Archive of Our Own

“Fresh dates! If they’re not sweet, you don’t pay!”

“Spices on discount! Saffron from the East!”

“Carpets! Carpets! Handwoven carpets!”

“Lamps! Brass lamps! The kind that gives off smoke when you rub them!”

The vendors’ cries came tumbling over one another from the depths of the vaulted arcade. A moment later, the scents of spice and flatbread rushed out to meet them: warm, sweet, sharp, threaded through with the red-hot breath of charcoal. The heat was relentless. If one stopped and breathed in carefully, one could even pick out, beneath it all, a faint trace of fruit and amber. Before setting foot inside the bazaar, a person could already guess most of what was being sold there.

Only minutes ago, the whole city had been reduced to the dry smell of earth. Hot wind had filled the nose with grit, that coarse dust so acrid it left an ashy taste on the tongue. Now the senses were flooded with noise. His ears leapt from a roaring silence into a clamor bright with color, and at last he could believe he was still among the living.

Night had fallen. The lamps were just being lit. Wind stirred the awnings, and oil flames leapt beneath the stalls in golden flashes, breaking into mottled shards of light across brass trays, glass bottles, and strings of beads. As the crowd moved, the light moved with it. From a distance, the whole market looked like a ribbon of red and gold woven through the air.

Children darted past him in pursuit of their friends, their feet kicking up dust. Mothers hurried through with little baskets full of spices. Travelers stopped and gazed into the depths of the lanternlight, as though the exhaustion of crossing the desert could be set down here, if only for a moment.

Beneath that dazzling prosperity, the less welcome livestock were tethered near the caravanserai not far from the gate. Caravans from the sea of sand often entered the city at this hour, each one busy unloading foreign goods in hopes of fetching a fine price in the bazaar. The camels enjoyed a rare scrap of stolen leisure, chewing slowly through the fodder the merchants had given them, the bells at their necks trembling and echoing beneath the arcade. A few goats penned behind wooden rails butted their horns together, earning lashes and curses. The horses tossed their manes like wind-swollen cloaks.

Step too near, and one would come away smelling of hay and animal sweat from head to toe. One also had to watch the stone road underfoot, where discarded food scraps and fruit peels had been dumped at random and trampled into pulp.

Phainon caught the sharp, neglected stench and frowned, lifting his gauze headscarf to cover his nose.

He wore a tailored desert robe, its shoulders and sleeves embroidered in bright patterns. The last light of sunset seemed to dance between the threads. Anyone who saw him would have mistaken him for a nobleman who had come on a whim to enjoy the night market.

The street performers noticed him at once. Their drowsiness vanished. One began to play his oud with renewed vigor, even shifting half a step forward in an attempt to catch the attention of this distinguished guest. The mellow, rounded notes woke the other sleepy performers. They exchanged glances, then joined in one after another. The lilting voice of a ney sloped down from a rooftop terrace; the rougher timbre of a rabab caught it steadily; finally, a darbuka added a teasing beat, and an entire improvised ensemble took shape in the air.

Even during the liveliest season of the year, such a scene was not common. Buyers in the middle of haggling forgot the prices they had meant to name and drifted toward the source of the music. Vendors continued discussing business, but their shoulders could not help swaying gently with the rhythm. The flautist on the rooftop sat on a windowsill with both feet dangling in the air, tapping time as he played, his bracelets flashing silver in the lamplight. Even those sunk deep in their hookahs heard the stir outside the teahouse and poked their heads out one by one to watch.

Smoke curled up along the eaves, mingling with the lanternlight and dyeing the night warm and hazy.

The gathering crowd gave Phainon his chance to slip away. Quietly, he left ten copper coins for each of the performers—except the one on the roof, since he had no idea how to get up there and find the man—then withdrew from that place filled with music and laughter.

Fortunately, the sudden interlude did nothing to spoil his pleasure in the bazaar. It was no more than an appetizer. Farther in, another world opened.

The stalls he had heard calling earlier lined both sides of the street. Vendors had tied their lamps with colored cords, making stall and market alike bright as day, while the night hid itself behind the awnings. As Phainon passed a stall heaped with spices, the dense smell of cardamom and pepper made his nose prickle. The stallholder scooped up a handful of cumin powder and spread it beneath the lamp. Brown-gold dust lifted into the air like a tiny stream of sand.

At last, Phainon stopped beside an unremarkable fruit stall. His nose had been caught by the sweetness of pomegranates and figs split open for display. The flesh was full, jewel-bright, and shamelessly tempting. The stallholder was cutting into another pomegranate with a brass knife; juice gathered at the tip of the blade in a single ruby drop. He held the cut face toward Phainon, inviting him to judge for himself.

“Fresh as if it were just picked from an oasis.”

Phainon lifted the beautiful half-pomegranate and breathed in carefully. The stallholder’s claim of superior goods proved no empty boast, so Phainon paid in silver and left with two large bags.

He was in no hurry to eat them.

Instead, he found the little girl who had been following him from a corner since earlier. Her clothes were clearly castoffs from an older brother or sister. Her hair was tangled, her feet bare, and she looked like the youngest child in the house, the one no one had much attention left to spare. When she realized Phainon had noticed her, she grew frightened. Her timid eyes fixed on him.

Phainon crouched and held one of the bags out to her.

“These are all yours. Enjoy them properly. Let’s call it a secret between the two of us, hm?”

Once she confirmed that the adult in front of her truly meant her no harm, the little girl accepted the bag of pomegranates and kept murmuring her thanks.

Phainon smiled and ruffled her hair. The gesture seemed to give her courage. Tentatively, she asked, “Are you the prince of Kremnos? I heard people say the prince sneaks out of the castle to play… You look noble and kind. I guessed you must be someone important.”

“Well,” Phainon said, scratching his head with some embarrassment, “I’m not anyone that impressive. But I’m very glad to receive a compliment from such a lovely lady. It’s getting late. Before bad people find you, remember to go home.”

“May Nikador bless you.”

She clutched the pomegranates to herself. After only a few steps, she could not help turning back to bow to Phainon. She did it several more times before finally vanishing into the crowd.

Phainon continued through the bazaar, took out a pomegranate, cracked it open with his bare hands, and ate as he walked. The bag had looked full, but before long, there was little left. Once he had dealt with the peels and scraps, he found the open-air well in the market and washed the red juice from his hands and face so he no longer looked like some blood-drinking monster.

The well water was cold. Phainon sank his hands into it for a moment before splashing it over his face. The chill slid along his brow bones to the side of his neck, rinsing away some of the night market’s oppressive heat.

What a pleasant place, Phainon thought.

He lifted his eyes toward the awnings hung high above. Layers of ocher red and blue-gold patterns formed the backdrop of tonight’s dream.

Without quite noticing it, he had wandered into the quarter where the expensive wares were sold. Unlike the stalls from earlier, this was the kind of place where one did not dare linger without gold on one’s person, for fear the shopkeeper might ask whether one intended to buy. But Phainon had little interest in the dazzling array before him. Even the handwoven Persian carpets embroidered with gold thread failed to hold his gaze, because he had a better one of his own. Phainon dared say that all the carpets here put together would not be worth as much as his.

A jeweler with sharp eyes recognized that the crescent earring on Phainon’s right ear had no ordinary origin, and he came over at once, eager to ingratiate himself.

“The royal house of Kremnos buys from me!”

Phainon’s gaze fell on a pair of golden sun-disc earrings set upon silk brocade. The merchant was delighted and praised his eye without pause.

“A pity, truly. This pair is only a brass replica for display. The pure gold originals were bought long ago by a mysterious beauty. If my guest wants them, he will have to wait until next year, perhaps even the year after.”

“A beauty?” The white-haired man raised one eyebrow. “How beautiful?”

He seemed to find the claim laughable, most likely some nonsense invented to draw in customers. Yet one had to admit: even if most men felt nothing for jewels, that did not mean they could resist imagining a soul-stealing encounter upon hearing of some unknown beauty. Whether he would unveil the mystery himself, or discover he had merely been fattened for an elaborate scam, would depend on his fortune.

Clearly, Phainon had never considered the possibility that he might be cheated. He had simply found, on this slightly restless night, something amusing enough to pursue.

Seeing that Phainon’s interest had been caught, the jeweler’s face gathered into fleshy folds. He smiled until his gold tooth showed. Then he looked left and right, made sure no one was listening, and leaned close to Phainon’s ear.

“This person appears several times a year. No one knows where he comes from, but some say they have seen that figure near Kremnos Castle. So at the very least, he must be a noble.”

It sounded like pure rumor chasing its own tail. Still, it did happen to agree with what the little girl had said earlier.

Phainon knew he could not leave empty-handed. From somewhere, he produced a gold coin and tossed it into the merchant’s palm. He bought nothing, only asking the man to give him something a little more useful.

“Later tonight, if you suddenly see guards looking for someone, that means the person is in the market. Oh, may Nikador bless me—I have done nothing wicked.”

The merchant pressed his hands together and piously kissed the tips of his index fingers. Before his prayer, however, he had already tucked the gold coin into his clothes with remarkable speed. Phainon could not help doubting the sincerity of his devotion. Most likely, the man had already made a fortune selling this private scrap of information. Telling Phainon only added one more sin to his gravestone.

“No matter,” Phainon said. “I am no follower of the Titan of Strife. Guilty or innocent, that blade cannot judge me.”

As he spoke, he quietly stole his own gold coin back.

He had been right. Nikador’s greatsword did not come flying at him as expected. Beyond that, however, he felt no grace of absolution. The rumor, worth several nights in a lover’s bed, remained nothing more than a flower in water, the moon in a mirror: visible, untouchable. Unless a genie leapt out of a lamp and demanded he pay ten times the price—and even that much money meant little to Phainon—he only wanted to gamble a little, to see whether fortune’s goddess favored him.

Yet after walking through the entire night market, he still had not met so much as a shadow of the person he was looking for.

Pretty faces were everywhere. Phainon simply felt they were missing something.

He could stay here only for one night. That meant he had no chance tonight. But Phainon had always been willing to accept the terms of a wager, win or lose, so he did not linger. He turned and followed the road back the way he had come.

The night had deepened. Most of the stalls were preparing to close. Those with little money would choose this hour to trade their few coins for leftover food. After all, food left overnight would be hard to sell at a proper price the next day, so most merchants did not mind the small loss; at least they could recover something. What they hated was credit. Those who asked to pay later rarely kept their promises. Some did not even bother appearing a second time, and freely admitted they had never had a coin to begin with.

But that did not stop the shameless from trying.

“Don’t joke with me. Coin in one hand, goods in the other. If you don’t pay, I can’t sell you the bread!”

Just as Phainon was about to pass through the arcade and leave the bazaar, he heard a shout. Curiosity drove him toward the source of the sound.

At the bread stall, a tall man wrapped in a cloak was arguing with the merchant. More precisely, he did not seem to intend to argue at all. It was the stallholder who looked displeased and was desperately trying to drive him away.

“How about this?” the man said. “I will compensate you with gold later. I forgot to bring money when I went out. You have to believe me.”

His words were courteous. His manner was elegant. No matter how one looked at him, he did not seem like someone reduced to being unable to afford even bread. Faced with the bread seller’s foul attitude, he remained calm and tried to negotiate, even offering terms that sounded like something from a fairy tale.

Phainon had not expected to enjoy such a show just before leaving. He hid in the shadows and watched with interest, wanting to see how things would unfold.

“Bread in exchange for gold?” The merchant was not moved in the slightest by this extravagant temptation. Instead, as if he had heard a divine omen of disaster, he threw the bread—no longer fresh—into the dusty sack beside his feet. The meaning was clear: he would rather take the loss than believe the man’s nonsense. “If deals that good existed, I’d have made my fortune and quit this trade long ago. I’ve seen plenty like you. Enough. Get lost.”

“I… cannot guarantee other things, but I can absolutely produce gold. How about this? Name a price, and tomorrow I will have someone deliver it to your residence as promised.”

“Lad, real rich men don’t rack their brains over a loaf of bread. I’d sooner believe I’m Eurypon, King of Kremnos, governing by day and selling bread at night because I’ve nothing better to do.”

“I advise you to watch your tongue. Eurypon himself would not enjoy hearing such words. If he were displeased, I could not guarantee you would leave in one piece.”

A man who could not even buy bread was speaking of an offense against the king with a perfectly ordinary expression, in a tone as if he were personally familiar with the ruler of the nation.

Phainon grew more and more curious about who, exactly, was hidden beneath that cloak.

“I think you’ve lost yourself in the part,” the merchant said. “Keep this up and I’ll call someone. Save the rest for the patrol.”

“You—”

The man had just begun to flare up when his stomach gave a clear growl.

Phainon could not see his whole face, but from the man’s hesitation, he had likely fallen into an awkward position. Phainon stepped out from the shadows and came to the bread stall. The merchant immediately changed into a business smile and asked warmly what he might need.

Only then did Phainon see the man’s face clearly.

Those narrow golden eyes stole his breath for a brief instant. The man looked at him only once, then turned his head away and wrapped himself more carefully in his cloak.

“I will pay the compensation he mentioned.”

Phainon took out the same gold coin that had spent only a few minutes in the jeweler’s purse and flicked it onto the bread stall with his thumb. This time, he would not secretly take it back. The person before him was completely worth any sum thrown away for his sake.

“Besides your bread, the rest buys me the right to speak with him.”

The little bread seller had never seen such a display. His eyes darted back and forth between their faces, unsure whether fortune itself had come to his stall or some god of plague. He picked up the gold coin and bit it. Pure gold, without question. At once, his face split into a grin. He swiftly packed up the loaves that were still presentable and offered them to Phainon with both hands.

The white-haired man did not take them. Instead, he indicated with his eyes that the other man was the customer.

“My humble shop has been lacking in hospitality, terribly lacking… Please take these loaves first. Tomorrow, I will save you a fresh batch.”

The merchant had cast off his arrogance and was now bowing and scraping before the very person he had scolded only moments ago.

“Give them, free of charge, to those who need them more. I won’t take them.” The man pointed toward the old women not far away, who had been waiting to buy stale bread. At his words, light rose in their eyes. “I only want the one you threw away just now.”

“You… are you certain?”

“There is no word for waste in Kremnoan.”

The merchant carefully took the hardened bread from the sack and wiped away the dust with a clean cloth. Once the man got what he wanted, he turned and left without looking back. The people nearby immediately crowded around the bread seller.

He must have been truly hungry, because in a few quick bites he had already eaten half of that lump that might as well have been stone. He intended to leave the rest for the man who had paid, but discovered that the other party had vanished.

What a strange person. He had spoken so boldly a moment ago, and now he had disappeared without a trace.

The man did not believe the stranger had simply left. Surely he was waiting somewhere.

“I’m glad you didn’t forget me.”

The voice came from above.

The man turned his head and found Phainon’s face hanging upside down before him. Phainon stuck out his tongue, made a face, then flipped down from the awning and landed lightly beside him. The gold and silver ornaments on his body jingled.

“How did you get up there?”

“Guess. If you guess correctly, I’ll tell you.”

Phainon winked at him with mischievous ease. It was a trick that worked well on young ladies, but used on the man in front of him, it bounced back as if it had struck stone.

The man thanked him for intervening, then shoved the remaining half of the bread into Phainon’s arms.

“For you.”

“No need.”

In the space of a single blink, the bread had returned to the man’s hand.

So he liked lending a hand, and he was a magician besides. The man no longer stood on ceremony, nor did he bother with dignity. He wolfed down the other half of the bread and finally looked somewhat full.

“You really are strange. Someone was willing to pay for you, but you wanted something that hard to swallow.”

Watching him eat with a mixture of elegance and greed, Phainon could not help wanting to take him back through the night market and let him feast to his heart’s content. Unfortunately, at this hour, not only had the flatbread stalls closed, even the wandering vendors selling street snacks had gone home to sleep.

“I meant to buy that one from the beginning. I really did forget my purse when I went out today. Tell me your name. I will repay the money.”

“Nothing else?” Phainon pressed a hand to his chest, putting on the wounded expression of a man heartbroken beyond repair.

The man frowned at this little performance and explained, somewhat bewildered, that he did not like owing favors. Besides, he had not asked anyone to do such a thing.

“Phainon,” he said. “An adventurer. No fixed home; the world is home enough.”

“Mydeimos. That is all I can tell you.”

Whether it was an illusion or not, Phainon felt he had heard that name somewhere before. For the moment, he could not recall where, so he set the doubt aside and asked what Mydeimos planned to do tonight.

“I don’t know yet. I only wanted to come out and clear my head. Anywhere is fine. What about you?”

“No destination. Just wandering. But you may not see me tomorrow, so we’ll take the rest one step at a time.”

“If you can rein in that glib tongue of yours, I would not mind you accompanying me for the night.”

“Gladly. But before we choose our next destination, will you tell me why you were wandering the bazaar alone?”

“Must you ask so many questions?”

Mydeimos refused to answer, yet still, almost despite himself, followed Phainon’s steps.

“Come now. For the sake of that gold coin, asking for one tiny answer should not be excessive, should it? My dear Lord Mydeimos.”

“Hmph. I would pay ten times that to make you shut up for five minutes.”

“But at the moment, you are penniless. Not a single copper to your name.”

They bickered as they walked, their shadows spilling one after the other across the wall of the arcade. In the middle of their banter, the two reached the market entrance. Unlike when Phainon had first arrived, a temporary checkpoint had been set up nearby. Guards were inspecting the identities of everyone passing through.

Phainon had just started toward it when someone seized him by the arm.

He turned. Mydeimos looked as if he were facing a mortal enemy, his expression suddenly panicked.

“We need to leave another way. We cannot go through there.”

“Why?”

Phainon tilted his head, deliberately innocent.

Mydeimos let out a heavy sigh, as though he had encountered some terrible difficulty. If he did not explain clearly, Phainon would probably keep pretending not to understand and continue asking until he got the answer he wanted.

“Those people are looking for me. For certain reasons, I cannot let them find me right now.”

A careful look showed that “those people” wore deep red robes covered by ornate scale armor patterned in gold. The sleeves exposed beneath were embroidered, subtly, with half a sun in silver thread. Phainon was not sure which force those emblems belonged to, but they were certainly not insignificant.

The men carrying out the search wore curved blades marked with golden lines. Beside them, the sentries stood with bronze-fitted ceremonial spears of the kind that usually belonged only to castle guards. Each man also carried a short curved dagger at his waist, useful for close combat with ruffians.

The city patrol had always been lazy in its habits; even children did not fear them much. They would never mobilize in such numbers to raid the night market unless there was a reward involved. More importantly, ordinary patrolmen did not have spare coin to outfit themselves with such luxurious weapons. They would much rather spend their money on women and pleasure.

As an outsider, Phainon knew none of this. He only found the jeweler’s words faintly resurfacing in his mind.

Later tonight, if you suddenly see guards looking for someone, that means the person is in the market.

Mydeimos covered half his face with his cloak, completely unaware of Phainon quietly studying him.

Of course, the adventurer’s love-addled mind had not yet become entirely incurable. Heavy guard could mean Mydeimos was some fugitive criminal. But Phainon had already seen his noble side. A man who would give food first to old women and children surely carried a kind heart. So Phainon dismissed that conclusion with ease.

“Do you trust me?”

Faced with the sudden question, Mydeimos neither agreed nor refused.

Phainon took his hand.

“I’ll get you out. But you have to stay close to me. Not one step away.”

“Wait…”

Mydeimos tried to stop him, but it was too late. The two of them were already approaching the gate.

“Cover your face. Don’t speak. I’ll deal with them.”

Phainon murmured the instruction, then greeted the guards with a smile.

“Hard work, everyone. On duty so late. I have a little spare silver here—take it for wine.”

As he spoke, he produced a small brocade pouch as if by sleight of hand and placed it in the hand of the leader, a man wearing a metal helm. The man accepted the bribe, but did not immediately allow them through. As procedure required, he asked for Phainon’s identity and that of the person behind him.

“I am the Prince of Aedes Elysiae,” Phainon said. “I have come to Kremnos under orders to travel and observe the local customs. As for the one behind me—”

He drew Mydeimos intimately in by the waist.

“—this is my new bride. She does not show her face before any man but me. I ask your understanding.”

The lie had been invented on the spot, yet it successfully froze the scene.

Several broad-shouldered guards exchanged glances. This touched on diplomatic protocol. No one dared move carelessly. If something went wrong, losing one’s head would not be enough to settle the matter. But Mydeimos was tall. Even bent over with all his strength, he could not be mistaken for a delicate woman.

The guard captain said he wished to see her eyes. Once he confirmed there was nothing wrong, they could go.

“Fine,” Phainon said.

Mydeimos’s heart jolted. Was this not simply offering up his identity?

But Phainon pretended to adjust the cloak for him. In that instant, he leaned to Mydeimos’s ear and whispered, “Now. Run.”

Everything happened too quickly.

Mydeimos felt himself dragged forward by tremendous force. To keep up, he could only force his legs to move. The wind tore the hood from his head, revealing golden hair like a lion’s mane, the red at its ends as if it had been kissed by flame.

“We found His Highness Mydeimos!”

“Careful! Don’t hurt him!”

“Wait—who is that beside him?”

The stunned guards snapped awake as if from a dream. Shouting, they passed the news on, seized their weapons, and gave chase. The troops stationed outside the market heard the commotion and immediately tried to surround the fleeing pair from every direction.

Phainon glanced left and right from the corners of his eyes, then suddenly pulled Mydeimos into a narrow side lane. The roads here were tangled and complicated; there should not have been guards specifically posted in such a place. Yet no one could have expected that, around the next corner, one guard was facing the foot of a wall and preparing to relieve himself.

Seeing Phainon and Mydeimos, he did not even have time to pull up his trousers before he blew the horn in his hand.

“Sorry!”

With all possible speed, Phainon struck the young guard with the edge of his hand and sent him into a baby-soft sleep. But the troops outside the lane had already received the message and were rushing in the right direction. There was likely another squad waiting at the exit. Even if they ran out now, being surrounded was only a matter of time.

The dense clatter of footsteps drew nearer and nearer.

Phainon lost the confidence he had worn just moments before. He did not know the surroundings at all. For a moment, he was utterly at a loss as to where they should run.

Fortunately, there was still Mydeimos.

Without a word, Mydeimos shoved him. The two of them toppled sideways into a narrow space. They did not fall to the ground. Instead, they were caught firmly by a wall that seemed to have appeared from nowhere—a strange leftover pocket of space, perhaps the result of poor planning. It was so cramped that hiding two tall men there was already the absolute limit.

Phainon had just begun to struggle free when a hand covered his mouth.

“Shh. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.”

Mydeimos’s breath fell across his face. Phainon caught the fresh scent of pomegranate.

He lifted his eyes in search of its source and, by the faint light, met Mydeimos’s gaze. All at once, he held his breath.

Their noses nearly touched. Every fine texture of skin was visible. In his mind, Phainon traced, stroke by stroke, Mydeimos’s red eyeshadow and the diamond-shaped birthmark beneath his right eye.

On the other side of a single wall, the lane was packed with pursuers. Yet in that instant, none of it mattered.

They were pressed tightly together. Between one heart and the other lay only two layers of skin. Every beat of Mydeimos’s heart came through with impossible clarity, along with the rhythm of his breathing and the tiny stir of air raised by his fluttering lashes. His hair fell to his collarbone. Part of it brushed Phainon’s cheek, bringing a faint itch. Without thinking, Phainon caught a small lock and pressed it beneath his nose.

Mydeimos’s eyes widened. His birthmark gave off a dim, ghostly light. He drew a deep breath. Then he remembered they were still hiding from the guards. Pressing his knuckles against his mouth and nose, he let Phainon do as he pleased, while his own gaze drifted elsewhere in an attempt to conceal the quickening of his pulse.

Time seemed to freeze into eternity.

They embraced in that strange position until their limbs gradually went numb. The guards searched back and forth several times, yet found no trace of them. The young man who had sounded the alarm muttered, puzzled, “Strange. They were just around here.”

Then new information arrived. It seemed someone elsewhere had spotted suspicious figures. The crowd of guards left in a rush, and the surroundings returned to calm.

Mydeimos, however, did not dare act carelessly. He kept Phainon pinned in place for a long while, until he was certain no one would return. Only then did he finally relax. He left the cramped space first and stretched his stiff limbs.

“What exactly are you, that so many people would come to catch you alone?”

Phainon could not help complaining. He stepped out after him, but because he had held the same position for too long, he nearly fell. Mydeimos caught him steadily.

“Not as impressive as lying without blinking.” Mydeimos rolled his eyes. Thinking back on the scene still made his heart pound. “You had better pray the true Prince of Aedes Elysiae never learns someone used his identity to spread rumors. And that he really does have a wife. Otherwise…”

Phainon did not care at all.

“Mm… as far as I know, that lord has indeed reached marriageable age, but remains single to this day.”

“Very well. I did not expect a person could be foolish so thoroughly. I hope they are merciful enough to hang you. I doubt you would enjoy water torture.”

“That sounds terrifying. But they won’t catch me, so there’s no need to mourn.”

“Hmph. Easy to say.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

Two arms crossed like ghosts to either side of Mydeimos’s body, cutting off his escape.

“I’m sorry. What question?”

“Don’t try to muddle through.”

Phainon was very good at pretending not to hear. Mydeimos, by contrast, was very bad at it. His acting could only be called clumsy.

“Fine. Fine.” Under Phainon’s stare, he grew uncomfortable all over and finally yielded. “I argued with my father and slipped out alone. Those people were probably sent by him to bring me back.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

Phainon half believed him, half did not. Still, he obediently stepped aside.

Mydeimos put his hood back on and ignored Phainon’s offered hand. He returned to that aloof attitude that kept strangers at a distance, as if the tension and warmth from before had been an illusion. The two of them felt their way out of the maze-like lane. Neither spoke again.

At the road’s end, Phainon thought they would part ways there.

But Mydeimos was still at his side, showing not the slightest intention of leaving.

“It’s late,” Phainon said. “You should go back. Don’t make your father worry.”

Mydeimos shook his head.

“I don’t want to go yet.”

Phainon could not tell what he was thinking. He was gentle, proud, full of principles, and yet when someone came too close, he showed his teeth. That temperament was remarkably similar to someone his mother had once described. Phainon had never met that person. He only remembered her saying he had been a solitary, proud child.

Perhaps Mydeimos simply needed someone to keep him company for one night and wanted nothing more.

And, conveniently, there stood Phainon before him, wholeheartedly available.

“Come with me.”

No more pursuers. No more panic. A curved waning moon broke over the horizon and hung high in the sky, lighting the road ahead as they ran.

Phainon held Mydeimos’s hand tightly, afraid that if he loosened his grip even slightly, he would lose him. A fine layer of sweat had gathered in his palm. Mydeimos did not know where he was being taken. He only let himself chase Phainon’s steps. Night wind poured into his cloak and tossed his hair into disorder, making him look like a true lion.

The corner of his mouth lifted. Then he laughed aloud.

Phainon asked what he was laughing at.

“I have never felt this free.”

By the time they reached the outer edge of the buildings, both were out of breath. Ahead, there was no road. Beneath their feet lay the boundless desert. Without the protection of high walls, the wind abandoned all pretense of gentleness and seemed ready at any moment to fling a person into the sky.

Phainon pressed his right thumb and forefinger between his teeth and whistled toward the wilderness as if calling for something.

Only the clamor of the open land answered him.

“Do you trust me?”

For the second time that night, he spoke those words to Mydeimos.

When he received an affirmative answer, Phainon told him to hold on tightly. Mydeimos’s arms had only just wrapped around Phainon’s neck when he felt everything below his waist leave the ground.

He had been lifted in a bridal carry.

And one of Phainon’s feet was already on the edge of the outer wall.

“Wait. We’ll fall!”

Alarm raced up Mydeimos’s spine. He struggled to get down, but Phainon gave him no chance to escape. Word by word, he announced,

“We’re going into the desert—”

There was not even a warning.

Phainon leapt with him.

Weightlessness surged over them like a tide. A lion-like roar tore through the night sky. Mydeimos abandoned all dignity and let the sound burst uncontrollably from his throat. After all, no one could have imagined that someone would be mad enough to drag a person he had only just met into death with him.

He desperately tried to shove Phainon away in the name of survival. Instinct, however, made him cling to Phainon’s neck all the more tightly, with such force that he nearly crushed the man’s spine.

Several seconds later—or several centuries—Mydeimos held his breath, waiting for the expected agony of all four limbs striking the ground.

Instead, he heard a low, drawn-out tremor.

It did not come from the desert floor.

It came from beneath them.

The direction of the wind changed abruptly. What had been a howl tearing at their eardrums became a long, low song slipping past their sides.

The two of them sank together into something soft and thick, as if they had fallen into a net already spread open for them. It swallowed them gently. Mydeimos opened his eyes with a start. The night was still serene. They had not fallen into the gaping maw of an abyss, nor into death’s embrace.

Dark fabric stretched beneath the moonlight. Its fringed edges lifted in a smooth arc. Fine patterns rippled in the wind like breath, rising and falling faintly.

They were suspended in midair.

“…Phainon.”

Mydeimos ground out the other man’s name, his voice tight with fear. He clutched the woolen surface beneath him and still did not dare move, afraid one unnecessary motion would invite a second fall.

Beside him, Phainon was breathing hard. Clearly, he had not fared much better, yet he still wore the triumphant smile of a man who had gotten away with something.

“Sorry! I didn’t know catching two people at once would be this difficult.”

“Are you insane?”

The carpet beneath them seemed to understand Mydeimos’s complaint. It suddenly tilted and made a turn, diving all the way down. Mydeimos failed to hold on and rolled straight into Phainon’s arms.

The situation seemed only marginally better than jumping directly into the desert.

“Ah, well, it’s a rather disobedient dog,” Phainon said innocently, as if none of this had anything to do with him. “You have to say something nice to it, Mydeimos.”

“HKS, you damned hyena!”

Mydeimos cursed in Old Kremnoan without thinking, and, miraculously, things improved.

The carpet beneath them spread itself out in delight. Just before they could crash to their deaths in the desert, it managed to lift its angle and steady itself, bearing the weight of them both. Then it rose slowly.

The ground receded again. Night wind swept past, and the corners of the fabric snapped sharply.

The danger was temporarily over. Phainon released a breath and let his body relax, collapsing back onto the carpet.

Mydeimos was still held in his arms. He looked a little dazed and clutched Phainon’s collar without letting go, his knuckles white. He was alive. He was alive, whole and unharmed. Yet it did not feel real.

“If I had known this would happen, I would never have followed you… madman.”

He cursed under his breath, cold sweat covering his forehead.

Phainon laughed softly, resting his chin against the crown of Mydeimos’s hair. His tone was light.

“Regretting it now? Too late.”

Mydeimos gave a soft huff.

To say he did not regret it would be a lie, but regret was not all he felt. Although they had known one another for only a few hours, they had already shared one mad adventure after another. Even remembering such a night in the future would be enough to quicken the heart.

But then he thought: perhaps this was his last night of indulgence.

When the sun rose, the man before him—the self-proclaimed adventurer—would take his flying carpet and head for his next destination. Mydeimos would be left behind, left inside another long and tedious night.

At that thought, his eyes dimmed.

Several fingers slid back and forth along his spine through the cloak. Phainon seemed to sense his unusual silence and mistook it for fear.

“What are you staring into space for?”

Mydeimos turned over and looked directly at him.

“I think this is much more interesting than being locked in the castle.”

“You mean that castle?”

Following the direction Phainon pointed, Mydeimos looked toward the end of the sand sea. There, faintly, a castle appeared suspended beneath the firmament.

It was the most ancient and most revered landmark of Castrum Kremnos: Kremnos Castle.

Some unspeakable power held it aloft, close to the place where gods might dwell. It stood in midair.

Directly beneath the castle, a golden greatsword symbolizing Nikador, the Titan of Strife, hung in silence. Its blade swallowed and released a cold radiance. It never fell, never shifted, towering beneath the city and above all living beings. Rather than a weapon meant to be swung, it was a symbol: a proclamation of power, judgment, and unquestionable order.

Countless people who worshiped the Titan of Strife had bowed before that greatsword for generations. Whether in the city, in the wilderness, or far away on merchant roads, whenever the horn of dusk sounded from the depths of the castle, people stopped whatever they were doing and lowered their heads in reverence. Legend said that in that moment, even birds and beasts in the forest would bow low, praying beneath the twilight for a sliver of Nikador’s protection.

Thousands of years ago, this land had been ravaged by war.

Iron hooves and armored cavalry shattered cities. Wailing and blood soaked the sand. Life withered; the people had no way to live. It was on such a night that Nikador followed the flames of war and the cries of the dying, descending with several bolts of thunder.

By His power alone, He ended all conflict and turned the battlefield into its final conclusion. Then, in the name of strife, He forged Himself into a fortress. The first man who followed Him into war became the first king of Kremnos.

After that, Nikador never again answered any prayer.

He was like the last relic of the world, silent as a distant star.

And yet, beneath His watch, the desert—once so wounded by war that not a single tender shoot could grow—began to give birth to oasis after oasis. Clear springs rose from beneath the sand. The land could be cultivated. People multiplied, settled, and lived. Trade roads stretched across the wasteland. Commerce and civilization took root in silence.

As if this land itself were the final echo He had left behind.

Mydeimos hummed, softly, the Kremnoan epic he had known since childhood, offering it to the god who still kept His silence.

The blade hangs in heaven; the city stands in air.

War ends in Him; turmoil stills beneath His name.

Nikador, Nikador—

the wound the world requires.

Though the god is silent, all things are born.

Under the white-haired man’s gaze, Mydeimos untied the cord at his neck.

The cloak slid down. Concealment and disguise fell away with it. He presented his true self before Phainon.

His upper body was almost bare, covered only by a split-shouldered mantle. The fabric draped along the line of his shoulders, its edges heavy with long fringe that brushed downward like votive banners. Across his skin, flame-shaped tattoos kissed his torso. Their lines wound and tangled, converging at his chest into a bloodstained lily.

Crimson and gold intertwined like an undying sacrificial fire deep in the desert. Beneath Phainon’s silent gaze, they glowed with an almost divine radiance.

A chain made of linked metal discs circled his waist, each disc touching the next. Below it, layers of a slit skirt fell in red panels. At the fabric’s edge, the tattoos continuing along his thighs appeared and vanished by turns.

In that moment, Mydeimos seemed like an anointed one stepped out of some ancient desert faith: cloaked in flame, his body a vessel carrying an oracle.

Splendor was no longer mere adornment. It was a declaration.

The sacred did not descend from on high. It poured down from him, quiet and unceasing.

But something was still missing.

As if sensing Phainon’s thought, Mydeimos took out a pair of sun-disc earrings—the very pair Phainon had seen earlier at the jeweler’s stall—and fastened them beneath his earlobes.

At last, every clue linked together.

The prince rumored to sneak out of the castle to play. The mysterious buyer of the pure gold earrings. The person who had suddenly appeared in the market, pursued by guards who did not dare overstep too rashly.

From the very beginning, Mydeimos had not truly intended to hide his identity. And as Phainon spent time with him, he had gradually realized that the person he sought had been in front of him all along. The adventurer had not exposed him rashly. He had waited for the prince to deliver himself into his hands.

So Phainon bowed deeply.

Because he was sitting on the carpet, the gesture looked rather ridiculous.

“It is an honor, Lord Mydeimos.”

He lifted his head, returning at once to his usual expression, and teased, “Or should I address you as Your Highness? Have mercy on a lowly offender like me, and do not spread word of tonight’s little disaster. I would still like to keep my corpse intact.”

He meant, of course, the fact that he had nearly carried the prince headfirst into the desert.

“As you like. But do not be too excessive.” Mydeimos paused. “You… may treat me as an ordinary person.”

At least tonight, Mydeimos did not want to mention his true identity. He especially did not want it to open distance between them.

“As you command. Shall I escort you back to the castle, then?”

Mydeimos looked toward distant Kremnos Castle and shook his head. He told Phainon to turn the carpet in another direction. It so happened that he had a place he wanted to go.

“And what about me? You cannot simply throw me away like this, Mydeimos.”

The adventurer put on a pitiful face. Had he possessed a tail, it would surely have been wagging without cease.

“Hmph. For the sake of the bread money, come to my place. I have a private residence no one knows about. This time, I will make an exception and allow you to stay for one night.”

Before Phainon could slip into his habitual teasing, Mydeimos warned him first.

“If you dare reveal it to anyone else, the guards’ curved blades will not show you mercy.”

Phainon was not afraid of such things. He smiled.

“That remains to be seen. If I send you back now, they may even thank me.”

The desert at night was silent. Darkness covered the earth like a vast sack, and only the curved moon above served as a guiding light. Following the direction Mydeimos described, Phainon adjusted the flying carpet and skimmed low over the ground.

They crossed dune after dune. At last, a tiny white point, almost impossible to notice, appeared reluctantly in their line of sight. As they drew nearer, the point grew larger, and Phainon saw a white building veiled in mist. From afar, it looked like something the desert had grown after centuries of silence.

So this was the secret hideaway Mydeimos had mentioned.

The carpet flew above the white building and descended carefully against the fierce night wind. Mydeimos stepped down first. Phainon followed and studied the residence before him.

It seemed steeped in moonlight, its whole body reflecting an ivory warmth. The smooth texture of the walls told him that the house had been built mainly from sandstone, its surface finished with lime plaster. It held both the wisdom of masons working with the land beneath their feet and the practicality needed to withstand erosion by wind and sand. The building was broad and low, perfect for stargazing and cooling oneself on nights when the weather was clear.

As a place for a prince to go when in poor spirits, it could not have been more suitable.

Phainon sincerely liked this house.

It was understated, small, and exquisite, like the pearl earrings that might hang from Mydeimos’s ears. Though the prince was now wearing radiant sun-disc earrings, Phainon was certain that somewhere in his jewelry case lay a pair of deep-sea pearls brought by envoys from a foreign land—pearls Mydeimos must have taken one look at and immediately claimed for his collection.

Perhaps Mydeimos was pleased to see a well-traveled adventurer so captivated by his house. Out loud, he urged, “Come on. Don’t stand there. It’s even better inside.”

In truth, he allowed Phainon to remain at the entrance for a long while, looking here, touching there. Only after Phainon had seen and touched to his satisfaction did Mydeimos lead him through the arched doorway.

Unlike the harsh world of wind and sand outside, this place held another realm within it. It was as if the archway were some kind of miraculous boundary, easily dividing inside from outside into two separate worlds.

The moment Phainon entered, he found himself in a quiet, half-open inner courtyard. White bricks paved the entire ground, smooth enough to walk across barefoot. Silver-leaf palms grew in one corner. At the center stood a pale blue basin, and as he passed it, he felt a coolness rise from the water.

“This place really is lovely, Mydeimos. I knew you had noble taste, but this still exceeds my expectations.”

“It is thanks to a Mountain Dweller named Chartonus,” Mydeimos said. “He is the finest stonemason in all Kremnos, and he is also skilled at forging weapons. Many years ago, my father wished to build goodwill with a distant border kingdom. From all the blades Chartonus had forged, he chose a sword named Dawnmaker—Chartonus’s greatest work—and gave it to the prince who had just been born in that country.”

For Mydeimos to mention another person of his own accord was novel enough that Phainon could not help asking, “And what became of that prince?”

Mydeimos shook his head.

“I have never met him, let alone learned anything of his present circumstances. All these years, I have had almost no chance to meet male royals from other countries. Only princesses of marriageable age.”

He smiled bitterly.

Phainon guessed that there was some royal trouble in this that the prince found difficult to speak of, but Mydeimos did not intend to dwell on the subject.

As they spoke, he had already brought Phainon inside.

The furnishings remained simple. They did not have the splendor of the palace, but the dark wooden furniture was all edged and inlaid with gold. Looking around, the whole space seemed less like a common residence than a royal refuge hidden in the wilderness.

Mydeimos walked to the window and slowly drew open the beige curtains hung high above. Moonlight poured in all at once, outlining his body in a rim of silver-white light.

“Welcome to my domain, adventurer.”

The prince opened his arms in a nearly flamboyant posture. The fringed mantle fell with the movement like wings of crimson and gold flame. The metal ornaments on his body struck one another with bright, delicate sounds.

Mydeimos lifted his chin slightly. His narrow golden eyes carried an arrogance born in the blood, like a lion showing off his territory.

As if, should he wish it, everything in this desert would bow before him.

Phainon included.

The adventurer, still wearing that guileless smile, felt his heart miss a beat.

Phainon bent low and, for the second time, performed an exaggerated act of reverence.

“It is the honor of my life, Your Highness.”

This cooperative performance pleased Mydeimos immensely. He lowered his arms, returned to that easier manner he had worn before, and smiled as he reached out to pull Phainon up.

“When I am here, I am usually alone. I have no chance to show it to anyone. So… today I could not quite help myself.”

Had the prince not reminded him, Phainon would nearly have forgotten that, however modest this place might appear, it was still a proper royal residence. Yet Mydeimos had arranged not a single servant here to attend to his food, clothing, or daily needs.

“My noble prince, forgive my bluntness, but there is not one servant in your palace.”

“I have always preferred solitude. The sort of service one receives in the palace is, to be honest, a burden to me most of the time… Never mind.”

Mydeimos cut himself off. He brushed at the fine sand trapped in his clothes, where it chafed against the skin, and gestured for Phainon not to sit carelessly on the chairs. They still had to go to the bath and wash themselves clean before retiring for the night.

Following the prince’s instructions, Phainon removed his gauze headscarf, shrugged off his short vest and chest chain, and took off the embroidered sash that hung almost straight down from his waist to the floor. He tossed the pile of clothing onto the ground without much thought and kicked it into a corner of the room.

Mydeimos frowned faintly, but did not remind him. He remained standing where he was, watching Phainon move, without the slightest intention of undressing himself. It was as if he meant to wash the dirt from his clothes and the grime from his body all together in the bath.

The prince had not originally intended to reveal so much of his personal life to a stranger he had known for less than a single night. But they had just experienced no small number of adventures together, and, in an unprecedented act, he had brought Phainon back to a residence known only to himself. They were of similar age; beyond that, Phainon looked like a decent listener. So Mydeimos could not help continuing what he had begun to say.

“Actually… I do not much care for the feeling of being surrounded and fussed over. That is why, ever since I was young, I liked sneaking out to play. Because of it, my father ordered the walls built higher, but it was useless. Later, I fell in love with cooking. Unfortunately, whenever the cooks saw me, they were afraid I would scald myself or burn myself. No matter what I said, they refused to let me touch a kitchen knife. Only when I am here can I immerse myself in my own interests without being disturbed.”

Phainon silently struggled with an ornament tangled at his waist, then set aside the boots he had taken off. By the time Mydeimos finished speaking, Phainon had finally finished tidying himself. One after the other, they made their way toward the bath.

Mydeimos had thought Phainon would offer no opinion, but the other man suddenly spoke.

“Listening to you, I hear… loneliness. Otherwise, you would not have spent all this time trying every possible way to sneak out.”

“Perhaps.”

To this, Mydeimos gave an ambiguous answer.

Loneliness.

Perhaps Phainon was right.

The more often one wandered out alone, the less satisfaction one took from it. Once, the young Mydeimos could be happy for a very long time simply by avoiding the servants’ eyes and watching ants move house in some corner. Now, Eurypon turned a blind eye to him. As long as the prince did not cause trouble outside, the king no longer interfered with his private departures from the palace. Freedom was no longer a distant cloud beyond reach; it was something he could pluck from the sky whenever he pleased.

By all rights, Mydeimos should have been content.

Yet even when everything was as he wished—even when he stayed inside the little residence he had designed himself, where he could enjoy the open-air bath like the cut face of a sapphire whenever he pleased, soaking idly while admiring the shattered silver starlight overhead—he still felt that he had no control over anything at all.

And that included loneliness.

With complicated feelings, Mydeimos raised one arm. All the lamps surrounding the bath flared to life. Points of gold gleamed across the water’s surface.

Phainon jumped into the pool first and chose a spot along the edge. The cool water flowing from the hidden channel seemed to wash away the heat of the entire night.

“May I ask you something?”

Phainon’s voice echoed against the white stone slabs around the bath and sounded a little louder than usual.

“What exactly did you argue with your father about?”

Mydeimos was silent for a while. He seemed somewhat resistant to this subject. After a moment, however, he spoke slowly.

“Tomorrow, I am supposed to meet another new candidate for marriage. Refusal is not permitted. I must attend.”

As Mydeimos spoke, his fingers slid back and forth along the edge of the bath. The crackle of the oil lamps made his voice sound even lower.

He had long since reached the age at which he could take a princess as his wife. Even if his mind had never been on such matters, Eurypon had pressed him harder with each passing year.

This came as no surprise. The prince had already mentioned that the only foreign royals he had any chance to meet were princesses of marriageable age.

At a certain age, to be reduced to a sacrifice of politics seemed an inescapable responsibility for any member of a royal house. As the son of a king, Mydeimos necessarily had more to bear, not less.

But Phainon understood.

The prince’s loneliness was born from resistance without hope of victory. No matter which corner he temporarily hid in to catch his breath, he could not change the fact that fate would eventually press down upon him. And that fissure would only grow clearer with time.

Phainon glanced at him from the corner of his eye.

Mydeimos sat across from him, one hand propping up his chin, gaze emptied out into the distance. Who knew what he was thinking? His expression was not happy. He had not taken off that gorgeous attire. Instead, still frowning, he had simply soaked himself in the pool.

Were he an ordinary person, he would probably already have looked like a drenched bird.

But the prince had not dimmed because of it. He was a phoenix that had slipped into water and still refused to bow.

Realizing that the air had grown too heavy, Phainon decided to say something. At the very least, while Mydeimos could still grasp freedom, Phainon wanted him to feel happy.

“I truly envy you. Meeting so many princesses. Tell me, was there not even one who caught your eye?”

Mydeimos immediately cut him with a sharp glare. Though the atmosphere did not turn light at once, the comment had at least achieved something.

“It is… not something worth envying. I mean no offense to those ladies. They are all very fine. The problem is the occasion. Imagine this: you are suddenly informed that you must meet a girl who is a complete stranger to you. Both of you are dressed formally. Your speech and manners are proper and polite. The air is full of procedure. You feel not the slightest intimacy. You know perfectly well that no possibility exists between you and her, but everyone around you looks as if they hope the two of you will produce an heir by tomorrow. So I ask you, Phainon. If you were the one in such a situation, how would you feel?”

“Mm. I think…”

Phainon gave it a moment’s thought, then offered his answer.

“I would feel like a beast dragged out for breeding.”

Mydeimos sighed deeply.

“Precisely. And yet you still ask why none of them caught my eye.”

He glared at Phainon with no kindness in his expression, as if blaming him for so casually making such an indecent joke. The white-haired adventurer, however, showed no intention of restraining himself. Grinning, he called the prince’s name.

“Mydeimos, Mydeimos. Do not forget that before tonight, we too were only two strangers. Yet you not only brought me home, you are also bathing with me. Is that because you believe there is intimacy between us?”

Phainon watched with satisfaction as the prince opened his mouth and desperately tried to explain, only to fail to produce a single word. The flush spread all the way down to his chest, as though Phainon were admiring a work of art he had made with his own hands.

For a while, Mydeimos could not respond. He grew restless, scratched irritably at his head, and let his gaze drift elsewhere.

But that did nothing to distract him. However large the bath was, it held only the two of them. No matter where Mydeimos looked, the edge of his vision caught Phainon’s infuriating expression.

In the end, the prince simply rose from the water with a splash and walked toward the shower at the center of the bath, turning his back to Phainon’s gaze. He stretched out one long leg and set it beneath the fall of water.

Phainon, however, saw clearly that the flame-like tattoos across his back trembled faintly with his movement, giving off an intermittent glow. It was not conspicuous, but Phainon noticed it all the same.

That was enough to prove the prince’s current agitation.

He was blushing endlessly because of one simple thing Phainon had said.

As if he knew the other man’s gaze was stuck to his back, Mydeimos refused to turn around. This only stirred Phainon’s desire to win all the more.

He had to admit that from the moment he first saw Mydeimos, the prince had been bringing him surprise after surprise. Phainon had traveled north and south, had seen all manner of human worlds. What marvel had he not encountered? Yet none of them made him as curious as discovering where, exactly, the prince’s boundaries lay.

“Mydeimos, am I truly the first person you have ever brought here?”

Phainon folded his arms, tilted his head, and put on an expression of complete innocence.

Mydeimos seemed to recover some of his princely authority. He immediately gave his judgment.

“Foolish.”

“Whether you are the first is irrelevant. You are only staying here for one night. Nothing more. Know your place—unless you are very confident you deserve otherwise.”

With that, Mydeimos reached for the bath oil and rubbed it along the inside of his thigh.

Phainon caught the scent of pomegranate blossom.

He lifted his gaze. The prince had drawn up the edge of the slit, and Phainon caught one glimpse of the tattoo near his hipbone. His throat moved. He pretended he had seen nothing and avoided the look aimed directly at him, secretly considering how he might win this round back.

“Is that so? To be honest, I may be a little taken with you.”

For an instant, Mydeimos’s movement paused.

Phainon’s lips curved. He took great pleasure in seeing the prince flustered.

This confession was half true and half false. If Mydeimos allowed it, Phainon would press forward. If he grew angry, Phainon would say it had been a joke. Retreat or advance, either way, he would win beautifully.

That was how things should have gone.

“Ha. You must say that to every person you happen to meet. Once tonight is over and we part, by tomorrow night you will have met someone new. Save those words for then.”

Phainon had thought his plan rather thorough, but he had not considered that Mydeimos might turn the same method against him and strike back with blunt sarcasm.

If Phainon denied it, he exposed that he had been moved. If he admitted it, he proved himself frivolous.

Advance or retreat, he lost completely.

In this round, Phainon gained no advantage at all. His lovely face and sweet words—the weapons he took pride in—meant nothing to the prince. Mydeimos handled them like a dagger. When he had finished playing with it, he threw it back without hesitation, the blade grazing past Phainon’s ear.

Mydeimos finally finished washing. Seeing Phainon’s pout, the joy of victory rose in him.

He pressed the advantage, came elegantly to sit beside Phainon, took a bottle of scented oil from the brass tray, opened it, and poured the whole thing over himself. His gaze never left Phainon’s face.

Phainon had seen that oil in the bazaar. Half a bottle could have bought the entire bread stall. Mydeimos emptied a full bottle in one use and did not care in the least about its expense.

What an extravagant, willful prince.

Fabric soaked with oil and bathwater clung heavily to his body like a second skin. Looking at him, there seemed to be no difference between dressed and undressed. The prince busied himself spreading oil over his body. The sun-disc earrings swayed with his movements and struck each other gently, their clear sounds echoing beneath the roof of the bath.

When his fingers slid over his shoulder, he felt Phainon’s narrowed eyes upon him. The man’s gaze was steeped in greed. He did not bother hiding that he was admiring what he saw.

So Mydeimos gathered up the half-wet red ends of his hair and revealed to Phainon the neck hidden beneath.

If this self-proclaimed adventurer were actually an assassin, he would need only draw a hidden blade, and the prince would die on the spot.

But Phainon merely swallowed. Then he spread his legs and bent forward.

“I cannot quite imagine you bringing me back dressed like this.”

Still sitting shamelessly at the edge of the bath, trying to convince yourself, and me as well, that this is a perfectly ordinary thing.

Phainon’s words stopped midway, but his eyes betrayed everything.

“Hmph. This is traditional Kremnoan attire, and not just anyone is qualified to wear it. To treat it as strange costume is no different from declaring yourself ignorant, you foolish man.”

“My dear prince. If, deep in your heart, you felt no shame at all, you would not have added an ordinary cloak over it outside.”

Mydeimos, half barefoot, walking through the bazaar. With each step, the coin chain at his waist would strike together, ringing through the silent crowd. From the moment he appeared, the market’s noise would vanish. Even camels chewing fodder would be unable to resist lifting their heads in reverence. Long after he had gone, the air would still hold the faint scent of pomegranate. Time, once frozen, would begin to flow again, but the vendors would forget how to cry their wares and instead discuss the lord who had just passed by.

Phainon had never seen such a scene, yet it appeared vividly in his mind.

And now, the protagonist of his imagination was idly stirring the water in the bath with his foot. Clear drops fell from his toes, scattering ripples across the pool.

Phainon pointed out, bluntly, that his clothing was revealing.

Mydeimos did not care, and for many reasons. It was indeed traditional dress, though perhaps he was the only person left in all of Kremnos who still liked to wear it. Phainon was not the first to make some comment about his clothes, and the prince had learned when he was very young to let such words enter one ear and leave the other. Most importantly, he truly liked dressing this way. There was no particular reason.

The way he dressed was one of the few things the prince could decide entirely for himself. Mydeimos would not easily surrender that right to anyone else.

“Heh. Say what you like. Everyone has their own hardships. So do I. As for whether others can understand—I do not care.”

An index finger approached silently and lifted his chin.

“Whether it is hardship or excuse is for me to judge.”

You cannot fool me.

Phainon’s eyes were full of amusement.

From the moment they had entered the prince’s residence, the testing between them had continued to escalate. No—even earlier than that. Perhaps from the first moment Phainon saw Mydeimos, he had already been calculating how he might take this person away.

The reason he had so easily accompanied the prince might very well have been that Mydeimos had been thinking the same thing.

All night, the prince had worked to present a kind of careless provocation, toying with the other man’s mood again and again before withdrawing himself from the field. Though Phainon had happened by and rescued him from trouble, the adventurer was the one ultimately brought home.

Now they sat together in the prince’s private open-air bath, bathing beneath the innumerable stars overhead, looking into each other’s eyes.

Nikador above, there was no moment more romantic, more intimate than this.

Mydeimos lowered his lashes. Just when Phainon thought he was finally about to give in and reveal some soft part of himself, the prince broke free of Phainon’s hand and bit him without warning.

The sudden pain drew a cry from Phainon. He retreated, looked down, and saw a clear row of teeth marks on his index finger. Mydeimos had still retained a measure of mercy and had not drawn blood. Phainon had no doubt that if he wished, the prince could tear the entire finger from his hand.

Mydeimos said fiercely, “Do not speak as if you understand me. First, I dislike the feeling of being confined. And you seem to have taken me for a caged canary that can be allowed to fly out.”

To be honest, Mydeimos did not mind sinking into the atmosphere of the moment just like this. In fact, all of it had been shaped by his own hands.

But what he said was also true. Phainon might be able to see through his thoughts, but he absolutely could not know the secret hidden in the prince’s body. Before he laid himself entirely upon the sacrificial altar, Mydeimos could not simply ignore the burdens weighing on him.

Even when Phainon used the very finger Mydeimos had just bitten to brush gently over his face, smiling as he said, “Anyone who dared see you that way would probably have been pierced straight through by Nikador long ago,” the words still could not soothe the prince’s overloaded heartbeat.

Whenever Mydeimos felt nervous, he could not stop playing with his hair.

He breathed deeply. His hand dropped to his thigh and, before he realized it, gripped the coin chain at his waist so tightly it was nearly torn apart.

This feeling was awful.

His eyes opened, then closed.

After so many subtle hints in his movements, Phainon finally realized that what Mydeimos was about to say had nothing to do with romance. It was a confession he had to gather great resolve to speak, something extremely important.

He put away the smile that overflowed only when he was flirting and silently waited for Mydeimos to speak on his own.

“Earlier, I told you I did not want to marry anyone. That is not only because I am unwilling. To put it simply…”

Mydeimos paused.

“I cannot sire children with women.”

“…What?”

Phainon’s mind went blank.

The statement lay completely beyond his understanding. Rather, even if, before tonight, he had asked the genie in a lamp what secret the prince of Kremnos might tell him if they met, the genie likely would never have guessed that Mydeimos would frankly confess to him a problem with his manhood.

But Phainon felt that when a man—especially when that man was a prince—confided to another man that his lower body could not perform, and that the matter was so serious it threatened marriage, then by both sympathy and reason he ought to offer some particular comfort only men could give each other.

So he said, “It is all right, Mydeimos. It is nothing so terrible. I have heard that in the East there is a divine oil that can restore a man’s virility—”

His words not only failed to smooth Mydeimos’s frown, they deepened it.

“Divine oil? Restore virility? What nonsense are you talking about?”

It seemed words alone would not do.

The prince sighed. Slowly, he stood and raised a hand to extinguish the lamps around the bath.

In an instant, the whole space darkened. The moon reflected at the center of the water became the only light.

Without a word, Mydeimos walked into that silver-white crescent and turned to face Phainon. He bit hard at his lower lip and lifted high the red cloth that hung down the center of his waist.

“This is the reason.”

This is the secret I cannot show the world.

In that instant, Phainon’s breath stopped.

His hands closed into fists. His ears filled with an endless roar.

Though the light was dim, he saw very clearly: between the prince’s bare legs, there was no male feature at all.

It was not that Mydeimos was small.

It was that the organ hidden at the prince’s groin was unmistakably a woman’s sex, utterly at odds with his tall, powerful body. The red tattoos extended all the way inward, toward the private flesh between his thighs. The hair there had been shaved clean. Smooth skin glistened already with slick fluid, as if a silver edge had been laid over a hill.

Mydeimos clutched the fabric tightly. His entire body trembled faintly. The pride he had carried when showing off his residence had vanished completely.

Phainon’s undisguised gaze made him feel as though he were naked to the bone. Gooseflesh climbed along his spine. He even held his breath without meaning to.

“Why… tell me this?”

Phainon’s throat was dry. His voice was hoarse. Desire widened his pupils.

Before he could react, he had already risen. Without waiting for Mydeimos to answer, he walked toward him.

The prince panicked and tried to retreat, only to run into a warm embrace. Phainon’s palm slid along the side of his waist and stopped at the hollow there, pulling Mydeimos firmly toward himself with undeniable force. His other hand caught the wrist Mydeimos had tried to hide and lifted it to his lips, kissing both the fingertips and the palm.

As if this alone could drive away the golden-haired prince’s trembling.

“Do not be afraid. I will not hurt you.”

The gentle coaxing sounded beside Mydeimos’s ear, so soft it was almost covered by the flowing water of the bath and the distant wind.

Mydeimos laughed awkwardly.

“I am not afraid.”

His tone was stubborn, but he could not help following Phainon’s movements. He lowered his head and rested his forehead on Phainon’s shoulder.

Their chests pressed together. Their two hearts beat more violently for it.

In Phainon’s embrace, he unexpectedly felt a ridiculous sense of eternity.

How strange.

Tonight might be the last time he could ever privately run away, because starting tomorrow, he would no longer be able to live only for himself. Yet simply by being held in Phainon’s arms, he was no longer the beloved child of strife, no longer Eurypon’s heir, no longer the prince of Kremnos.

He was only Mydeimos.

Mydeimos, belonging to Phainon.

“You asked why I told you… There is no special reason, really. I wanted to say it, so I said it.”

He stroked Phainon’s face gently, as if touching some precious object.

“I do not know what I should do in the future either. I only want to do my best to enjoy each day as it comes.”

Phainon stood obediently and allowed the prince to bestow this lazy favor upon him.

Mydeimos played with the crescent earring hanging from Phainon’s right ear, feeling the coolness of the metal.

“When I saw you for the first time, I wanted to seize you.”

There was a certain possessiveness in his tone, as if Phainon were a priceless rare jewel in a merchant’s hands.

But a jewel would not spend money to choose its owner.

Phainon could not help teasing him.

“Mydeimos, how could you be certain I would accept you completely? What if I were crude and perverse?”

“…I thought about that.”

Mydeimos lifted his eyes. Their corners trembled faintly.

“Perhaps you would think me a monster, strike me, and then—”

“No.”

Phainon cut him off swiftly.

“You would beat me until my teeth scattered across the floor, cut my throat, and finally throw me into the desert to wait for death.”

He did not want to hear the prince speak that kind of self-denying hypothesis.

“But I would not do such a thing. Just as you chose to trust me. Even if you doubted me, I would not turn cruel words against you.”

Phainon tilted his head and met Mydeimos’s gaze.

The prince watched him quietly. In those golden eyes was expectation, and beneath it, a longing long buried.

“Phainon,” he commanded, though it sounded more like a plea. “Prove your words to me. Prove that your heart is moved, and that your loyalty is true.”

“Make me forget who I am.”

Phainon leaned forward until his forehead touched Mydeimos’s.

His fingers slipped soundlessly between the other man’s, lacing their hands together. The thumb of his other hand brushed over the prince’s lips. Mydeimos closed his eyes and pretended he was about to bite him. Phainon forced his chin aside and caught his lower lip between his teeth.

Mydeimos’s fingers tightened almost at once, holding fast to Phainon’s hand.

He parted his lips in pain, and Phainon’s tongue took the opening, pressing in to kiss Mydeimos deeply. For an instant, the prince forgot how to breathe. He could only follow Phainon’s movements, passive and overwhelmed, as a low moan slipped from his throat.

“Mm…”

The kiss made the body soften. Mydeimos’s arms instinctively looped around Phainon’s neck. His fingers sank into white hair and lightly gripped at the scalp, as if he meant to drag this white-haired man into the depths of his very soul.

Phainon’s palm slid down Mydeimos’s spine. The skin beneath his hand was hot as a brand. Red light slowly flowed along the lines of the tattoos, as if they were burning for him. He answered Mydeimos’s arousal and pressed hard into the hollow of his waist.

“Perhaps I believe you now,” Mydeimos panted in the brief space between kisses, his voice uneven. “You said you were taken with me.”

He lowered his eyes and, as if surrendering to something everyone already knew, confessed, “And perhaps I, too, happen to be a little taken with you.”

He is more beautiful when he tells the truth, Phainon thought.

He sucked at the prince’s lips, lingering there. Only when he had had his fill of playing did he release him and draw back half an inch. Two fingers held Mydeimos’s chin, forcing him to lift his head and look into Phainon’s eyes.

Phainon’s gaze had already stripped him bare.

“And then?” Phainon asked. “What do you want to do next?”

He liked seeing Mydeimos at a loss. Even now, he did not forget to tease him. Yet his own voice was hoarse with desire from deep in his throat.

At this moment, Phainon was not much better off.

“I… I want…”

Mydeimos avoided the feeling of being watched. Those wild thoughts spun through his mind, but he could not speak a single one aloud.

He wanted to be cherished. He wanted to be ruined. He wanted to be taken apart while being loved.

Phainon had stripped away the erotic shell draped over him and was now reaching toward the softest place at the very heart of him. The prince opened his mouth, then lowered his lashes.

If he could only be kissed so tenderly against Phainon’s neck, nothing else would matter. He could want nothing. Need nothing.

His chaotic thoughts left him unable to form words. He had never been good at expressing himself to begin with. Now, apart from “I don’t know,” he could say nothing at all.

“I don’t know. I… have never experienced this kind of thing…”

After several struggles within himself, Mydeimos finally spoke the truth. His voice was muffled, growing softer as he continued, until the end of the sentence nearly disappeared on his tongue.

Feeling the prince’s unrest, Phainon’s hand slowly slipped beneath the panels of his skirt. It moved upward along the skin of his thigh, then touched the wet center between Mydeimos’s legs, so slick it seemed ready to drip. His middle finger curled and pressed against the core, immediately drawing out more fluid.

His thumb and middle finger touched, then parted, pulling between them a glistening thread.

The sight burned itself into Mydeimos’s eyes.

When Phainon’s middle finger returned to that most sensitive place, Mydeimos’s body arched on instinct. The red cloth rose and sank beneath the water with his trembling.

“You cannot do this,” Phainon laughed softly, his breath spilling over the shell of Mydeimos’s ear. “You cannot tell me you have never been touched and yet grow this wet so easily for me.”

As he spoke, his fingers slid inside. Middle and index finger worked together in slow thrusts, while his thumb pressed the clitoris and circled it. Mydeimos began to whimper. His body, without his permission, moved to meet him.

“It is because of you,” Mydeimos whispered, clinging tightly to Phainon as if his bones had been drawn out of him. “All of it…”

“Mm. Then it is all my fault. I am willing to take responsibility.”

Phainon’s smile deepened.

He gently pushed Mydeimos back and guided him to sit on the edge of the bath, where the water was shallow.

“Sit properly, shameless princess. I will teach you.”

Mydeimos retreated obediently. His back came against the smooth stone wall. His legs parted slightly, and droplets of water slid down the insides of his thighs.

He watched Phainon kneel in the water. White hair, soaked through, clung to his forehead. The crescent earring at his ear shone brighter than the moon above them.

Phainon’s hands settled on his knees and slowly parted them. His gaze was that of a hunter locking onto prey, so full of invasion that Mydeimos’s breathing grew heavy and he turned his head away.

Phainon lowered his head and kissed the inside of his thigh.

Mydeimos bit his lower lip and tried to suppress the moan in his throat. But when Phainon’s tongue finally touched his core, every attempt at concealment became useless.

Phainon moved slowly, meticulously. His tongue was softer and more agile than his fingers. It traced the folds and tasted the salt-sweet mixture of bathwater and arousal. His crescent earring brushed Mydeimos’s thigh from time to time; the cold metal and the heat of his tongue crossed over one another, teasing the senses until Mydeimos shuddered as if struck by lightning.

“Ah…”

Mydeimos’s hand touched Phainon’s cheek, then wandered down to the back of his neck. A moment later, he seized the roots of his hair as if catching hold of a lifeline. His knuckles whitened. He pulled, unable to tell whether he wanted to push Phainon away or drag him closer.

Phainon’s tongue pressed deeper, curled around that sensitive pearl, sucked lightly, licked slowly. Each touch was as though he were tasting the rarest fruit in the world.

Mydeimos’s legs instinctively tried to close, but Phainon’s shoulders held them open with steady force. There was nowhere for him to hide.

It was almost as if Phainon were forcing pleasure into Mydeimos’s body. The prince had no path of escape. His golden hair lay in disorder across his shoulders; as he struggled uselessly, lock after lock slipped into the water.

Pleasure swept over him like a storm. From the inside out, it stripped his soul bare inch by inch.

He had never imagined that release could be this violent.

By comparison, all his past self-pleasure had only been a sip at the surface. Mydeimos had never stopped being thirsty. Phainon’s lips and tongue drove him up toward peak after peak. His hips lifted high, still wanting more. He collapsed against the edge of the bath, his entire body spasming, golden hair spilled around him.

Phainon lifted his head. Clear fluid clung to the corner of his mouth, and his chin was soaked as well. Satisfied, he admired Mydeimos’s helpless, glutted state.

“How does your first climax feel?”

Mydeimos’s breathing was ragged from the force of his release. His chest rose and fell. The sun-disc earrings swayed at his earlobes, giving off tiny, broken chimes.

“Hmph. I have long known this feeling… You need only focus on serving me. Do not ask unnecessary questions.”

He forced himself up, trying to reclaim a trace of dignity, but that was the only sentence he could squeeze out.

Phainon raised one eyebrow. He lifted his upper body and planted both hands on either side of Mydeimos, trapping him within the cage of his arms.

“Compared with me, which felt better?”

Mydeimos narrowed his eyes.

In retaliation, he raised his foot and stepped against the bulge in Phainon’s trousers.

It was already hard and hot, and even through the fabric he could feel the pulsing heat of it.

“Getting this hard just from licking me. You should worry about yourself first.”

Phainon sucked in a sharp breath, but he did not draw back. Instead, he caught that foot, pressed his thumb against the sole, and held it against the center of his own desire, rubbing himself against it.

The act was wanton and profane.

In an instant, heat rushed into his lower body. He had wanted to do this from the very first moment he realized Mydeimos was barefoot.

Phainon had thought Mydeimos would curse him for being a pervert. But he did not. Not only had the prince offered himself up, he was even helping Phainon fulfill his filthiest fantasy.

“Ha. The prince of Kremnos actually permits me to do this. I hope when I leave this place, Nikador’s greatsword does not split me in two.”

Mydeimos watched him touch himself in that manner. His toes curled against Phainon’s palm. A strange satisfaction rose in his chest.

He had never imagined that he could control another person in such a way.

Phainon’s movements grew faster. A rough pant sounded in his throat. His white hair was in disarray, covering half an eye. He looked both wild and abject.

“Enough.”

Feeling desire stir in him again, Mydeimos drew back his foot and unsteadily pulled Phainon up.

The two of them stood at the center of the bath, water reaching their waists. Phainon’s hand found Mydeimos’s waist chain. His fingers hooked the round clasp and turned it lightly. Metal rang clear.

The lower part of Mydeimos’s clothing loosened and hung slack at his waist. He lifted the bright red cloth himself and exposed the smooth sex beneath.

Phainon’s other hand circled him from behind and teased at his nipple, fingertips rolling and pinching.

“Phainon…”

Mydeimos tipped his head back onto Phainon’s shoulder, the other man’s name slipping from his throat.

At that summons, Phainon quickly undid his trousers. His cock sprang free and struck the prince’s ass with a muffled sound. He gripped his flushed, darkened cock and nudged it between the slick folds from the edge, in no hurry to take the next step. The head dragged slowly over the tender flesh, rubbing again and again against Mydeimos’s clitoris with tormenting precision.

The red cloth rose in a curved tent. The fabric at the front of the covering drew tight, outlining a shape that was almost indecently alluring.

Heat spread from Mydeimos’s core to his limbs. He felt as though he were being licked by flame. He gripped Phainon’s arm, his nails biting into the skin and leaving shallow red marks.

“What are you waiting for?”

Mydeimos’s voice trembled. He turned his head to plead. His lips were swollen, shining with water.

“We cannot go all the way.”

Phainon said it in a rare moment of seriousness, though he showed not the slightest intention of stopping. His forehead pressed against the back of Mydeimos’s neck. His breath was scalding.

“…Why?”

“To take a prince’s first night without permission is a beheading offense.”

Mydeimos laughed softly.

“Tonight, you may do whatever you like. After all… you have already paid.”

He was referring to the gold coin at the bread stall. In this moment, however, he made it sound as though Phainon had purchased one night of Mydeimos’s body.

That a prince so high above others would compare himself to a prostitute made Phainon grow harder. The head of his cock thrust forward sharply, drawing a sharp cry from Mydeimos.

Phainon seized on it and lifted one of his legs.

“Use your fingers. Open yourself.”

Mydeimos obeyed. His fingertips trembled as they moved down, parting the wet entrance and exposing the inside.

Shame surged up like a tide. Never before had he exposed himself like this. Never had he submitted this far.

But Phainon’s gaze was full of worship, not the slightest hint of pity. It was as if Phainon were Nikador’s most faithful believer, receiving everything Mydeimos had placed upon the altar.

Mydeimos felt it was worth it.

And yet his own shamelessness was answered only by Phainon’s fingers.

Two long fingers slid in slowly, curling and stroking until they found the sensitive place with cruel precision. Mydeimos trembled on the verge of collapse and pleaded, “…Come in… do not wait anymore…”

Only then did Phainon lift his leg and thrust deeply inside.

The head pushed through the passage. All the long torment of the teasing before it was released at once. Mydeimos cried out, his whole body snapping taut like a broken bowstring. His inner walls contracted violently, clenching tight around the cock that continued to invade him.

In a daze, he turned his head and sought Phainon’s mouth without thinking. Their tongues tangled, carrying the salt of tears.

Had Phainon not summoned the flying carpet in time to catch them, the two of them would have fallen together into the bath. The carpet, like a loyal servant, unfolded in silence and supported their bodies, suspending them above the water.

“So sensitive. Are you truly untouched?”

Phainon held back the urge to come. His hips moved in slow rolls, each stroke sinking into the marrow.

“Tell me what you think about when you touch yourself.”

Mydeimos’s vision went dark. Fragments of the past flashed through his mind.

Late nights alone in this residence. His fingers slipping secretly between his legs. In his mind, a vague figure: tall, strong, gentle, and yet carrying the wildness of adventure. That person did not care who the prince was. He seized Mydeimos roughly by the hair and possessed him again and again, until Mydeimos was completely fucked open, until his legs could no longer close and his eyes rolled back.

But imagination was only imagination.

There was no other person’s body heat. No low whisper against his ear. No real touch.

After comforting himself, the emptiness had only grown deeper.

The title of prince prevented him from lowering his pride and seeking someone else. No one knew that the handsome, spirited Mydeimos carried a woman’s body within him. No one knew he would tremble beneath pleasure, or that fulfillment could draw such sweet sounds from his throat.

And this sight, which no one had ever seen, Phainon had bought with one gold coin.

Mydeimos said nothing, and yet it was as if he had said everything.

Phainon saw through all of his thoughts. He kissed Mydeimos’s sweat-damp temple and teased him with indulgent affection.

“You truly are a princess one cannot help wanting to cherish.”

He intended to give the prince a more substantial reward. Taking the golden braid, he pushed it into Mydeimos’s mouth and ordered him to bite down.

“Open your legs wider.”

Mydeimos offered no resistance. Whatever Phainon told him to do, he did. He obediently bit his own golden braid and spread his legs wide, allowing Phainon to fuck him while bending down to suck at his nipple.

Phainon’s tongue curled, his teeth nipped lightly. His other hand struck Mydeimos’s clitoris again and again, merciless and exact as a lash, each touch calling up a current of pleasure like lightning.

The sun-disc earrings beat constantly against the prince’s face as he shook. Mydeimos tried to avoid them. In punishment, Phainon tightened his grip on the coin chain between his thighs and quickened the rhythm of his thrusts.

Under so many layers of stimulation, Mydeimos soon lost count of how many times he had climaxed. He nearly bit through his own braid.

His legs shook so badly he could no longer walk.

Phainon lifted the prince into his arms. The flying carpet bore them over the courtyard and descended smoothly beside the bed in the bedroom.

The mantle became a rope. It bound Mydeimos’s wrists and fixed them to the head of the bed.

“A pity I can only stay until dawn,” Phainon said, kissing his collarbone tenderly, his tongue tracing the flame path of the tattoos. “Otherwise, I would truly want to remain in this bed forever and fuck you until you break.”

“Let this be your belated coming-of-age gift, Mydeimos.”

He entered him once more, his cock sinking deep like a sword driven to the hilt.

Mydeimos’s inner walls were hot and slick, wrapping around him layer by layer. Phainon kissed deep into his body and did not want to leave.

“Use me. Take from me everything you want.”

Phainon growled low in his throat. He drew himself back to the very edge, then drove in hard. The wet sounds he pulled from the body beneath him were obscene and clear.

Mydeimos had little strength left. He could only endure passively.

“Say it, princess. How many do you want?”

“How many?”

He asked in confusion, his voice so hoarse it was almost soundless. Mydeimos no longer knew what Phainon was saying.

“How many children. However many you want, I will give them to you.”

“I… I do not know… Phainon, I cannot stop, ah…”

Without warning, Mydeimos tightened all over. He clenched so fiercely around Phainon that the man nearly came. Phainon did not want to give himself up yet. He gritted his teeth and endured the impulse, then pressed his fingertips to the prince’s clitoris, prolonging his climax.

Mydeimos’s mouth opened wide in a soundless scream.

But this was far from the end.

Phainon untied the knots around the prince’s wrists, turned over, and pulled him up, making him straddle his waist. His hands held Mydeimos by the hips, guiding him up and down.

“So greedy,” Phainon murmured.

He kissed Mydeimos’s neck and drew out a fresh shudder.

Mydeimos bit his lip. His hands braced against Phainon’s chest, his fingertips tracing the lines of muscle there. He moved his waist, feeling the cock stir inside him. Each time he sank down, the sensation was sweet and fatal.

“Mydeimos… will you regret it?”

Without waiting for the prince to answer, Phainon circled his waist and pressed his lips to the shell of his ear.

“I regret it. I regret not meeting you sooner. Mydeimos, Mydeimos… You will be the death of me. You are simply everything to me…”

Mydeimos could say nothing. He could only let the tears slide down his face.

The stars moved westward.

They entwined without knowing exhaustion, reaching peak after peak, then falling into abyss after abyss. Phainon pushed him down again and pressed over him. His cock struck against the mouth of the womb as if he meant to fulfill his promise of children that very night.

“You are doing so well… You are so good to me. It is all right. I will satisfy everything you want.”

So bloom for me as much as you like, Mydeimos.

Phainon kissed away his tears. His palm slid over the flat plane of Mydeimos’s abdomen, as if it had already begun to rise. He imagined the prince heavy with pregnancy, and his movements grew wilder still.

“I cannot wait. Tonight, I want to be your husband. Had I known you were this beautiful, I should have proposed sooner… My wife. I have kept you waiting.”

His new bride had already grown dazed.

Mydeimos forgot who he was. He nestled tightly against Phainon. At that moment, he was only a mortal wrapped in love.

After a night of abandon, Mydeimos gradually softened into exhaustion. He was swollen red between the legs, and the room was left in utter disarray.

Phainon licked everything clean. His tongue slipped into Mydeimos’s sex, sucking at the fluids mingled from both of them. Mydeimos arched his neck and moaned, pressing Phainon’s head down, urging him deeper. His waist lifted faintly, chasing the final aftertaste.

In Phainon’s arms, he had been reborn.

“Tomorrow, I’ll set out for home and persuade my father and mother. Until then, be good and wait for me. I promise…”

Before Mydeimos sank entirely into darkness, Phainon’s whisper sounded beside his ear.

Everything after that drifted between dream and waking.

When the sky had just begun to brighten, Mydeimos vaguely felt himself being lifted. The wind and the newly risen sun, not yet scorching, brushed his face with gentle warmth. He opened his eyes briefly and found himself pillowed on Phainon’s thigh.

The white-haired man covered Mydeimos’s eyes with his palm, telling him to keep sleeping.

When he woke again, Mydeimos had been laid back in his own bed. His limbs were sore and weak. Even moving slightly seemed difficult.

Phainon sat quietly at the side of the bed. Seeing that he was fully awake, he leaned down and kissed the birthmark on Mydeimos’s cheek. His forehead touched lightly to his.

“I am sorry, Mydeimos. It is nearly noon. I should go.”

“Mm. Goodbye.”

In truth, both of them understood that this farewell was forever.

The words almost left Mydeimos’s mouth. He wanted to ask Phainon to take him away, to fly far from here, to any place where no one knew them.

In the end, he only pulled the quilt higher and covered his face and his aching eyes.

“Phainon.”

Just as Phainon was about to step out the window, Mydeimos called to him.

He remained curled in the bedding, doing everything he could to suppress his voice so it would not sound choked.

“Thank you… for giving me a beautiful night. I will remember it forever.”

“Mm. Until we meet again, Mydeimos.”

Phainon left.

He left behind only a farewell spoken in that light tone of his, just as he had sounded when they first met.

The loving whispers and intimate touches of the night before still lingered at Mydeimos’s ears, but he did not dare say whether that had been love. No one had ever given him such a feeling. No one had ever told the prince what love was.

Yet the pleasure still lingering between his legs reminded him that Phainon had indeed possessed him so deeply, so truly.

Beyond that, Phainon left nothing by which Mydeimos could remember him.

He had stolen Mydeimos’s heart without permission and vanished without a trace.

Mydeimos closed his eyes and buried his face in the quilt, as if doing so could let him recover the warmth that had once rested in his palm.

Though he had already prepared himself, the pain still came without warning, impossible to restrain. He did not know where Phainon had come from, nor where he should go to find him. To meet him again would be no easier than finding a single needle in a sea of faces.

Phainon.

That silver-haired man who always seemed to be smiling.

He was destined to become the final grand dream of Mydeimos’s life.

A servant knocked at the door, pulling Mydeimos out of his tangled thoughts and back into reality.

Only then did he remember that today had originally been arranged for him to receive a candidate for marriage. Yet the words from outside the door told him that the proposal had been temporarily canceled. Eurypon, however, hoped that he would share dinner with him.

After the servant left, complicated emotions surged up within him.

Mydeimos fell back onto the bed and soon sank into sleep. He had countless nightmares. In every dream, there was a vague yet unmistakable white figure.

At dusk, he woke before the servant could knock a second time. He was soaked in cold sweat, but unexpectedly much clearer than before.

He bathed. Then he shoved the garments from last night deep into his wardrobe. In his heart, Mydeimos swore that he would never wear them again.

He changed into formal clothing that covered him completely. In accordance with Eurypon’s requirements, he wore a headwrap like the other members of the royal family and no longer let his hair fall loose.

Mydeimos arrived earlier than usual at the far end of the dining table to wait for the king. This had almost never happened before. When Eurypon appeared, he was slightly startled, as if wondering when his son had become so obedient.

That dinner lasted several hours.

During the meal, no matter what subject Eurypon raised—even marriage, the topic Mydeimos had always resisted most fiercely—Mydeimos only nodded quietly in response. His sharp edges were all sheathed. He was entirely unlike the prince who had stormed out of the palace the previous day.

When he left the table, he even bowed to the king according to proper etiquette.

Since father and son had begun to disagree on more and more matters, such a gesture had almost disappeared between them.

From that day on, Mydeimos seemed to become another person.

He attended all manner of meetings as usual. He no longer slipped privately out of the castle. In the time that remained, he shut himself in his room.

People discussed it privately and said the prince looked more and more like a true heir.

Those who knew Mydeimos well understood that he had only become increasingly silent.

The number of times he woke in the night gradually increased.

Each time he opened his eyes, it was because, in a daze, he seemed to hear someone calling his name. Yet there was never anyone in the room but him.

Mydeimos pushed open the window and sat on the sill.

He was clearly inside a castle suspended high in the air. If he wished, he could overlook all living beings below at any time. Yet he insisted on looking upward, toward the higher and more distant stars, as if, with enough devotion, a falling star might pass by and carry him away.

As for the private residence deep in the desert, Mydeimos formally gave it to Chartonus.

The Mountain Dweller accepted the prince’s kindness, but frankly said he would not move in. He would only guard the house for him until the day Mydeimos wished to return.

The prince was grateful for his loyalty.

He also knew, with absolute clarity, that he would never set foot there again.

So time passed. In the blink of an eye, half a year went by.

Perhaps Eurypon had finally realized something. Since the last proposal had been canceled at the last moment, the king had not required Mydeimos to meet anyone else. Even when suitable candidates were continuously presented, he rejected them one by one.

Mydeimos did not understand the reason, but he was glad for the quiet.

Still, he knew in his heart that such peaceful days were only temporary.

Sure enough, not long after, he was once again informed of a marriage proposal.

This time, however, it was Queen Gorgo who came personally to his room and delivered the news to Mydeimos.

“The other party seems to like you very much,” she said softly. “Their letter is filled with praise for you.”

Mydeimos nodded to show that he understood, and said that he would follow the rules and marry as soon as possible.

Gorgo was not satisfied with this answer.

She stepped forward and took the prince’s hands.

“No, Mydeimos. You may refuse. Promise me that if you do not like this person, you will tell us. Your father and I have always hoped that you would be happy. He has reflected deeply on the way he educated you in the past. But as the ruler of a nation, there are some responsibilities he cannot cast aside. In certain matters, your father had no choice.

“But you, my child—your parents came together because they loved one another. As your mother, I do not wish to see you lose the freedom to embrace happiness too early because of your identity.”

“…I am sorry, Mother. I do not think I can.”

He should have felt fortunate to hear such words.

What rose in him instead was boundless grief.

Because this understanding had come too late.

Far too late.

Mydeimos tried to smile at his mother, but tears slid down uncontrollably. In the past half year, he had not shed a single tear. Even during those nights when he sat at the window and missed Phainon most, he had restrained his emotions.

Gorgo was frightened.

She had never seen her son lose control like this. Hurriedly, she drew him into her arms and gently patted his back.

“I fell in love with someone I will never see again in this life.”

His parents’ understanding, in this moment, felt instead like a verdict delivered too late.

No matter how gently Gorgo asked, Mydeimos never spoke that person’s name. He leaned in his mother’s embrace and let the grievances long pressed inside him flow out little by little, until his body could bear no more.

Dreams must wake in the end.

No matter how long the night may be, there is always a sun waiting to rise in the east.

The next morning, Mydeimos changed into formal royal attire and appeared once more before everyone’s eyes.

The grief of the night before seemed to have been sealed away by his own hands, along with that unspeakable memory, pressed into the deepest part of his heart.

Alone, he stepped into the audience hall.

It was a space built to witness destiny.

Beneath the soaring dome, massive stone pillars stood one after another along the central axis. Their shafts were carved with reliefs of the kings of Kremnos through the ages and of the Titan of Strife. Colored glass was set into the dome above. Morning light passed through it and divided the ground into blocks of shifting color. The tapestries and drapes hanging throughout the hall had all been changed to ceremonial styles, symbols of alliance, vows, and the continuation of bloodlines.

A faint incense rose from the censers, mingling with the scent of metal and stone.

Everything had been adorned with solemn festivity.

Only Mydeimos had no heart to appreciate it.

He sat in the place that belonged to him, back straight, hands folded over his knees, expression calm. He waited quietly for the moment that would sooner or later arrive.

Suddenly, the horn of Kremnos sounded from outside the hall.

Low and long, it echoed above the chamber. The murmurs ceased at once. One after another, people lowered their heads and opened a path to welcome the honored guest from afar.

Before everyone’s eyes, a white-haired man entered the audience hall.

He wore a laurel crown and a knight’s attire of blue and white. His cloak spread behind him. His steps were calm and firm. Upon his back he carried a greatsword.

It was the famed blade Dawnmaker, forged by Chartonus many years ago.

Mydeimos had never seen it with his own eyes, yet he had long known the sharp outline of that sword from countless illustrations and legends.

The white-haired man crossed the crowd.

He passed the master of ceremonies, the king, and the queen without turning his gaze aside, as if the entire hall had nothing to do with him. He walked straight to Mydeimos and stopped before him in full view of all.

The words from that night returned to him.

I am the Prince of Aedes Elysiae.

On that night carved forever into his heart, Phainon had spoken them so casually to the guards. Back then, Mydeimos had taken it for nothing more than an adventurer’s improvised lie. He had never imagined that now, beneath the shared witness of god and crown, that same man would sink to one knee, take his hand, and kiss the back of it with solemn devotion.

The entire audience hall fell into deathly silence.

Every gaze gathered upon them. And yet it was as if no one else truly existed.

In that instant, Mydeimos’s world contracted into a single line, and only the person before him remained.

He lifted his head. Silver-white hair trembled faintly in the backlight, and his eyes still held that familiar smile.

“Phainon of Aedes Elysiae,” he said, “offers you his greetings.”