Archive of Our Own

What does it mean to be king? 

Simple things, really. It meant ruling over Amphoreus. It meant the crown would sit on Phainon’s unruly silver hair, and the soldiers she used to fight alongside would kneel at her feet. It meant turning into one of the sages’ puppets; and Phainon’s hands, which were made to wield swords, would become knotted with invisible threads. It meant being away from home.

Phainon sighs and rests her forehead against the carriage’s glass window, watching the growing fields of Aedes Elysiae blur past. Her duty as Deliverer naturally ruled her out for succession, if her gender wasn’t already reason enough. Still, she sometimes pictured herself on the throne, with finally enough power to be able to make a change.

The horses’ trot slows, and then stops. The carriage pauses in front of Phainon’s house: a manor built with hard coin and pale stones gifted by the late king for her good deeds and loyalty. 

Phainon kicks the door open and leaps out of the carriage before the coachman can assist her. 

“Lady Phainon,” he sighs, used to her shenanigans yet still tired of them. “If Lady Aglaea could see you…”

Phainon winks, tossing him a golden coin before he can finish. “Let's keep this to the two of us.”

Chartonus makes a face but still pockets the coin. He must have received a small fortune by now, all from Phainon buttering him up into overlooking her boyish manners. She whistles as she walks through the gardens, nodding to the servants she meets on the way. 

This is home. Far from the endless political drama, the manor has been built on the ruins of Phainon's homeland, a village ruined by the plague, and the servants here are all commoners who lost their farms and cattle to it; familiar faces.

Phainon walks in and takes her coat off, unceremoniously tossing it on the back of a chair. She stretches, tired muscles snapping everywhere between her shoulders and the back of her neck.

“Phainon,” Aglaea calls. 

She’s disapproving as always, and majestic as always, too. She walks down the stairs draped in fine silk and gold, and her dimming gaze darts from the carelessly tossed coat to the mud gathered beneath Phainon’s boots. 

“You’ve only just returned yet you’re already making a mess. The servants will resent you.”

“The servants love me,” Phainon counters, and for proof she dangles a bag filled with the finest pastries she could find during her stay at the Grove. 

“They love your bribes,” Aglaea corrects. 

Phainon smiles. Despite all her nagging, the gifts — the bribes, as Aglaea calls them — work on the old governor as well. She stashes them in a not-so hidden creaky cupboard beneath her desk, and snacks on them between meals when she requires a sugar boost. It’s almost ritualistic: Aglaea takes an ungodly amount of time making sure Phainon departs looking proper, and Phainon returns weeks later, looking like a stray dog, as Aglaea likes to put it, and with treats as an apology. 

“You’ve received a letter,” the governor continues, interrupts herself to scowl when Phainon takes a step forward. “Would you please remove these dirty boots of yours at once.”

“Sorry,” Phainon replies, stifling a laugh. No matter how powerful or influential she is in the world, as soon as she’s back inside the manor, she turns back into nothing more than Aglaea’s protégée. She kicks her boots away, earning a tired groan from Aglaea (Would it hurt you to undo your laces properly?) before inquiring about the letter again. “Is it fanmail?”

“No,” Aglaea answers curtly, arms crossed. “It’s a letter from the queen of Kremnos.”

“Oh,” Phainon says. “Am I in trouble?”

Aglaea hesitates for a split second, which is never a good sign — Aglaea never hesitates; she’s decisive, as sharp as her scissors and twice as cutting. “You aren’t,” she replies. “...Yet. She asked me to tutor her daughter and turn her into a proper lady.”

“Her daughter," Phainon muses, retracing old family trees in her mind. "The young lioness of Kremnos?”

“The future queen of Amphoreus,” Aglaea corrects. Phainon whistles, causing Aglaea’s eyes to narrow.

She gave up on furthering Phainon’s education a while ago, when Phainon proved the entire land that she was more capable with a sword in hand than confined between walls and tight dresses. Taking care of another, younger, more malleable girl could, Phainon hopes, allow her to fulfill some of her unfinished designs.

“So the princess will be sacrificed to a life of marriage and diplomatical loyalty,” Phainon sums up. "How romantic." Aglaea doesn't laugh. “Who’s the happy husband?”

The governor shrugs. “If you don’t know, then I don’t either.”

Phainon saunters in the entrance, boots now removed. “It doesn’t look like this matter will be settled any time soon. The sages are tearing their hair out back at the Grove. No one wants to step up to the throne.” She winces. “Well, no one that’ll be unanimously chosen.”

Aglaea snickers. “Let me guess. Caenis won’t give her vote to anyone that isn’t her, and Lycurgus speaks in riddles and gives everyone a headache, hoping he will be elected amidst the confusion.”

“Lycurgus probably gives himself a headache too,” Phainon muses. “Anaxa said that the new king would have already been chosen, if you were there.”

Aglaea’s voice is satisfied; flattered even: she likes knowing that the people who once dismissed her are now lost without her input. “Did he, now,” she says with a fleeting smile. “Well, Anaxagoras will have to figure things out for himself a little longer. It looks like I’ll be busy for a while.”

“When is the princess coming?”

“Five days from now. Right after your departure to Dolos.” Aglaea’s expression turns disapproving: she’s not a fervent supporter of Phainon’s constant going and leaving. Phainon isn’t either; especially when she’s only called to show up and look pretty. “You’ll meet her when you return.”

“Aw,” Phainon laments. “I wanted to say hi.”

Aglaea takes the cake-filled bag from Phainon and waves her index finger at the knight. “Phainon,” she warns. “Behave.”

Phainon holds her hands up in surrender. “I will,” she swears. “I always do.” 

Aglaea doesn’t seem convinced. She’s right not to be.

What Phainon isn’t admitting is that she already met the princess of Kremnos once. It was years back, when Phainon was embracing her teenage years and Mydeimos was not a princess but just a girl who could only speak Kremnoan and a clumsy Okheman. 

What Phainon isn’t admitting is that they fought, back then, because she had looked at Mydei with too much insistence, too much gall, and because Mydei didn’t like the way Phainon, in her attempts at friendliness, kept shortening her name. ‘You call me Mydeimos, or you don’t call me at all.’

From their encounter, Phainon lost the button on an old shirt and earned a tiny scar, nicked behind her forearm, courtesy of Mydei’s teeth sinking until they drew blood. Phainon has kept calling the princess Mydei as petty revenge ever since. 

It was only fair.

Mydei arrives four days later, a lone rider in the long night. Her blond-red hair flows behind her like a warring flag, a sovereign coming to conquer and subdue. Phainon oversees Mydei’s arrival through the window of her room, oil lamp in hand; she was just about to get herself some early sleep before her departure to Dolos in the morning. 

Aglaea is already sleeping. Phainon decides to behave like a proper guest and greet Mydei first.

The few remaining awake servants have already welcomed the princess in. Phainon watches from the first floor as Mydei storms in. She’s taller than when they last met. She’s prettier too, a dangerous, fiery charm that must leave cindered hearts in its wake. Her jaw has become sharper, her nose hooked, her tits large. A beautiful woman. A fine queen. It’d be a shame for her to be nothing but the sages’ puppet. 

She’s steered towards the stairs and the first floor, where the guest chamber awaits. Her gaze is clouded, cast down, and she only notices Phainon after the servant at her side does, halting in the middle of the staircase. Their eyes meet. Phainon wonders if she’s being remembered.

“Lady Phainon,” Mydei says. It sounds like something she’s been told and trained to say, the way she pronounces each individual vowel, chews them as if they offended her.

“Mydei,” Phainon replies, testing her out. 

Mydei’s eyes shine with a hard glint and her jaw noticeably tenses, but she only gives a polite acknowledging nod in return. Oh, Phainon thinks. This will be fun. 

Mydei looks disheveled. Her damp hair has curled in places, and Phainon has to close her hand into a fist to stop herself from tucking a wild strand behind Mydei’s ear. Leave that to Aglaea, she admonishes herself, but now that Mydei stands in front of her Phainon understands why she’s called the gem of Kremnos: she’s eye-catching, cut like the purest jewel, and it’s almost laughable to think that a diamond so worthy has been sent here in preparation for marriage. It seems the years have turned Gorgo into quite the generous optimist.

“Did you ride all through the night?”

“What of it?” 

“You could have waited it out. Come here at your leisure in the morning,” Phainon explains, glancing out the dampening window. “You barely escaped the rain.”

Mydei’s head tilts back, and Phainon, despite being a few inches taller, feels looked down upon. “What I do with my time, or my leisure, is none of your business, Deliverer.”

Phainon bites back an excited smile.

“You’re right,” she acknowledges, watching the quiet fury in Mydei’s eyes boil without spilling. 

The tiny scar notched into her forearm tingles, and she thinks, satisfied, So the young lioness still bites. 

Phainon’s next stay at the Grove is oddly boring. Her attention remains elsewhere, drawn to fiery red hair and sharp teeth she’s personally experienced, and she can’t help but picture Aglaea reverting to her strict teacher persona, trying to get Mydei to fall in line, instead of listening to the sages’ endless arguing. 

Conversations about the succession to the throne go like they usually do — on one side, Caenis has puppets at the ready that she shoves under the spotlight with great insistence, trying to convince the rest of the council that they do in fact possess a will of their own. On the other hand, Lycurgus not-so-subtly tries to point out that a sage would be a better pick than a noble — himself being the perfect example. 

Phainon smothers a chuckle against her fist, imagining Mydei, all rebellious and rain-soaked, finding out the person she’s wed to being a boring, self-important philosopher. 

Her opinion isn’t asked. This much doesn’t change. She’s only here as a figurehead, and because it’s an ‘honor,’ to participate in such ‘heated’ debates — and because whoever earns her favor will have a weighty argument at their side that they’ll dangle like a sword, using her name as if it had the worth of a hundred votes. So she says nothing, despite the glaring holes she could poke in Caenis and Lycurgus’ logic, only observing and daydreaming of home.

“I heard the young lioness of Kremnos is staying at your place,” some sage notes, shuffling about to get closer to Phainon. She gives a lazy smile.

“I suppose rumors travel fast and far.” 

“They do,” the sage admits, although he’s not giving up his source. His hair is greying, fading into the color of used steel, and his face is notched here and there, his ear a note-quite-healed patchy red. “This brings back memories. I was once in charge of her education.”

“Pray tell?”

The sage’s smile turns complacent. “It was a very long time ago, when she was still a child,” he starts. “Barely three apples tall, this one, and bearing all of her father’s fury.”

“May Kephale watch over his soul.”

“May he. She was sent to the far East for a couple moons — that is how I met her.”

“During the black plague,” Phainon guesses, connecting the dots. 

Kremnos suffered many casualties back then, as expected of a land well-versed in the art of war, proficient in fighting men and monsters yet oh-so weak in the face of illness. For a moment, they all watched and thought the kingdom would end up decimated, reduced to a wasteland and a name that would only be heard of in legends. 

Kremnos survived. It stood proud and born anew from the ashes like a phoenix, earning the world’s fear and respect.

“Yes,” the sage nods. “To the daughters of the dragons’ house.” 

Aidonia.

Looking closer, the rash on his ear obviously comes from fire; a burn wound that wasn’t cauterized early enough to not leave its legacy. Phainon leans back on her seat, watching the other man with renewed interest. 

“And how’d that go?”

The sage’s smile becomes impish. 

“They had to rebuild the stables and the castle’s entire left wing.”

When Phainon returns home, she finds Aedes Elysiae thankfully intact. The servants are doubly more relieved than their usual, scurrying to greet her and insisting to guide her inside as soon as she steps out of the carriage. Near the door, she hears an unmistakably loud and petulant voice.

“You call this cuisine?” Mydei says. “In Kremnos, you’d be hung for less.”

Ushered murmurs follow, Find Lady Aglaea and Is someone here versed in Kremnoan cooking? The answer being a categorical no, — Aglaea would sooner scale fish bare-handed than eat it as such. Phainon steps into the kitchen, feeling as though she just entered a louder version of hell.

Mydei stands in the middle, all dolled up and caged in a pretty red dress, arms crossed over her chest. She’s scowling at the servants, who, upon noticing Phainon, look at her with pleading eyes. Phainon quickly understands that Aglaea is away, which is rare but still happens when she needs to resupply her silk, threads and needles, and that during her absence, Mydei decided to rule over and terrorize the manor. 

Phainon walks in, Mydei’s back turned to her, and puts a hand over the princess’ bare shoulder. Mydei flinches and turns, her face still twisted into a scowl.

“You,” she says. 

Coming from anyone else, Phainon would have been offended. Coming from Mydei? The words make her smile. For some reason, she’s very satisfied to see that all of Mydei’s fury is still here, intact, ready to be mercilessly hurled at anyone. 

Lycurgus couldn’t handle you, she thinks, and she tries to not let the thought show on her face. “Mydei. Ladies have no place in the kitchens.”

Mydei’s eyebrow quirks and so does the corner of her mouth, stretching into a prideful, mocking tick that Phainon really likes.

“And these guys do?” she asks. “Look at this.” 

Her arm extends, pointing toward a dish of well-cooked lamb accompanied with its signature spinach curry, a classic Elysian dish. Phainon tries not to take it to heart; it’s well-known that the Kremnoan like everything bloody, from their battles to their desserts. 

“It’s a fine dish,” she says. “You should give it a try.”

“I have.”

“And you didn’t like it?”

“It cut my appetite,” Mydei says. She looks like she would throw knives with her eyes if only she could.

“Okay,” Phainon relents, steering Mydei away from the terrified servants and the well-done steaks by the hold she has on the princess’ shoulder. “How about we work you an appetite again, while the servants prepare a lamb the way you like them?” Mydei eyes her suspiciously. “We could leave the mansion for a little. I’d take you somewhere.”

Mydei’s pupils go wide, pretty orange-gold shimmering with interest; anger gone. “You would?”

“I would.”

The pretty orange eyes narrows. “You lie.” Phainon can’t help but smile. So much for Aglaea’s lessons on good manners. “There’s nothing but countryside around here. The first town is a full day ride away.”

“You’re well informed.”

“I ran off twice.”

“Twice?” Phainon whistles, impressed, then grins. “How about we make this the third?”

Mydei looks at her with utter disbelief, as if she’s just been offered the entire world.

“You’d willingly let me out of this—,” she pauses, carefully deciding on her next word, and when she pronounces it, it’s tinted in a charming, rough Kremnoan accent, “—prison?”

“Only if you’d like.”

Phainon’s gloved fingers have moved from Mydei’s shoulder to a little lower, between her shoulder blades, gently ushering her towards the exit. A servant hurriedly opens the main door, and they’re both greeted by a warm beam of sunlight and a fresh gust of countryside air. Phainon feels Mydei’s spine straightening next to her; notices the way her nostrils flare, her eyes sparkle. She winks, and makes a gesture to another servant, who immediately bows and goes to get their horses.

“I recall you know how to ride?”

Mydei smirks and sneers. “I do. I could even teach you a thing or two.”

“You know, Mydei,” Phainon starts, taking the horses’ leashes from the returning servant, “everything doesn’t have to be a competition.”

“Ah,” Mydei retorts, smiling, the sharp incisors she used to brand Phainon’s skin showing. “Is that what losers say in Okhema?”

Phainon can’t help but laugh. It’s been a while since she’s felt like this — euphoric, buzzing with the need to compete, to win. Mydei’s skin is hot under her fingertips, just like those forbidden treasures that burn to the touch when coveted, and Phainon never wants to remove her hand. She takes half a step away, patting her horse’s flank.

“If Aglaea could hear you she’d die young,” Phainon says, offering Mydei the leash to her horse. And I guess if she could see me as well. 

She slides her foot into the buckle and mounts her horse. The southern wind blows into her hair, bringing the scent of the countryside, and of, further down, the mountains. “Fine. Let’s race,” she says, grinning. She points somewhere far east along the road leading out of the manor, and Mydei’s gaze follows, steel-sharp.

“There’s an old church if we keep riding this way. That is where I'm taking you.”

Mydei jumps onto her own steed with no saddle or reins, hands fisted into the horse’s coarse hair. A servant opens the main gate for them, and Mydei’s horse neighs, impatient to finally get some exercise. 

“Ready?”

Mydei looks at Phainon with an almost pensive gaze, and Phainon feels like a prey cornered by a predator. Mydei shifts on her mount, the flat of her heels lightly kicking into its flank, and she smirks.

“This will be your second loss against me.”

The horse takes off galloping, leaving Phainon behind and startled, saddled with memories of their very first encounter, clumsy steel against steel; of Phainon’s first time being scolded because proper ladies do not get into fights and what a generous word ‘fight’ was, to describe such a messy, muddy tussle. 

She gives a hearty laugh then follows suit, her heart thumping with adrenaline. She missed this: running wild, free, surrounded by the gorgeous scenery of her homeland, a nice breeze in her air, an even nicer sky as ceiling abovehead. She won’t be able to catch up with Mydei — the unfair start is mainly at fault, but she also has to concede: Mydei is an exceptional rider, looking almost weightless perched on her steed.

They ride past vast fields mid-harvest, farmers halting their gathering to admire them, some of them clapping, and Phainon catches a glimpse of Mydei as she turns sideways to grin and wave. She’s beautiful, in a manner that’s almost unfair; dazzling, a sun that has the entire world orbiting around her.

The old church soon comes into view. It’s not too far from the manor; a meager fifteen — turned ten by their hastened pace, — minute ride following the main road. It’s a church in name only; in truth, it’s only an old decrepit pile of disemboweled stones, parts of the building missing or pillaged, the inside in ruins. It’s still crowned by a large spike and atop of it, a perfectly round globe — the idol of Kephale. Phainon looks up to it and closes her eyes in prayer.

In front, Mydei has abruptly stopped her wild run. She’s dismounted the horse, and she’s slowly walking up the road, entranced. Around them are nothing but vast fields of Elysian wheat — the purest gold, the same shade as Mydei’s eyes, and the last of its kind — and she runs her hands through them, letting the shoots push against the flat of her palm. 

“What happened to your church?” 

“Black plague refugees hid there.” 

Phainon doesn’t give the full story. It feels too grim and brutal, not humane enough, even though the memory is burned into her retina. Villagers slaying their fellow villagers, removing stone after stone of the sacred edifice only to slay the ones that were plagued, to try and contain the contamination, and inside, at the sacred altar’s feet, were slaughtered children, women, and the elderly, as they prayed for Kephale’s protection. 

Mydei only nods. “You did what you could.” 

Phainon’s throat is tight, uncomfortable. She did, but she could have done more; protected her people better. 

“In Kremnos,” she continues, leaning down to untie her boots. Phainon has gotten off her horse as well, and she’s standing there, arms dangling at her side, watching Mydei. “They burned down every temple. Said if Nikador wasn’t able to protect us, then we didn’t need him.”

Mydei steps into the fields. The sleeves of her dress get caught in the tall glass, slowing her down, trying to convince her to stay on the main road. She glances at them before reaching down, grabbing the bottom of her dress. 

Phainon can barely see through the wheat, only catching glimpses of color — the screaming scarlet of Mydei’s clothing, and then, when she pulls it up, and up, and up, the precious bronze tan of her skin, covered in red war paint, slashed away by yellow stems. There’s a strap here, eating at the upper skin of Mydei’s soft thighs, otherwise hidden black leather, and, attached to it, a slim pouch containing a knife. Mydei pulls it out with no hesitation, grip firm and eyes cast down, and tears through large pans at the bottom of her dress. 

Expensive silk soon turns into fertilizer, reduced to ribbons left to cover the warm soil. Phainon watches wordlessly as Aglaea’s hard work is put to ruin. Mydei’s blade catches the sun, and she examines her handiwork before turning to her sleeves and giving them the same treatment. Once naked, her arms reveal themselves: they’re covered in the same markings as her legs, a loud crimson that snakes over firm muscles, and around Phainon’s heart too, squeezing it mercilessly. 

Once she’s done, Mydei straightens up, her lips split onto a toothy, feral grin. “Better.”

She ventures through the fields like a wildling, her bare arms and at the wheat’s mercy, spread at her sides like a scarecrow, swirling, smiling. She looks like a princess from fairy tales — the ones where the heroines’ dresses get ruined and can’t attend the balls, and Phainon feels like the hunter leading the princess astray before she can meet her fairy godmother, fix the dress, and meet her destined prince.

Mydei takes a sharp inhale.

“I’ll apologize to the servants when we return," she decides. Then she looks all around, at the endless expense of nature and countryside; at the cloudless sky. She smiles, eyes closed. The breeze makes the wheat bow and bend around her, kneeling for their future queen. “This is nice. It feels like home.”

Phainon’s heart swells with pride. The waltzing silhouette of Mydei is a flower that desperately needed its sun, and there’s something exhilarating in knowing Phainon is the one who granted it to her. She smiles.

“It is home.”

Returning to Aedes Elysiae and smuggling Mydei back into her chambers without anyone noticing the state she — and the dress — are in feels like the end of a short-lived dream.

The servants are all noticeably distraught. Phaion mentally prepares a list of gifts — bribes — to trade them in exchange for their silence, except.

“Lady Aglaea is back,” the servant standing by the door mutters, his pupils doing nervous swerves between Phainon and Mydei. “She’s looking for Lady Mydei. And… For the horses.”

“Shit,” Phainon says. “Where is she now?”

“In her office, my Lady.”

Phainon nods. Her hand lands on Mydei’s wrist. “Come.”

Getting to Mydei’s room on the first floor almost has her jump out of her skin. The manor, despite being Phainon’s, is Aglaea’s territory: she’s acutely aware of every step, every move that happens without her say-so, as if the entire place, from the loopy stairs to the wooden walls, were covered in sensitive thread linked to the end of her fingers. Phainon gestures for Mydei to stay silent with a finger over her mouth; closes the latch leading to her door as softly as she can. 

“Mydeimos?”

Aglaea’s voice resounds from the other side of the hallways. The sound of her heels click, a threat approaching.

“Shit,” Phainon mutters again. Mydei’s dress is in an absolute state of chaos, torn apart and wet and muddy at the seams, and if there’s one thing that sets Aglaea off — it’s seeing her creations ripped to shreds. Phainon has had the experience once, and isn’t willing to recreate it. “Take it off.”

“You cursed,” Mydei notes, her voice a curious murmur. “Twice.”

“You would too, if you knew what awaits us once Aglaea finds you like this. Take the dress off.”

She hears the servants greeting Aglaea, some of them going as far as to ask about her day, or if she’d like a mid-afternoon collation. Mydei’s fingers fly to her throat far too slowly for Phainon’s taste, struggling to undo buttons. The steps loom closer.

Phainon acts, ignoring the thoughts swirling in her head — warnings, of etiquette, decorum, common sense. Her hand is on Mydei’s bare thigh, feeling its cooling heat, the remnant of the outside air, the lingering feel of the wheat; of home. 

Don’t think. She grabs the knife. Spins Mydei so she’s facing her back, and she gets distracted by Mydei’s nape, the end of her short hair dipping into red hair, that same shade of crimson that bleeds and cuts into her skin. The fabric is so low-cut she can see Mydei’s sharp shoulderblades, and the space between them suddenly looks made for her to put her lips on, and perhaps bite, as revenge, and to see if juice drips from peach-colored skin. Focus.

The fabric rips in a loud shriek of silk, and the dress falls and pools at Mydei’s feet, leaving her in white undergarments. “Pretend you were sleeping,” Phainon says, but her voice is hoarse and heavy. Aglaea’s heels are approaching — click, click, click, like a ticking clock. Mydei nods, her eyes so wide Phainon gets lost in them before startling back to reality, and the impending doom of Aglaea finding them like this — with Mydei half-naked, Phainon wielding a knife, and her dress all torn. A violent blush creeps upon her face.

Phainon bends down swiftly, gathering what’s left of the pretty silk, and leaps towards the window. It opens easily, with a simple tug to the latch. She crouches on the window ledge, looks down. The first floor isn’t too high, and the ground outside is carpeted in thick grass and bushes to soften her landing. 

“You’ll hurt yourself,” Mydei says quietly.

Aglaea knocks on the door. “Mydei?”

Phainon gives Mydei her brightest smile.

“It’s actually easier than it looks,” she starts, and is about to further her explanation when the door knob turns.

She jumps. 

Her legs sting when she lands, but her knees bravely support the rest of her weight. It’s been a long while since she had to run off from the manor this way — years in fact, at a time where Aglaea was hired to turn her into something closer than a courtesan, further from a tomboy who practiced sword fighting in the fields. 

Suffice to say, Aglaea gave up, or rather they found a common ground. Phainon would be allowed to keep up with her sword training, but she’d attend the sages’ council at the Grove and be educated in the art of debate instead. I have an old friend who’s also keen on misbehaving, Aglaea had said, a mischievous light in her eyes. Shut him up for me, will you? A winning deal for both parties.

Phainon looks up to the window she jumped from. 

From down here, and with the wind blowing, she can barely hear the sounds of Mydei’s and Aglaea’s voices. She rubs her neck, cracking the abused, sore muscles there. Winks to the gardener, an old man who sighs and glances first at her and at the leaves and blades of grass caught in her unruly hair, and second at the once-well-trimmed bushes she used to cushion her fall. 

She grins.

Conversations about the future king are still running rampant. Phainon grows more and more disinterested: the Dolos heir is a good, safe pick, with many overseas connections and exclusive naval trading routes — however the country lacks in military power, which could be supplied through an alliance with Kremnos (some sages grumble, pointing out that Kremnos’ army was almost wiped with the plague; that they’re not as reliable as they used to be.) 

The queendom of Aidonia is put to scrutiny, its old towers and its dragons weighed on a scale for the crumbling sages to examine. It’d be the wisest choice, if Phainon had her word in it: sturdy walls and old knowledge passed down for generations; wisdom the Grove can’t even begin to imagine. The issue is that they haven’t sired a male heir, their queen a centuries old woman with no intention nor interest in passing nor coupling. 

Phainon feels the sage’s worry rampaging through the air, the whispers rising: is it truly wise to let the country be led by an immortal being they won’t be able to replace nor control, and what’s more, a woman? 

She laughs. The circus continues as it always does, with the more resilient and inexhaustible elders invariably offering themselves as candidates, and the meeting is as fruitless as the many ones prior, one of countless shouting matches between Caenis and Lygus.

It’s funny, really. Watching all these important characters discuss the future of the country and decide who’ll be best-suited to inherit its throne, and sitting there, among them, being the only one who knows what the future queen looks like red-faced and bare-footed, frolicking in the fields. A privilege only Phainon will ever have, and she feels content and satiated at the thought.

Aglaea welcomes Phainon home stern-faced and ostensibly tired. “Be honest,” she starts, flashes of thunder shining from her striking green eyes, “what have you been teaching her while I was gone?”

“Me?” Phainon points to herself. “Nothing.”

Aglaea isn’t convinced. “She was doing fine during her first weeks here. Now she’s turned into a vanishing act.”

Phainon can only empathize, although she’s also very amused — no doubt Mydei learned a few tricks from Phainon’s last stop, but if someone asked, well, proper ladies also need to be sneaky at times. She doesn’t pit the argument against Aglaea’s anger.

“I’ll talk to her,” she offers as an apology for her own wrong-doings. “Go rest a little.”

Aglaea doesn’t even argue. She sighs again, as if it was the only sound she was capable of, hand rested on her forehead to fend off her headache. “I’m counting on you, Phainon.”

Finding Mydei isn’t too difficult. She’s hidden in a remote part of the gardens, under tall trees with thick foliages, enjoying the shade. She squints when she hears Phainon’s footsteps, and Phainon waves amicably. 

Mydei is prettier than the last time they met. Fire-red hair, narrowed eyes. Delicate features otherwise shattered by what Aglaea would call bad manners.

“Deliverer. You’re back.”

“Mydei. Miss me?”

Mydei scoffs; shakes her head. She makes no move to leave or get up, only sitting leisurely, as if she was waiting to be found. Phainon settles at her side, stretching her legs out on the fresh grass.

“Do you enjoy making Aglaea’s life difficult?”

Mydei gives the answer some thought, gazing up at the sky. Today is cloudless, exceptionally clear blue overhead, and the light breeze isn’t too chilly.

“I have nothing against her,” Mydei admits, the most neutral thing Phainon has ever heard her say. “What I don’t enjoy is being forced into fancy dresses and learning how to walk in high heels.”

“Understandable enough. Anything else you dislike?”

“The meals,” Mydei immediately replies. “The lack of  battles.” A pause. “Being far from home.”

Her head droops onto Phainon’s shoulder, and Phainon feels special once more, as if she domesticated an untameable animal. Phainon wonders if Mydei remembers their petty brawl, how deep she sank her teeth in, as if Mydei would tear the flesh off Phainon's arm if she could have, and the rest of it too, taken the whole skin of her body.

Mydei turns her way, impossibly close at this distance, the different shades in her eyes holding Phainon’s attention captive, unwillingly turned into a prisoner of war. Bright yellow, somber oranges, burning like the death of an old sun. “How come they let you get away with this?”

“With what?” 

Their arms brush. Phainon wants to run her hand through Mydei’s short hair. She keeps it locked into a fist.

“Wearing pants. Wielding a sword.”

Phainon smiles. “I’m the Deliverer,” she says, as if it was enough — and it is, in an unsatisfactory way. A single word to encompass her entire life, reducing her to this, deciding what and who she can and cannot be. 

Mydei shifts against her. “And I’ll be queen one day,” she says, defiantly, hand reaching for Phainon’s collar, undoing a single button — the top one, again. Her fingers are long and slender, and Phainon imagines them everywhere at once, at her hips, in her mouth, at her throat. “And you’ll never address me by name then, or see me wear these stupid frills.”

Phainon's voice is hoarse. “So you remember.”

“You’re hard to forget,” Mydei says, her lips twisting into a scowl, a pout, then a smile, as if she just tasted something overly sweet that took her palate some time getting used to, “Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.”

“How about letting the future queen decide on her own husband?”

Outraged screams erupt.

“Deliverer,” Caenis says amidst the panic, “have you lost your mind? Letting a woman decide of this country’s future—”

“Caenis,” Phainon interrupts. “Aren’t you a woman yourself?” The sage pales. “Why should the country’s future be solely decided by men?”

“It’s how things have always been,” another, older — male — sage interjects. “Men have decisively supported this country for centuries—”

“Because they were more capable? Or because they forbid women from getting in positions of power?”

“You forget yourself, Phainon!”

Phainon’s voice snaps like ice. “It’s Deliverer, to you,” she says. “Where were all of you wise sages when the black plague hit? What did you do when the country was shattered to ruins? When the children got sick and died? Why am I, a woman, standing in front of you as the savior of this country? Ask yourself the right questions, Lycurgus.”

The assembly surrenders to a dreadful silence. For all their talk of elections and laws, the council has always been impervious to change. When she talks again, Caenis’ voice is a pale, scared thing. Phainon almost pities her.

“By imposing this, you’d go from a hero to a dictator.”

“Me?” Phainon flashes a carefree smile. “I think not. I’m merely giving a suggestion — to let the princess of Kremnos give her opinion. There is a reason why she’s been chosen as future queen although no king has been voted, is it not?” 

More murmurs. To the ignorant farmer, the wedding would happen, although suddenly, after the coronation of the new king. This whole farce is another alliance being forged in the public’s back, a sharp, purposeful dagger, to strengthen Okhema’s army and riches.

“Aren’t you her current host? She’s bound to listen to anything you say.”

A wave of disapproving whispers rises. Phainon’s smile twitches. Of course, by giving Mydei’s a voice in the vote, she puts herself in an advantageous position, whereas she didn’t even exist before. Of course she’s thought of it, fantasized it, the petulant Kremnos princess deciding she wouldn’t take a husband but a wife. The sages don’t need to know.

“And what a poor host I am,” she continues, her words laced with the charm of a thorny rose. “I waste most of my time away, cooped here with you indecisive elders.” Her smile sweetens, fakes being inoffensive. Shelves the fangs. “Introduce her to your picks. She’ll only be an opinion amongst others. And,” she adds, weighing her words carefully, dangling easy bait in the middle of wrinkled sharks, “it’s a gesture she’ll appreciate and remember.”

The favor of the future Queen. Goals shift and doubtful gazes are exchanged, but the idea is in the air, almost tangible. Phainon sees the obvious greed flashing in Caenis’ gaze — for all their mocking, nobody would dare pass up the opportunity to look good in front of a Kremnoan. Once an empire, now only a kingdom waiting to be rebuilt. 

They all want to put a leash on the lioness, turn her into a show animal, parade her. Phainon smiles. The scar formed by Mydei’s teeth stings.

The sages cave. There’s a party. A ball. Phainon takes Mydei there in a proper carriage driven by four horses. Mydei is scowling the entire way from Aedes Elysiae to Okhema, covered entirely in red silk and satin. Aglaea outdid herself. 

Outside, the streets are full of similar carriages. Ladies stroll, a partner at their arm, wearing dresses complimented by pretty jewels and eye-catching earrings. The men wear suits that make their shoulders seem squarer, and fancy ornate scabbards that hang at their hips just for show, empty.

“Whose stupid idea was it?” Mydei mumbles, sullen, arms crossed and cheeks pressed against the carriage window. She’s been adamant on ignoring the party and the pretenders to the throne. An eagle stopped by the manor with a letter from Gorgo, and Mydei had a sudden change of mind. Phainon swallows down her guilt and tries to offer a candid smile.

“You might find someone you’ll like,” she says, but she truly hopes that Mydei won’t. Mydei stares at her for what feels like an eternity, scanning her from the for once kept ponytail Phainon wears, kept orderly by a coral silver brooch, to her legs. 

“How lucky,” she says with nonchalance. “You’re wearing pants.”

“You’re a lady,” Phainon points out, imprinting the image of Mydei in her head. She doesn’t even have to try. Mydei looks unforgettable like this, covered in red-blood and gold, stark blue earrings latched at her ears. The dress hugs her curves generously, leaving her collarbone and the top of her breasts exposed, and the sleeves stop just short of her forearms. Where cloth stops skin resumes, red tattoos tracing a path of their own until they reach Mydei’s fingernails. “I’m a knight.”

Mydei makes a face. “I guess you are,” she says.

Phainon supposes it’s frustrating, being born and raised in a warring country, surrounded by songs honoring its brave soldiers, only to be sent away not to fight but to marry. 

The carriage stops in front of a fountain, and past it, the castle the future queen and king will reign in. It’s been occupied by courtesans and servants ever since the late king’s passing, and seeing it in full effervescence again tugs at Phainon’s nostalgic heartstrings. 

She leaves the carriage first, opening the door on Mydei’s side and offering her a hand. Mydei considers it, scoffs, yet accepts it. Somehow her hand feels more delicate than ever.

They’re separated during the party. Everyone battles for Mydei’s attention, while Phainon is caught by the captain of the Okheman guard. She spends the better part of the evening pretending to listen while overseeing Mydei from afar like some enamored suitor, wishing she could be at her side.

It wouldn’t be wise, however. The sages already regarded their arrival together sourly, so Phainon has to leave Mydei by herself, hoping she won’t get tangled in political games and schemes.

Thankfully — Or is it? Mydei drives suitor after suitor away. Phainon walks close, curious, after the fourth duke that unsuccessfully tried to garner her favor, and overhears Mydei say, with a polite smile, ’I don’t recall having asked for your opinion?’

Phainon drowns her loud laugh in a glass of wine, but even then, she keeps an elated smile. It seems Aglaea’s lessons backfired. She stops and discusses with Lycurgus, who almost succeeds in giving her a migraine, and she excuses herself when she spots Mydei alone, on the balcony. 

The crowd is permanently moving, and she can feel voices call out for her; hands tugging at the sleeves of her coat. She ignores them all, fending through the people to reach Mydei, a sailor obsessed with her lighthouse.

Once outside, Mydei turns to face her.

“You finally came,” she says. “I was growing bored.”

Phainon laughs. She feels drunk, from the fresh outside air, the starry night sky, the glass of wine. Drunk from how beautiful Mydei is, sparkling in her dress, rejecting her other suitors. Drunk from the thought that she might have a chance.

She closes the balcony doors behind her. “You know how to wield a sword but you ignore how to please men,” she teases, walking up close.

Mydei sneers.

“I see no point in being a good entertainer.”

“There are some advantages to it,” Phainon says, bracketing Mydei between her arms, all good manners forgotten. “Some… privileges."

“I take it you’re well-versed in pleasing men, yourself?”

“Ah, Mydei. Is that what you think of me?”

Mydei laughs. Tilts her chin, leaning on the handrail and appraising Phainon for all she’s worth. 

“I think you’re more cunning than you look,” she says. 

“Cunning?”

“You keep staring at me. You know, these eyes of yours,” she continues, staring straight into Phainons' soul, “are the same as a hungry man.”

Phainons' breath hitches. She is hungry. Covetous. Bold and ugly with want like desperate men in love are. “Should I gouge them out for you then, princess?”

She would, she thinks. At just one word of Mydei’s, she’d rip them out and offer them as crown jewels. Mydei looks at Phainon for a moment, then another, longer, unreadable thoughts passing through her pretty eyes — and then she crooks her head ever so slightly; gives a soft smile Phainon hopes no one else will ever see but her: 

“Keep them. Keep them, and teach me, Deliverer. Show me how to appease the men that look at me the same way you do.”

Phainon’s heart thumps in her chest, in her throat, at the edge of her fingertips, shaking her body with unrestrained vibrations. 

“There shall never be such men,” she says, her voice a raw, honest thing, filled with greed and jealousy. There should only be me.

She offers her hand like men do when inviting their partners to a dance, and Mydei takes it, never looking away from Phainon. 

She has to be a spell. Kremnos dark magic, the way Phainon can’t look anywhere else but into Mydei’s eyes, can’t think of anything else but how small Mydei’s hand is in hers, how precious, yet at the same time she remembers the burning red drills it easily carved into her forearms, her shoulders. 

She bows down, kissing right at the center of the tattoo inked into the back of Mydei’s hand. 

“There shall never be such men,” she repeats, following the tanned road of Mydei’s arm, up, up, pulling the princess closer against her, finding her jaw, her throat, close but not touching, “but if there was, perhaps you could consider—”

Me, she wants to say. Consider me. Choose me. “—indulging these poor, love-stuck fools.”

It’s as much of a confession as she can afford to give. Her hand moves of her own accord, untying the pretty bow at Mydei’s throat, fluttering close to her jaw, tilting her chin up. Retreating when Mydei’s eyes burn into hers, choosing to trail down the metal loops of her necklace instead. Phainon brings the jewel to her mouth and kisses it, cleansing the foolish greed pooling beneath her tongue with the salty taste of metal.

“Indulge,” Mydei says quietly. “You believe me to be so generous.”

They’re so close they could kiss, and Phainon imagines it, the taste of blood — hers — gathered on Mydei’s lips, flooding inside her mouth, and Mydei’s ferocious hands tangled into her hair, and she wants it, wants it more than she’s ever wanted something before. 

“Well,” she says, moving closer, “are you not?”

Mydei’s long lashes flutter, her gaze darting from Phainon’s eyes to her lips. Waiting to see if Phainon will dare taste the forbidden fruit and shoulder the following punishment, and in this moment Phainon feels strong enough to undertake anything. She feels like the Deliverer, the hero, the savior, the only person in the whole country worthy of the honor that is claiming Mydei’s lips, and she moves closer still, watching raptly as they part for her.

Mydei tastes like pomegranates. She tastes like burning sun made alive, and like ocean salt. She tastes like something different each time Phainon leans down again to greedily claim her lips once more, and she tastes like Phainon will never get enough, not until she can list all of her different flavors.

The windows-doors of the balcony open. Phainon jolts, pulling away, startled. A servant has come to find them — to find Mydei, her presence required inside for more introductions, pointless talking. The spells break with each inch of distance Phainon puts between them, stretching its tethers. 

They exchange a last glance, Mydei’s eyes are dark and unreadable, deep blood lakes fitting for the sinner Phainon is — and the princess goes, following the servant back inside. Left alone, Phainon sighs. 

It’s best that we were stopped, she thinks, and I shouldn’t have kissed her in the first place, and, I’d like to do it again. 

For better or worse, nothing happens next. 

Mydei returns to the Aedes Elysiae manor alone, while Phainon is rooted in Okhema for a little while, helping the officials here oversee the city’s defense. Their garrison is weakened, and they are reduced to picking between fending off intruders and rogues or escorting convoys. As such, they’ve lost valuable provisions, and Phainon is even told the carrier pigeons they send out for help have been shot down by wildling’s arrows, unabling them from requesting help. 

The situation takes way too long to be resolved. Phainon must be everywhere at once, with too little support. Okhema is a large, populated and proud city; it prides itself in being self-sufficient for the most part, and so it lacks proper allies it can count on. In spite of it, it’s the city that has trained Phainon to the art of the blade, and that accepted her when she had nothing — she can’t turn her back to it. 

So she hurries, yet she takes her time. For the garrison to be strengthened, the academy needs more recruits. She acts as a poster child, using her title and her reputation as the strongest swordfighter in all Amphoreus to help indecisive youngsters recruits enroll. She makes sure the situation will remain stable even once she’s gone, and she swears to personally carry a message to the grove on her way back home. The Okheman guard and officials are grateful, as always, and thank her for the time she’s spent — two weeks, passed in the blink of an eye.

“Phainon,” Anaxa calls, when they meet in passing, on the eve of Phainon’s return to Aedes Elysiae. “Have you heard? The princess has given someone her favor.”

Phainon’s tired heart jumps, throbbing in her ribcage like a dying fawn. 

“Who?” is all she can ask. 

“The second son of Dolos,” Anaxa reveals, and he looks unaware, as if he couldn’t hear the deafening sound of Phainon’s hopes shattering all at once.

“Ah,” Phainon says, and she laughs, since there's nothing else for her to do. “I suppose that makes sense.”

It does. It has to. Trade routes will open up for Kremnos, allowing them to better rebuild their country, to raise it back to how glorious it used to be before the plague. Phainon chuckles again, but her heart is not in it. Before even herself, Mydei would put her land first — just like a proper lady would.

Being home doesn’t mean Phainon can truly rest. Her people need help as well, to prepare for winter, stock up, group up. She’s being asked to strengthen when she’s at her weakest, and she spends the day of her return talking to villagers and riding her horse through her land, catching up, thinking of Mydei.

Once she returns to the manor, it’s late into the night. Her hands are dirty with soil and slashed by two wide red paths from clutching on the horse’s leash. Her muscles are sore from travel and effort. When Aglaea comes down the stairs to greet her, Phainon doesn’t even have enough energy to turn her filter on and smile.

“You’ve returned just in time,” the governor says. 

Phainon braces for the worst; another demand tossed at her when she was about to finally rest, another emergency only she can solve.

“The princess leaves tomorrow,” Aglaea continues. Phainon’s heart drops.

“Where is she going?”

“Kremnos, then Okhema. There’s a wedding to prepare.” 

Aglaea looks at Phainon like she knows about the escape to the field, the old church, the kiss. Like she’s more sad than she’s disappointed. Phainon has nothing to say. She looks to the carpeted floor, tired and guilty. Aglaea’s voice softens like it used to do before, when Phainon ran off to get into fights with foreign princesses and returned home muddied and bloody.

“You’ve misbehaved again, haven’t you?”

“I suppose I have,” Phainon admits. Aglaea shakes her head. She walks down the stairs, towards Phainon, and gives her tousled hair a gentle pat.

“Say your goodbyes properly,” she says, and it’s only then that Phainon understands — Mydei is truly leaving to be wed with another. A man. Tomorrow Audata’s old room will be empty, with only memories left behind. 

A knot shapes in her stomach. Aglaea leaves, and Phainon stays here without moving, without thinking. When she walks up to the second floor, it’s late. Everyone has gone to bed, and the house is drowned in darkness. Her steps are mechanical, hollow. Her breath is labored, and there’s a weight upon her chest, an invisible rock that stabs her with its sharp edges.

She pauses in front of Mydei’s door. Light slips from underneath. She’s still awake. Phainon swallows.

She shouldn’t be there. The kiss was already enough of a mistake. She should wash up, go to bed, and prepare herself to give Mydei her best fake farewell smile tomorrow.

She knocks.

Mydei opens the door. She looks as beautiful as ever, wearing only pale white garments and fluffy cotton slippers. She’s removed the earrings and the necklace she usually sports, revealing more skin than usual, and Phainon feels a little dizzy. Bloated with want.

“You’re leaving,” she says.

“Yes,” Mydei simply replies. Her eyes are the same color as Phainon’s melting candle, a sad, soon-to-be-fading yellow.

Phainon nods. “Then this is goodbye, I suppose.” She tries to find something wittier to say, but only lands on words that shouldn’t ever be spoken aloud. Her laugh is forced, awkward. Mydei doesn’t smile. She’s only looking at Phainon with a wide, piercing gaze, as if she was waiting for Phainon to find the courage to confess, again, properly this time, and Phainon hesitates, hand stuck on the doorknob. 

“Is that all you had to say?”

Yes. No. Your lips tasted like pomegranates. For the first time in her existence, Phainon wishes she was born a man, with all the privileges it entailed — wishes she could have been born noble and male; wishes she could have been chosen. “All my words would be improper,” she says. “And my actions even more.”

Only now does Mydei smile. She reaches out, and nudges a stray leaf from Phainon’s messy hair. Brings it to her mouth and kisses it. 

“And since when has this stopped you?”

The door closes, the both of them inside. Phainon drops the candle on a nearby table, and then moves. Her hands are quick and hungry, settling on Mydei’s hips then running up her back until they find her nape. Everything, everywhere, is soft and precious. Phainon presses their lips together as if she was starving, dying, and only lets go to breathe. 

They’re both panting. Mydei’s face is colored a pretty, fitting red, and, now braver, Phainon’s fingers are deft and dancing, undoing the complicated dress Aglaea has sewn. Garments fall, a mount of sin pooled at Mydei’s feet, and she stands in her room naked, beautiful, the moonlight giving her bronze skin silver accents. Phainon guides her to the bed, and Mydei lays there like some goddess waiting to be worshipped. Phainon kneels above her.

“Mydei,” she says.

Tonight, there might as well not exist any other word. That is all Phainon can think about: Mydei’s name, and Mydei’s curves, narrow hips and shapely breasts she’s allowed touching. Phainon understands now, what it means to be king — it is to be graced with the affection of Mydei’s soft lips; clung to by her delicate hands. It’s everything she’ll only have temporarily, for a single night, and she gets lost in it; consumes Mydei with the knowledge that she won’t ever be hers again.

Phainon devotedly worships naked skin, spurred on by the soft moans Mydei lets out. She kisses Mydei’s breasts, takes her nipples into her mouth and learns the shape and taste of them; engraves it in her memory — and then she bites down, a soft nibble at first then a rougher bite, until Mydei’s moan turns aggravated and Mydei’s gentle hands, tangled in her hair, start to push and scratch.

“You brute,” she says, voice weak, when Phainon removes her spit-slick mouth. 

Phainon looks at her work: there’s a dotted circle carved by her teeth around Mydei’s aureola, an ephemeral proof that Mydei’s body once belonged to her. She’ll have to be satisfied with only this.

“Sorry,” she replies, and as an apology she kisses Mydei again, thumb tracing around her swollen, bitten nipple. “Allow me to redeem myself.”

Her mouth trails down Mydei’s throat, collarbone; lingers where she’s sunk her teeth, admiring her own work with the tip of her tongue, before roaming lower, kissing the muscled expense of skin at Mydei’s stomach, then lower even.

Mydei’s cunt is pink and wet, and Phainon has to take a sharp breath to steady herself. 

She gives a first, shy kiss on Mydei’s clit, and immediately she’s caged between Mydei’s thighs, feeling them squeeze at her temples. She blinks, looks up.

From this angle, Mydei is divine. Her breasts are fat and lay lazily on her chest, and her eyes are so far they look like stars, shiny and gorged with lust. Mydei rolls her hips down, pushing into Phainon’s mouth. 

No one deserves this, Phainon thinks, heart overturned. Not me, not anyone else.

She licks Mydei’s clit as if it was her sole reason for existing, her finger firmly planted in the little fat of Mydei’s thigh, stopping them from smothering her entirely. Each time her tongue circles, Mydei jolts, as if Phainon’s tongue was not an organ but a spear driving straight through her core. 

Her moans grow louder, and she slaps the hand that isn’t attached to Phainon’s hair against her own mouth, biting down. Phainon looks up and feels envious. She wants Mydei’s teeth on her, in her. Wants to become Mydei’s hand; Mydei’s husband; Mydei’s anything as long as she’s hers, as long as she can say Mydei is mine.

She mouths at Mydei’s pussy until Mydei’s taste is all she can think of, making loud licking noises no proper lady should make, pushing her tongue inside the delicate opening, and Mydei keeps rewarding her with more, dripping all over Phainon’s tongue.

“Phainon,” she calls, voice quivering as much as her thighs, the weakest she’s ever been. “Phainon.”

Phainon is dizzy with want. She sucks and licks relentlessly, all softness gone, watching dazedly as Mydei's back arches off the bed. Her knees bump into Phainon’s ears when she tries to close her legs, overwhelmed with her impending orgasm. Phainon is the happiest she's ever been, when Mydei squeezes down on her, when she forgets to play nice and harshly tugs at messy strands of hair. When she feels Mydei spasm all around her, tensing, shaking, and then going quiet, softening under her, breathing out her name.

“Phainon,” she moans again, in a voice so drowsy and needy Phainon can only listen. She leaves a kiss right under Mydei's belly button and comes up, settling her head on the princess’ shoulder.

Mydei looks radiant. Her smile is weak and content, and she pets through Phainon's hair wordlessly.

Eventually she chuckles, worry-free, body still ridden by the quick hiccupy rise and fall of her breathing. “What next, Deliverer?”

“Next you’ll—” Phainon pauses to swallow. “Next you’ll become the king's wife.”

Mydei’s smile is the most tender thing to ever exist, and her words the most painful. “No,” she says. “I won't belong to anyone. Not to him.” She leaves her hand in Phainon's cheek, watching her as if she was something precious. “And not to you.”

“I know,” Phainon replies, but she thinks, How cruel. How unfair.

Phainon pledges her allegiance to a king she resents and envies. She spends the first half-year of their marriage in Aedes Elysiae. She rebuilds the church. Tends to the fields. Drowns in hard, manual work, to teach herself to never be foolish again, never indulge, never covet.

Kremnos’ glory shines beyond the fields and the oceans. Queen Gorgo must be proud of her daughter. Phainon only feels envious, and a little lonely.

When she convinces herself she’s over it — first by hammering that there’s nothing to be over in the first place; only a swing, lustful moments brought by the thrill of breaking interdictions — she receives a letter. It’s sealed in expensive red wax, the royal signet, and there’s nothing written on the envelope.

The content inside the letter is so simple it’s almost brutish: 

Come.

Phainon obeys. 

She rides to Okhema, and there she finds Mydei the most beautiful she’s ever been. Fitted with rings at each of her fingers, alliances she’s made with neighbouring countries. Vassals. Power suits her. 

“You called for me,” Phainon says, breathless.

“I did.” Mydei sounds like a queen but smirks like the wild girl who stole Phainon’s heart, with a mouth filled with sharp teeth and a head filled with bad ideas. “I need allies I can trust.” She pauses, and the morning sunlight catches onto her hair. “I need you to be my knight.”

Phainon says nothing and kneels.

Phainon is the closest to Mydei then, and convinces herself that's enough. She guards Mydei’s door at night, some pernicious part of her relieved to see that the royal couple sleeps in separate chambers, and she stands guard when Mydei is eating; bathing; ruling. She stays when Mydei’s husband leaves, and Mydei cultivates Phainon’s hopes slowly, carefully, cruelly, in a way only she knows how to.

“My knight,” she says when she calls Phainon, with a smile and a voice way too different, much gentler, than the one she uses to say My husband, and Phainon always dies a little. 

“Mydei,” she replies. 

It’s a bright day outside, as sunny as the one where they escaped to the old church. Phainon is kneeling at Mydei’s feet, unlacing her shoes for her. She insisted on doing it despite the over abundance of servants ready to do anything the queen would ask. Mydei sent them away, only the two of them left now, and all the months spent at Aedes Elysiae, and the ones in-between.

“You’re still so unruly,” Mydei teases. “You should say My Queen.”

To Phainon, they’re the same words. Mydei’s hands are on her cheeks, and Phainon closes her eyes, enjoying the light caress. “I suppose old habits die hard,” she murmurs.

“They do.” Mydei’s fingers are gentle, swaying Phainon’s wild hair away, tilting her chin up. Her lips are soft, and still taste like pomegranate. “They really do.”

Phainon will never know what it's like to be king. 

Phainon will only know what it's like to embrace the queen behind closed doors, and the taste and feel and shape of her teeth sinking into her skin, marking her like a tamed animal.