Chapter Text
Golden blood dripped through the halls of the Marmoreal Palace, staining the hero’s bath with impurities.
The blood was figurative, of course. Golden blood had not been shed within Okhema’s walls, but rather outside of the realm of dawn. It was easier to coat things in blood in places where the sun did not shine; It went unnoticed for longer when there were no golden rays waiting to illuminate the crimes after they’d happened.
Six Chrysos Heirs, dead.
All six deaths within the span of two weeks. Each ruled a tragedy by the Council of Elders, an unavoidable trick of fate that should have been avoided with better foreplanning. While the council did not point fingers, their insinuations had been quite clear: The leader of the Chrysos Heirs —and subsequent leader of the Flamechase Journey— the Lady Goldweaver, had displayed poor judgement leading to the deaths of six invaluable soldiers.
“While not a mortician,” Aglaea said, “Hyacinthia has done well in performing an autopsy of the retrieved corpses. Her findings have shown that these deaths have been wrought not by the hands of fate but by poison.”
It was not a surprising declaration. When the council were involved, most ‘accidents’ were not coincidental but manmade.
Aglaea tilted her head towards Hyacine, who stood beside her.
“The drug appears to be a soporific,” said Hyacine. “I’m not completely sure how it works yet, but it seems to be triggered by the Black Tide. Proximity deepens the effect. I asked some of the injured from the expedition about any potential symptoms and apparently those who died rapidly grew sluggish before they passed.”
The news sat heavy between those gathered. Whether manmade or tide-made, it was never good when corruption gained the upper hand.
“I suppose we will require that man’s insight on the matter.” Aglaea’s eyes narrowed. “Hyacinthia, you will return to the grove with your findings and endeavour to create a remedy to this poison. Castorice will accompany you.”
Her gaze flickered between the remaining heirs—unseeing but for the threads that danced around them all. It was a calculating gaze, ruminating over the many threads of fate that could go on to shape their future.
Eventually, she said, “The rest of you will remain in Okhema until further notice.”
Her tone was not one that garnered complaint. There was a finality to it that brokered no compromise. When no one spoke in opposition, Aglaea’s lips lifted into something resembling a smile, though there was little satisfaction behind it.
“Good,” she said, and it was not quite a dismissal, but they all knew that was where the matter would remain until further notice.
Further notice extended past one week. And a second. And then, eventually, into a third. Daily updates quickly gave way to updates given every other day. Even their baited breath waiting for updates from the grove slowly gave way into a regular breathing rhythm.
There was simply little to do but wait.
For Mydei, his newly freed schedule was quickly filled by training, as it always was in the absence of missions. Most days, training alongside his fellow Kremnoans. Some days, sparring with the Deliverer.
Or at least, in the beginning, he had sparred with the Deliverer. The training grounds, usually livened by Phainon’s lively ramblings now fell quiet to all but steel against steel. While they would not always speak, the training grounds were a shared space between them both—a shared space now rendered half empty.
Despite himself, Mydei was growing concerned.
They had not sparred in over a week, which was not entirely strange in itself. The strangeness festered in the fact that Phainon had not shown himself on the grounds in days .
Objectively, something was wrong.
Warriors could not afford to forgo training lest they lose their edge in combat. Even a few days' break was enough to cause a dip in performance. Any warrior with half a brain knew this, and as brainless as Phainon could be, sometimes, this was the Deliverer . He should have known better.
He did know better.
If the man was unwilling to show at training by his own efforts, then damn him, Mydei—as his rival—would drag him there by his own hand.
Once he found him, of course. Usually, it wasn’t too difficult to find him, but as he descended into Marmoreal Market, all he could find were clear signs of Phainon’s passing presence, not the man himself.
A pair of children playing with wooden swords imitated Okhema’s deliverer, giddy as they talked about how cool he looked walking through the streets. A local business owner beaming at new fixtures on his stall, thanked Kephale for sending him help in the form of their favoured Chrysos Heir.
Clearly, the deliverer was busying himself with the lives of the common people.
Ah, so it was like that.
The routine was not a new one. The deliverer typically busied himself in the problems of others when wanting to avoid his own. If Mydei wanted to find Phainon, then all he needed to do was follow the murmurs and smiles of those who’d recently received his help.
No matter how long it took him it would, eventually, lead him to the man himself.
He did not find the deliverer until the fourth quint of the action hour. The man had hidden himself away in a forgotten courtyard sat on the cusp of Marmoreal market and one of Okhema’s poorer residential districts.
The courtyard itself seemed an offering to Orynyx. The titan had claimed it and now it sat in a state of perpetual disrepair. Columnades crumbled under the weight of time, reinforced cracks widened from years of water erosion and further deepened by ropes of ivy. Brambles reclaimed half of the yard, voracious and wild, consuming the few remaining wildflowers within a nest of thistle and nettle.
It was not a sight one typically saw within Okhema. The scene was one that was found outside in abandoned ruins and towns that had been claimed by the tide.
Phainon stood in a gap between the brambles. The corpses of slain nettles lay in high piles by his feet, a mix of thick bulging needles and smaller briars. He was staring in the direction of Kephale Plaza, hand raised to shield his eyes. From the way he was scowling, the dawn device must have issued some sort of personal affront to his personhood.
“Mydeimos,” he said, unmoving, but for the way his scowl eased into neutrality. “Don’t tell me you’ve taken an interest in gardening as well?”
His voice was heavy with an attempt at lightness. What was meant to be a playful lilt fell flat. Something was bothering him and not even his usual stubbornness was enough to mask it.
Maskless and avoiding his typical routine. If he weren’t already concerned, then Mydei would be now.
“No,” Mydei said. “Is that what this is? Gardening?”
It did not look like gardening. It looked like the deliverer had descended into the wilds with a vengeance against spined flora. Gardening was gentle; This was a slaughter of nettle and vine. Instead of shears and trowels, Phainon had used brute force and his sword to hack at the brambles—some of the thicker, more swollen and bulbous burrs had snapped beneath the pressure of steel strikes, lifted only by spite and the final remaining seams of stem.
Colourless sap drenched the cracked paving stones like blood.
Phainon’s mouth twitched. “Something like that.”
The deliverer did not seem willing to offer any further commentary. He did not offer a quip about some deadly offense the plants had committed against the architecture of Okhema, or fall into dramatics about some made-up war between the nettles and the wildflowers.
He did not even smile.
Instead, he said, “Did you need me for something?”
“You’ve been slacking off recently,” he said, “someone needed to reign you back in.”
It wasn’t quite an explanation of his worry but on the rare occasion Phainon was good at reading between the lines and picking up on his intentions. No such rare occasion greeted them. Instead, Phainon’s frown returned.
“Slacking? The gall of you to make such a presumptuous accusation. I’ve been helping the people of Okhema.”
Mydei crossed his arms. “You’ve been particularly absent from the training grounds. Any explanation as to why, Deliverer?””
“Wha—I have been training!”
It sounded far too defensive for it to be the truth. Mydei cast another glance around the courtyard before pinning the man in place beneath an unimpressed stare.
“Shrubbery is not a suitable opponent. When was the last time you sparred a person?”
“That—”
He waited, but Phainon simply cut himself off and said nothing. His gaze fell from him to the massacred plants by his feet, face flushing. His lips thinned.
Silence greeted them like an old friend.
Mydei took its blanket around his shoulders with the grace of someone unintimidated by its burden—silence, when harnessed, was quite good at forcing the words of others. The deliverer would speak when he was ready, and until then, Mydei would wait him out. For now, all he needed to do was find a pillar that looked somewhat structurally stable and settle in to wait.
A quint did not pass but it certainly felt like it had.
“Mydei,” Phainon said, finally, lifting his gaze. It was piercing and resolute, as if he’d made up his mind on something important. “How about we get something to eat?”
They found themselves at an aging street stall that sat on the east outskirts of the market. The scent of roasted pork was thick against the tongue, sweet and honeyed. When they breathed, they inhaled garlic and paprika. Onions sizzled on a plate held over flame. The stall might have been decrepit and aging with an ancient sign one heavy wind away from crumbling into woodchips, but there was no better place in Okhema to go for gyros.
The stall owner caught sight of them both and lifted a hand in greeting. He did not ask for their orders. He didn’t need to. The man simply got to work with creating a culinary masterpiece. Neither Phainon or Mydei disturbed him, settling in for the short wait as the pita was filled.
“Lord Phainon, Lord Mydeimos” the chef said with a respectful nod, once they were finished. “As always, I hope you enjoy.”
They assured him they would, and took to the streets, gyros in hand. Pork juices dripped free, running in thin rivulets down their wrists. Their walk aimless and sedate, they moved with no true destination focused wholly on one another’s company and the taste of the meal they shared.
The sweetness of the pork combined with the creaminess of tzatziki was ambrosia for the tongue. The onions were crisp, the tomatoes not too bitter. Flavour burst across the tongue like a divine blessing - even the titans would have relished the taste.
Mydei plucked a piece of pork from its pita bread trappings and popped it into his mouth. He said, “If you don’t begin training again, the gap between us will be one even you cannot bridge.”
Phainon glowered at his food. Like with the dawn device previously, it appeared his gyros had offended him. The subsequent bite was a vicious thing. All teeth. Zero remorse. A dollop of tzatziki stained his cheek; He didn’t bother to wipe it away.
“I have been training,” Phainon said, once he’d finished chewing. “During the curtain-fall hour.”
Right.
Absolutely normal, that. Training in the middle of what was deemed the night of their everlasting ‘day’ was absolutely not worrying. Not at all.
“The curtain-fall hour,” Mydei repeated, unimpressed.
Phainon’s brow twitched. “It’s quieter.”
Most definitely attributed to the fact that it was the only time of dawn when the grounds were closed.
“And since when did the quiet become a requirement for your training, Deliverer?”
Phainon did not respond and busied himself, instead, with another large mouthful of food. It was clear he would not answer. Not this particular detail, at least.
“You’re right though,” Phainon allowed. “I haven’t sparred with others recently. I didn’t realise you cared enough to notice it.”
Mydei scowled. He said, “I won’t allow your skills to grow rusty, that’s all.”
Finally, Phainon smiled. “I know, I know. But really, I can assure you that they won’t. My typical routine hasn’t changed past the timing of the day undertaken. I’m just trying something out. I’ll swap things back if it doesn’t work out.”
But why had he changed things in the first place?
“You still need practice against other people.”
“Yes, yes, I know. I’m not a child, Mydeimos. It’s just a temporary thing. Truly, you worry too much.” He took the final bite of his gyros and scrunched the foil wrapping in his hands. Mydei glanced at his own half-finished food and bit into it.
(As usual, the deliverer ate fast and did not truly savour his meal. Despicable.)
“We will recommence our sparring,” Mydei said. “If you won’t fight with others, then you will fight with me.”
Phainon laughed. “Sure, sure. When I return to training during the action hour, I’ll be sure to prepare myself for you.”
What a fool—as if Mydei was going to wait until some ambiguous change in an already ambiguous routine. No. Phainon might have forsaken a lost of explanation, but he’d mentioned the most important thing: A time.
So long as he knew when Phainon would be acting , Mydei would be able to puzzle the remaining pieces together and learn whatever it was that was being kept from him.
It was only natural, then, that Mydei be waiting beside the weapons rack when the curtain-fall hour struck.
By the time Phainon arrived, haggard and stifling a yawn, Mydei was already warmed up and practising his footwork. It was halfway to the second quint and he had long been working up a sweat while waiting for the man’s arrival.
From the way he wavered on his feet as he entered the grounds, Phainon did not look like a man ready to begin training. He looked like he’d been dragged unwilling from his bed. His collar was unfolded, his hair unkempt. There were stains at the edge of his sleeves when usually he kept his coat pristine.
In truth, he looked a mess.
Bleary eyes glanced over Mydei once, unseeing, and then again. Only on the third pass did they take in his presence with anything resembling recognition, and even that took time.
“Mydei?” He murmured and crossed the grounds to reach him. His words slurred together, tired. There was a pallid sheen to his face that hadn’t been present during the action hour—the degree in which he’d changed in the span of hours was jarring . “What’re you doing here?”
Mydei crossed his arms. Wasn’t it obvious? “Training.”
Another yawn. Phainon wavered on his feet but did not fall. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”
“Shouldn’t you ?”
From the looks of him, the deliverer sorely needed the rest. And here Mydei thought himself closer to their previous routine of sparring. There’d be no point in it now– Phainon looked like a small shove would send him halfway across the grounds.
He shook his head and even had the audacity to say, “me? Of course not. I’m fine.”
“You look exhausted.”
His brow twitched. “I can assure you, my dear friend, that I am nothing of the sort.”
“You cannot truly be telling me that you’re going to train looking like that .”
Phainon’s lips quivered with a weak smile. It made him look like a ghost of himself. “Mydei, I always look this dashing. It’s part of my charm.”
Mydei sent him a flat look.
He sighed. “Alright, I’ll bite. What’s wrong with how I look?”
The prince lifted a hand and waved, loosely, at Phainon’s entire being. Phainon let out a choked noise halfway between amused and indignant. “You cannot simply gesture to all of me and expect that to be an explanation. It is not.”
Mydei wasn’t so sure. From his perspective, it was certainly telling enough.
“You look ill.”
“Really.” Phainon sent him a look that seemed one part dismissal to two parts condescending. It was a practiced look, one designed to infuriate him and put all thoughts of care from his mind. It wasn’t going to work—this concern had been growing for days, and he was going to get some answer whether Phainon liked it or not.
“I’m serious,” Mydei crossed his arms. “I doubt you’d even be able to swing Dawnbreaker properly, as you are. If you’re unwell then—”
“I’m really not.” The Deliverer shook his head. “I can prove otherwise.”
…What an idiot.
And yet, he should’ve known that their interaction could’ve gone no other way—Phainon had always been stubborn. Most of the time, his refusal to set limits on himself was admirable, how he was always striving to new heights. It was less admirable when his eyes were sunken and his body seemed less animated than a corpse and the refused limit was that of a body that truly looked like it needed rest.
Like with all Phainon’s previous pursuits at idiocy, Mydei would have to get his point across the only way he knew how—he’d have to beat it into that thick skull of his. If his poor attempt at Okheman communication wouldn’t work then he’d do it the old fashioned Kremnoan way.
“Fine.” Mydei said, “One quint.”
“Huh?”
“You have one quint to wake yourself and warm up,” Mydei said. “And then you will prove yourself to me in battle. I will not allow your battle prowess to wither because you’ve settled on playing the part of a fool.”
His words were not a suggestion. The prince of Kremnos was not asking, nor was he ordering - the words were a promise and a warning. Whether Phainon wanted it or not, once the next quint arrived they would meet one another in a symphony of clashing metal until a victor was decided. No matter how this quint closed - whether Phainon remained or tried to run - Mydeimos would not hold back.
He half expected resistance. Instead, Phainon exhaled long and slow, and rubbed the tiredness from his eyes. It was still there, lingering, but he’d done his best attempt at hiding it.
“ Fine,” he grumbled and slung off his coat. “Far be it for me to reject one of his royal majesty’s challenges.”
They did not speak again during the remaining minutes of the quint. Mydei continued with the drills he’d been working on prior to Phainon’s arrival, and Phainon ambled through a mixture of stretches and cardio.
There was no time piece to announce the passing of time, but still, they both knew when the clocks turned. It could be felt in the air, a mix of competition and strife. Even the dawnlight shifted into something anticipatory.
As with all of their fights, Mydei moved first.
He lunged.
There was too much distance between them, so he closed it. He burst forward like lightning, propelling himself through the air as if he were Nikador himself going for the kill. Battle was his element and he honed it well—clawed fingertips curled into eager fists. His gaze narrowed in on the battle and little else ceased to matter.
Phainon was ready for his opening strike. Just. He’d been mid-stretch as the battle descended, but would not be the Deliverer if he were incapable of adapting quickly. His legs spread shoulder width apart. One foot moved parallel to the other. He’d built a stable foundation within the few seconds it took Mydei to reach him.
There was no time to dodge the hurricane that descended. Instead, he parried. A sword could be a clunky thing, but Phainon moved his with the ease of a forgotten limb. Gauntlets and Dawnbreaker clashed with vengeance, sparks flaring as they scraped against each other.
Every fight was raw and guttural and this was no different. Steel bore against steel. Heavy breaths and harsh grunts accompanied each attack.
Yet even through it all, Mydei was not satisfied.
Phainon had begun this fight on the defensive and on the defence he remained. It was the sort of tactic that was effective when awaiting back up or when forcing oneself to endure but not for fighting Kremnoan princes.
Mydei snarled. He threw himself harder into the fight, pushing on with all the determination of a lion going in for the kill. His clawed fingers drew blood.
Phainon’s sword faltered, momentarily, and then his gaze hardened. He altered his stance so that his sword hilt was firm in one hand and the sword’s tip firm his other and met Mydei’s next punch with the force of a battering ram.
Mydei stumbled back, centre of gravity thrown.
When Phainon did not press him further, using the advantage of his displaced balance to widen the gap between them, he felt rage flood his core.
“Is that all you’ve got, Deliverer?” He spat.
From the look of him, maybe it was.
Sweat drenched his clothing. His hair clung to both his neck and forehead. It was not the look of exercise but of fever. Mydei, familiar with Phainon’s fighting technique, knew well enough that even at his most exhausted the man’s breaths did not rattle against his ribcage.
And yet now, they did.
Adrenaline kept him upright but it did not clear whatever affliction had made a home in his chest.
“No,” Phainon rasped. A spark had lit in his eyes, an unfamiliar shade of stubborn recklessness. “I’m just getting started.”
Foolish, yet mildly respectable.
“Very well.”
Mydei allowed him another second to settle the rattle within him before descending once more. He would not allow any more hesitation from his opponent—blow after blow, Mydei advanced with the tenacity of a bull, forcing Phainon back step by step. If the man would not optionally admit his defeat in this spar, then the Kremnoan would force him to his knees and let actions show him it in all its finality.
A punch, poorly dodged, gouged a rift into Phainon’s shoulder. Another, grazing his cheek, immediately bloomed in a bruise of green and gold. And yet through it all, the spark in the deliverer’s eyes did not falter. If anything, it was burning brighter .
He spat a glob of blood and saliva onto the ground and finally shifted into offense. His attacks weren’t enough to draw blood, but he was far closer than he’d been before.
‘Better,’ Mydei thought.
They continued through the second quint and into the third. Whenever the rattle in Phainon’s chest returned, they allowed themselves a second’s reprieve before reentering the fray.
Over and over they remained in motion, in a cyclical dance of blocked strikes and endless parries.
And then, at last, the deliverer’s sword found purchase. It seemed he had finally found his footing within the fight, returning to the typical skill set Mydei expected from him.
It wasn’t a deep wound. Their spars had led to deeper in the past—this one did not even sting. In fact, he only realised he’d been injured when something hot and sluggish began to trickle down his arm.
Phainon’s gaze flickered towards it. His next breath rattled so loudly that it sounded like it was stuck in his throat and threatening to tear itself free.
“Deliverer—”
The man moved quicker than Mydei’s eyes could track. One moment, he was moving past Mydei’s shoulder, the next, he’d circled around to his front, boot raised to strike his chest. The force was enough to crack rib. It sent him halfway across the grounds, skin scraped raw as he skid across the dirt.
…What the fuck?
“We’re finished,” Phainon said.
They were not.
Mydei pulled himself to his feet, brushing the dust from his trousers. He pressed his fingers against his sternum and pain met him, eager and impressed. Two ribs definitely broken. More had cracked. His body was already working on knitting the broken pieces back together.
“Mydei,” he continued, voice desperate. His brows were threaded in arches of frustration. “ Please. This is getting out of hand. We shouldn’t keep going—”
“Do you yield?”
He was met with a glower that could raze cities.
Mydei huffed a dry laugh. “Neither do I.”
They continued, although it was clear this was no longer their typical spar.
What had once been a catalyst to proving a point to the deliverer had shifted into something far different. Something dangerous that had folded itself in their proximity was beginning to unfurl.
Whatever force Phainon had pushed into his last attack was carried forward into this new wave of battle. His blocks were accompanied by bruises. When he parried a blow, it was with such force that Mydei could feel the vibration ringing through his gauntlets.
And through it all, the strikes were becoming more refined—it should not have been possible, but the deliverer was growing sharper with every action. Entering one’s rhythm was one thing but this was beyond that, this was an ongoing evolution of strength and speed.
Their spar had turned from something controlled and fluid into something frenzied, and it was only worsening with each second. With each passing strike, the deliverer grew wilder, unrestrained as the battle consumed him.
He had seen Kremnoan gladiators deep in the throes of the lust for battle before, ferocious warriors driven both by an indominitable will and Nikador’s insanity. The look in their eyes could not begin to compare to the intensity that was now burning in Phainon’s. His eyes were a blazing sun.
They were also, despite all logic and reason, gold.
“Deliv—” He tried, but the time for words had long since passed and the name was stolen from his chest when Dawnbreaker’s hilt crashed into his stomach.
Bile rose in his throat. He staggered back into a weapon rack, spears and shelving splintering under his weight.
When he looked up, Phainon was smiling.
He was enjoying this. No, not that—this went beyond enjoyment. It was not enjoyment or insanity in his eyes, but rapture. His tongue ran along his upper lip as if the battle had a physical taste; From the way his smile widened, the taste must’ve been divine.
Hunger swam in his eyes. He lifted Dawnbreaker and Mydei, knowing he would not reach his feet before he brought it down on him, dived sideways.
The sword gouged a deep crevice into the dirt. Even to an undying prince, the destruction was intimidating.
“Deliverer,” he gritted out, as Dawnbreaker was lifted once more and pointed toward him. “That’s enough.”
Dawnbreaker cleaved through air and the fight did not cease. Its wielder was not listening. This time, he barely managed to dodge; His cheek bled gold as the sword dug into the ground beside him.
“Phainon.”
The man pressed a foot to Mydei’s chest, pinning him in place. His lips twitched. Panting from the exertion of their fight, Phainon dragged Dawnbreaker through dirt and stone, only lifting it once more when it was by his side.
When he looked down at Mydei, his gaze was empty but for a predatory gleam of voracious hunger and amusement. He did not flinch as gauntleted fingers dug into the flesh of his leg but simply tilted his head.
Mydei grit his teeth. “ Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.”
Something flickered in the man’s eyes. Momentarily, he could see his deliverer—gold gave way to blue, and in his eyes there was recognition. It did not remain. Gold returned in a flash. The pressure pinning Mydei down increased tenfold; It was difficult to breathe, but he managed. Barely.
“Phainon,” he tried again, more forcefully than before. “I yield.”
That caught him. Phainon’s eyes widened; his gaze shifted from rapture to surprise. The hunger remained but it was squandered under the weight of disbelief.
“…What?” He rasped.
“I yield,” Mydei repeated. “Clearly, your curtain-fall routine is working.”
Phainon’s mouth parted in surprise—There was something sharp peeking past his lips, but Mydei couldn’t tell what.
“You…” His brows furrowed as if the words were difficult to understand. “ …What?”
He wasn’t going to repeat himself a third time. Instead, Mydei distangled his fingers from flesh with a wet squelch of ichor and bone and said, “Get off.”
Following a path from Mydei’s face to his boot still planted atop the Kremnoan’s chest, Phainon’s eyes widened further. His breath hitched. The leather of his boot was soaked gold. A steady stream of ichor drenched his socks.
“Oh,” he murmured and lifted his foot. The ease of pressure caught against Mydei’s chest, accompanied by heavy coughs. Phainon paid him no mind, calf twitching, attention stolen by the damage to his leg as if only just realising he’d accrued it.
He licked his lips and said nothing else.
Mydei did not push him. Instead, he shuffled back until there was enough space to sit, hacking on spit and the remnants of strife that still lingered in the air. His mouth tasted of blood.
By the time his coughing fit had settled, Phainon’s body was beginning to sag. His torn leg buckled beneath him and it was only through Dawnbreaker’s support that he managed to remain on his feet.
“What what that ?” Mydei asked.
Phainon sighed. His body slunk to the ground with all the grace of a dromas descending stairs at speed.
“That,” he said absently, as Dawnbreaker toppled onto the ground beside him. “Was me. Winning.”
And without the grace one expected from a winner, his eyes shuttered and he faceplanted into the dirt.