone’s left-behind mimosa, not even trying.

A little girl watching from a balcony whispered, “That’s the boss.”

Jey and Dom circled each other like two guys about to slapbox in a Walmart parking lot.

Dom yelled, “You always ruin everything for me!”

Jey yelled back, “YOU WERE GONNA RUIN SELENA!”

Then Dom lunged—and Jey tripped him with a trumpet case.

Dom went flying. Hit the fountain.

Landed on top of Damian.

Who screamed again.

“GET YOUR SOGGY ASS OFF ME!”

Meanwhile, Rhea watched from her window like a goth goddess surveying the fall of Rome.

She sipped her drink. “Idiots.”

A hotel manager stood below her window looking pale. “Ma’am… do you… know them?”

She nodded. “Biblically.”

The man walked away.

A tourist couple filmed everything on their iPad.

“Is this a flash mob?”

“No, I think it’s performance art.”

Eventually, the police showed up.

And then the fire department.

Rhea came downstairs.

In slippers. Hoodie. No makeup. Still the hottest person alive.

Everyone froze.

The Bloodline paused mid-fight.

Judgment Day groaned in defeat.

She walked up to Jey—now holding a mic stand like a battle spear—and kissed him.

Right there. In front of everyone.

Even Roman blinked.

Rhea pulled away and said: “That was the worst singing I’ve ever heard. I loved it.”

Jey beamed. “So uh… are we dating now?”

“Shut up before I change my mind.”

[dodger432101]

So, idea: Celeste, but she’s going through her goth phase. She refuses to wear anything other than black and is embarrassed that Lux is her dad (because he’s a cartoon and she’s “not a baby anymore”)

Celeste has reached that angsty teenager part of her life. Poor Lux has been dreading this, flipping through every book on raising children to look for ways to avoid this phase. Though it seems his overbearing desire to keep her as the happy smiley child he'd known her as has only made it worse.

Most of the time she's home, she sits in her room, listening to all the songs that make her dad wince. He'd tried to convince her to branch out her music taste, bringing in the God of Music to help his case. That.. didn't go according to plan. Maestro wasn't at all concerned by Celeste’s choice in music. “I am all music, Lux! It doesn't matter what kind, I enjoy all of them!” Suffice to say, they weren't much help to the God of Light. Though there was one piece of advice spoken just before they left. “She is your child, but she is growing into her own person, Lux. You can't force her to be someone she isn't.” Of course, that seems to have been forgotten.

“Hey Cel, why don't I teach ya some more about manipulating light? Could have people thinking you're some big scary monster!” She's just come home from school and Lux is already on her case, wanting to play with her like they did when she was younger.

She walks right through the living room, her head down. “Like people don't already think that.” It's mumbled under her breath, but since she passes close by you as she says it, you hear her. You watch as your lover’s antennae droop. Celeste has been distancing herself from her dad a lot recently, turning him down whenever he wanted to watch TV with her (He always tries the old cartoons she liked when she was younger, getting the response of “I'm not a baby anymore.”) or teach her more about their abilities. It's starting to wear him down, they barely speak to each other these days, Celeste enjoys the company of the other Gods more than her own father. To be fair, they actually treat your daughter as the teenager she is, instead of the baby they'd been introduced to at the beginning.

You sit down next to Lux, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He leans into your embrace, uncharacteristically silent. “Let me speak to her, hun. I think this is a job for the human side of her family.” With a kiss on his head, you get up and head to your daughter’s room. You had your own unique knock so she knows who's at her door, unsurprisingly she lets you right in.

She's on her bed, headphones on, though they're quickly removed as you enter the room. “Hi mom! What's up?” There's the happy girl that you know and love. Thinking of Lux’s sad little face when she ignored him makes your smile drop, however.

“Hey sweetpea..” You sit down next to her, looking in her direction but not turning your entire body to her. Sometimes eye contact was a struggle for Celeste, so you've gotten used to giving her the opportunity to look away from your eyes. “I think we need to have a talk.. about you and Lux.” Just as you expected, she turns to sit perpendicular to you. When she doesn't say anything, you continue. “I know he can be overbearing, but he doesn't realise that. All he knows is, you're ignoring him whenever he speaks to you. I understand why, Celly, but it's really upsetting him. Do you think you could speak to him about it, please? I don't want this rift between the two of you to get any worse.”

For a short while, she sits there silently. You turn to face the same direction she is, letting her gather her thoughts without someone staring right at her. Then she shuffles over to you, close enough that you can hear the music she's been listening to from her headphones. “Ok.. I just hate the way he still treats me like a kid! I'm nearly grown up!”

With an empathetic smile you hug her to your side. “I know dear. We still see you as that smiley little baby, you're our daughter after all. Plus I imagine Gods age a little slower, so he probably views you as still in the little baby stage of your life.” As you gently pinch her cheek, Celeste playfully swats your hand away. “You go talk to him. I'll make you your favourite for dinner.” That has her off the bed. She pauses her music and leaves her headphones on the desk in the room, leading the way out to the living room where Lux is still sitting. You head into the kitchen to give them some time to themselves, knowing it'll be easier on your daughter without someone eavesdropping.

Celeste sits down on the couch her dad is on, eyes fixed on the TV while she works up the motivation to speak. Lux looks up at her, clearly itching to say something, but he keeps silent as his gaze goes back to the screen. “Dad..?” His antennae perk up as he looks back at her. “Can you show me how to do that light manipulation? I wanna prank the kids at school with it.” Those little gold eyes of his are practically sparkling.

“Ay, don't tell your mom about that part. Come on!” He's off the couch and heading towards the back yard. “We're gonna need a lot of light for this!” Celeste quickly catches up, the walk to the outside turning into a race, their laughter reaching your ears as you get everything needed for dinner ready. Though you're interrupted by your short little lover dashing in. “You wanna watch, angel? She's working on making herself invisible!” He looks so proud already. You giggle and follow him outside, monitoring his teachings of their power. It wasn't the interaction you had initially asked for, but it was a step in the right direction. For now, you're happy watching them finally talking to each other again.

[whimsyyart]

*major deltarune spoilers*

Ok I need to talk about deltarune’s absolute masterful utilization of the game format to aid with its horror elements. Cause like. Yall im obsessed.

so obviously chapter 4 was a mindfuck and the titan fight is a whole different bag of worms, but what I’m really talking about is the secret boss minigames from chapter 3. Everything about that whole lead up to the secret boss fight is so deliciously meta and actually harrowing. Like I haven’t been scared like that in a while and this path had me Unnerved.

The game leads you through several minigames that are so classic RPG- definitely paying homage to classic Zelda games in both visuals and score- that it really lulls you into the charm of the game. And then the music cuts out. And then you’re chasing every monster on the map down and it really starts feeling like a genocide route. Horrifying for those who play purely pacifist routes, but maybe not the ones who have played the genocide routes.

And THEN you’re hit with the final game, where you must kill your party and Tenna to proceed. Again, deeply unsettling and also tragic considering it’s so clearly a reflection of Kris’ fears of what they might be forced to do as a vessel.

AND THEN we just go ahead and smash open the forth wall and pop out of the screen and walk up to Kris and threaten them a little. In that moment, we are an alien, a cosmic horror, stepping outside of the bounds of the “game” and experiencing a kind of true freedom of movement. And we see Kris realize this and feel how scary we are in that moment as they just back away as fast as they can. Like. The deep unease I felt through this whole section is actually astounding and is nothing short of masterful. Mr. Fox made me feel true, gut deep cosmic horror!! About MYSELF!!

It’s clear from Chapter 4 that this kind of fourth wall breaking and continued distinction of Kris and the player is going to keep on happening more and more frequently. But I just loved this section of Chapter 3 so much and felt like people were really sleeping on it in lieu of chapter 4’s craziness. Which yknow, fair.

TLDR; The secret boss route of Chapter 3 is a masterclass in breaking established game mechanics to aid in the games more meta, cosmic horror themes. Aka I finished Deltarune at 3am and have not known a restful moment since.

[3ndishere]

JIMMY BPD HCS! JIMMY BPD HCS! JIMMY BPD HCS! 🙏

NOW you’re speaking my language! (Disclaimer I know Jimmy is a controversial character- let me say not EVERYONE who has BPD is like Jimmy- BPD is a serious condition but people do not turn into monsters just because they have it. Many people with BPD live fulfilled happy lives. I am just talking about Jimmy through the BPD lens. That is all.) anyway let’s get this show on the road

compared to curly his bpd is WAY more “loud”, people can sense he has some kind of personality disorder on with like a bloodhound instead of just this general feeling of “off”-ness like with Curly. But then again people don’t automatically assume anything because… he looks like a normal guy. But something is definitely off.

I didn’t elaborate on Curly’s but I think Jimmy’s bpd developed from a history of physical + emotional abuse and neglect, you can’t tell me a man like that had a picture perfect childhood. (Disclaimer I am NOT excusing his actions, many people have sad childhoods and don’t go on to do what he did to Anya, I am only stating a headcanon that I think could explain his behavior).

fear of abandonment. He literally calls out curly for seemingly “abandoning” him and the crew during the birthday party scene. Curly is his fp (obviously) and Jimmy sinks his claws into him and never lets go. I feel like he’d be the type to threaten to hurt or kill himself if curly ever tried to leave him- he’s definitely been the cause of a few of curly’s relationships fizzling out because of his fear of abandonment. Curly has not found that out yet.

Risky self harming behavior? You GOT it! List every unhealthy coping mechanism one can do and he’s probably done it. Drugs? Yeah hand some over. Sex? With no strings attatched yeah. Drink? Pass the bottle. Curly has to find him everytime and either beg him to stop or just silently take him home and clean him up

To Add onto the last one I’m 99% sure he’s self harmed or attempted suicide before, curly, once again, has almost always found him afterwards and helped him clean up. the first time was when they were teens I think but the attempts lessened as they grew older (mostly because Jimmy thought it was #cringe to be suicidal at 30) which curly took as jimmy getting better (he did not). Anyway h probably has sh scars but they’re never visible because hes ashamed by them + it’d hurt his ego if anyone pointed them out.

The WORST splitting the world has ever seen. Worships curly but resents him at the same time- can go from laughing at an inside joke with him to screaming about how curly hates him and thinks he’s a failure/wants him to fail- there is NO gray area with Jimmy you’re either with him or leaving him to the wolves. Curly has settled himself as with him, they’re all eachother knows after all. Also add on the world’s most buried crush + internalized homophobia and you’ve got Jimmy’s relationship with curly down.

Mood swings and paranoia!!! He is CRAZY paranoid about everyone and assumes the worst in everything, you tell him to get therapy? Oh you think he’s a BAD PERSON YOURE PRAYING ON HIS DOWNFALL. Anyway mood swings- can go from a snarky but slightly charismatic guy to a screaming sniveling paranoid mess if he’s set off.

In a slightly kinder world, maybe Jimmy and Curly could’ve both gone to therapy and learned to communicate about their issues, as well as establish healthier boundaries and a better relationship- benefitting both them and others. THANK YOU who ever asked this! It’s a bit longer than the curly one but I digress. Enjoy lol

[midday-headcanons]

I do not profess to be an expert on anything or right about everything. In truth, I'm not even particularly articulate about the criticisms I have of certain characters in FE3H, as what I mean to say comes out as too simplistic or gives the opposite effect of what I was going for.

I am but a humble daydreamer with too much time on their hands.

Talking strictly about the Black Eagles seems to be what I do most because it's the route I'm the most biased towards.

Don't get me wrong, I love the other houses, too. There isn't a character in 3H that I dislike entirely, much less hate. (Except for that NPC that bullied Marianne, the one that called Dedue a miscreant, and that other one that suspected Cyril, an actual child, of being an assassin, but I digress.)

I have played Crimson Flower so many times, it's ridiculous. I could probably recite it word for word if asked. But I think that's why I have so much to say about Edelgard herself because I'm consistently looking right at her.

This is a long post. And it's about all the Black Eagles, not just her.

You have been warned.

Edelgard's well-written in the fact that she is someone you're meant to talk about from a polarizing standpoint the way you would any other influential historical figure. While half of history calls someone like George Washington a hero for driving away the British, the other half would call him an evil monster for being a slave owner irregardless of the circumstances revolving around both of those positions. While both of those things are fact, he fought the war against the British and owned slaves, both are talked about in equal measure.

Edelgard is the hero in her own story, and could be considered a controversial hero in everyone else's for being the reason the status quo was disrupted in the first place, whether she won the war or not. The bomb was destined to go off at some point anyway, but she chose to cut the time on the fuse a ways shorter by using a flame thrower. But that doesn't mean she wasn't a villain as well. She and her fellow Eagles aren't bad people and had good intentions.

Let's not forget that the road to hell is paved in those, though.

Hubert and Ferdinand, for all their critiques about her decisions and plans for the future (or lack thereof), are complicit in her schemes. Between the both of them, Hubert is undoubtedly the worst offender. He is the one running everything behind the scenes with black ops including but not limited to spying, executions, assassinations, bribery, "peace-keeping", and cover-ups to allow Edelgard's plans to even work in the first place. Without him, all of her hopes and dreams are just that, fancy words with no promise of return on investment. But while I can attest to the genuinely good heart and compassion he is capable of, atop the fact he was doing all of it for the good of the nation and not for his own glory or power, it does not excuse all he has done in service of his Emperor. Good intentions does not a good man make. In that sense, he and his father are extremely alike.

Ferdinand von Aegir is in the same boat, but balances that scale a bit by not dealing in the dark and instead being very out in the open about the things he's working to accomplish for the common people of Adrestia and later all of Fodlan itself. His conscience keeps things cleaner, but not without reproach. He is oblivious to much that goes on around him, having been living in his own world for so very long and finally having to face the music that, yeah, Adrestia and the nobility as it is sucks and his idealized version of what it should be likely won't happen the way he wants it to any time soon. He is an optimist, not a realist, and has a considerable amount of maturing to do which requires him being humbled multiple times to realize that - which is shown in game, actually. At least he's on the right track. I would argue his willingness to be corrected openly, to receive criticism and work to correct his mistakes with due diligence, would make him a surprisingly good leader. (Ferdinand von Aegir for President 2026)

Linhardt, for as much as I love the guy, is a self-centered and very lazy bum who focuses all his energy on what interests him and only him. It just so happens that some of what interests him benefits other people greatly. As someone who speaks from experience, that is not a good trait to be known for. Edelgard literally has to tailor make a station for him just to make him useful or, more specifically, to tailor him to her needs because why waste an intelligent mind? Learning to care about something more than himself takes him a very long time to achieve, and there is a world where he just doesn't. He leaves everything his family and allies have built behind to pursue a life of leisure instead. Can't fault a man for knowing what he wants in life, but you can fault him for being an acerbic bother most of the time.

In the same vein, we have Caspar who is adorable and I love him. That being said, he has not and likely will not earn the title of Minister of Military Affairs and, if he does, it won't be for an extremely long while. He is headstrong, impulsive, kinda dumb, and quick to make judgements on very little information. His "gut" can be spot on at times, but lacks the forethought to handle the situation properly and so he rushes headlong into an otherwise easily dealt with situation like his life depends on it, forcing others to compensate. The fact Edelgard handed him the title in their ending just feels foolish and contrary to her ideologies to me. Caspar idolizes his father, but even Leopold said he needed to work on his intelligence before he'd make a good leader. He's good for morale and is a beast on the battlefield. But he does not follow orders well, and doesn't give orders well. He is, for all intents and purposes, not a good soldier. But he is a good man. With time, he could be a great commander. He just isn't yet.

Bernadetta, my darling, is a tricky one. It's hard to tell where hereditary skittishness ends and the trauma responses begin, judging by how her father acts. She had a horribly unloving upbringing because of her dad which molded her into a prey animal of a girl, bolstered by her basically being kidnapped and sent far from home without warning. Aside from that, I can't really say there's anything wrong with her beyond the persecution complex and self-fulfilling prophecies she conjures up in her head as a result. Therapy would save her. Throwing her into the position of general in the Imperial army... eh... I'd say it helped with her confidence while putting quite a few war crime shaped feathers in her cap. The only real critique I have of her is... she's annoying. Loud, screechy, cries too much, and flails like a dying animal anytime anything remotely negative comes her way. I understand why she does it, I really do. I happen to have an IRL friend exactly like her with very similar circumstances. But that does not mean I cannot find that side of her painfully grating and say as much.

Dorothea, Dorothea, Dorothea. She's a wonderfully flawed but amazing character, and I don't have much to say about her, actually. She had every right to despise the people who kicked her, spat on her, and called her dirty without even making an attempt to help. Her life was unfair, miserable, and terribly lonely. It took Manuela, another commoner who became a powerhouse in the opera industry, to even see her. My only real complaint about her is she cares too much about what people think, projects her insecurities onto other people which makes her assume they think of her the way she thinks of herself, and makes a monolith out of nobles because of the ones she had the misfortunate of dealing with in the past. Granted, all of those complaints get addressed in her supports and she grows as a person as a result. I think those traits only bother me because I know people with them that just... don't grow from that and stay where they are, blaming everyone and everything for the reason they hate themselves and/or why they didn't make it very far in the world.

Petra is... I don't know what she is, actually. Literally, there is nothing wrong with her at all. Her only flaw is not speaking Fodlanish well, and even then, she can apparently read and write in it just fine. She is good at everything she does, no one dislikes her, and no one even says anything about her race - which would have created conflict in other characters. That is an incredibly defining thing for Cyril, Dedue, and Claude, to the point where it is talked about by NPCs, too. But not her. All of 3 people mention Dagda and Brigid going to war with Adrestia, and 1 of them is from Dagda. Maybe I missed something in my playthroughs, idk. I guess you could say that is something I don't like about Petra: that she is, by all accounts, perfect. I mean, you could count her subscribing to the "sins of the father" mentality when she turned on Caspar briefly in both FE3H and FEW3H, but she gets over that fairly quickly.

Jeritza is Fire Emblem's version of The Dark Urge from BG3 who can be redeemed but thinks he's too far gone, and Monica is a simp. Argue with you mother, not with me. (/hj)

The only thing all of the students of the Black Eagles have in common... is they are lemmings and commit war crimes because we told them to. But that can be said about every house's students.

"I don't think I totally agree with Edelgard/Dimitri/Claude/The Church. I'm just here to follow you, professor!" Why? I'm just a guy. We just met a year ago. I could be leading you to your deaths for all you know, but you're with me anyway? We are going to war with your own people. And you're okay with that because I'm here? Well, okay then.

Like I said, I love every student. But you can love someone and understand them, but be critical of their shortcomings as well. That's what family is for lol

[margaretkart]

Hello!

So I was just wondering. You don't have to answer this if you don't want to. I completely understand. What's your opinion on the whole Calypso controversy? Not just in Epic The Musical. Because in that version of the story it's not talked about directly about her SAing Odysseus. But in certain retellings she does. Personally the way I take it is that Calypso had been cast down when she was young (I read that). And she didn't really get to grow up mentally. Because no one was on said island to teach her things. And so she was said to be cursed to fall in love with any man that washed up. And of course with Odysseus she mentally didn't understand the marriage aspect of Him and Penelope. So she kept trying her advances. Now I'm not excusing the behavior in certain retellings. But I personally don't think she realized that she had to have consent to do those things. And I personally don't think she even knew what SA was. And of course she just took what she wanted because she didn't know any better. Now I'm not excusing any behaviors. But I don't hate her nor do I love her. And I feel like the whole debate has gotten out of hand. I get it honestly it was wrong because she did it. But it's really not worth fighting over. And it kind of reminds me of the whole Medusa thing. Because in Greek mythology she was never Raped, nor was Athena a villain. Medusa was born a 'monster' I believe. The Romans took that story and rewrote it. And I feel like..... Just as someone who loves Greek mythology people shouldn't really be upset at other people's opinions on the Calypso story. Because in some retellings: She never sexually assaulted Odysseus. Some story's it was consentual. Others Odysseus stayed faithful. Some he was Assaulted. There are so many retellings that it's not even worth the argument. But anyways I was curious to know what you think?

-✨

What is tiring is people never considering to follow Homer's epics and instead there's a widespread belief that the myths need "fixing" just because they don't align with modern ideologies.

Overall i follow what the sources say and Calypso exploited her power to Odysseus, held him captive for 7 years until the gods had to threaten her so she would finally release him. Having Odysseus being consensual about it, erases the whole point of his character that he never wanted this, the point of showcasing a male victim of SA, something that rarely gets attention. Also it fuels the false belief that Odysseus was a cheater which he never was. Until the very end he wanted to return to his wife and child and his dedication is admiral and beautiful.