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He appears out of nowhere on the plains west of Tretos one morning, his smile wide and his sword freshly sharpened. He’s happy to see them. Too happy. No one wants to see a group of Kremnoan warriors approaching them across a flat plain.

Suspicious. Mydei tries to subtly divert their crew.

It should be noted that Mydei is, for all his strengths, awful at subtlety.

“Oh, come on,” Peucesta says in an undertone, turning back towards the mysterious, overly joyful stranger. “Don’t you at least want to see what the poor bastard wants?”

Mydei huffs. “I don’t feel like killing today.”

“Then we’ll leave him alive,” says Leonnius, already skipping ahead. He’s fast; Mydei couldn't catch him if he tried, so he doesn’t bother trying. By the time Mydei can even think to stop him, he’s already halfway to the stranger, waving his hands above his head.

“Announce our exact battle strategy too, while you’re at it,” Mydei mutters under his breath. He kicks at the dirt. A cloud of dust billows up toward him, clinging to his legs.

At his side, Hephaestion only smiles.

Mydei is a good warrior. He knows how to recognize defeat. This, he thinks, watching Leonnius catch up to the stranger and offer an overenthusiastic greeting, is the most humiliating defeat he has ever suffered. He looks at his own dusty legs and drags his feet, just a little.

“Don’t sulk,” Hephaestion chides him, grabbing his arm. “Let’s go see.”

“I am not sulking,” Mydei says, appalled. “And you can’t just pull me around. I’m— hey! I’m your crown prince!”

“And this,” says Ptolemy, walking calmly alongside Mydei as he’s dragged forward, “is your first diplomatic encounter. Treat it as such. Let’s try to be hospitable, for once, instead of jumping right into battle.”

Mydei sighs miserably. Diplomacy. Hospitality. Some Kremnoan army they are.

Nevertheless, he quits dragging his feet and stands to his full height again, walking up to the stranger with as much intimidation in his posture as he can muster. If he has to be diplomatic, he might as well use fear. That’s a valid tactic in diplomacy, he thinks. Maybe.

“—for the city-state of Castrum Kremnos,” says the stranger, still beaming. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Mydei crosses his arms as he approaches. He puffs out his chest and says, “We are the Kremnoan detachment. Of course we know something of it.”

The stranger’s intense blue eyes widen. “That’s perfect! So could you direct me towards the city?”

“It moves,” Mydei points out, his voice as dry as the plains around them. “It’s everywhere.”

“I know. But I was hoping you’d know where it was last! I’m looking to train with the sword.”

It’s infuriating. He’s even the tiniest bit taller than Mydei; it’s driving him insane, looking up at him. Mydei has the sudden, childish urge to tiptoe. Instead he steels his gaze and says, “We don’t yet know where Castrum Kremnos is. We’re also moving in search of it.”

The stranger blinks. His expression falters.

“Farewell,” Mydei says, and then he turns around haughtily.

Only to be stopped by a harsh grip on his cape.

“Forgive him,” says Leonnius from behind him. “He’s wary of strangers. Drowned for nine years, you know how it is.”

“And he’s only seventeen,” says Ptolemy, patting Mydei’s shoulder reassuringly. “Cut him a little slack, please.”

Mydei seethes.

“Oh, it’s no problem at all,” the stranger says, and Mydei can hear the smile in his voice. “In fact, I’m eighteen, so it works out! I’m Phainon of Aedes Elysiae. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Mydei finally wrenches free of the grip—Hephaestion’s—on his cape, and turns around to take a good look at him. His clothes cover almost all of his skin; Mydei can’t tell if he’s got a warrior’s build or not. He’s dressed simply, and his sword is plain. His hair is sun-bleached white, almost blinding.

“Aedes Elysiae,” Mydei repeats, raising an eyebrow. “Never heard of it.”

“Ah, well,” says Phainon, ducking his head. “It’s a little farming town in the southwest. It’s not exactly a warrior’s territory, so here I am! In search of training.”

“If it’s training you want,” Mydei says, his voice rising, “then—”

“Mydeimos,” says Perdikkas warningly.

“Then it’s training you’ll get,” Mydei continues, stronger than ever. He straps his gauntlets tighter around his wrists and raises them. “Fight me.”

Phainon looks at him blankly.

“I said fight me,” Mydei demands, and then he snarls and throws the first punch.

He expects it to connect. He expects to hear the sickening crunch of bone beneath his hands, and for Phainon to stagger back, clutching his jaw, and then retreat with his tail between his legs back to his little farm town.

But instead Mydei’s gauntlets meet the touch of steel. Phainon already has his sword out, blocking the blow.

Mydei’s mouth ticks up at the corner.

“I’m ready,” says Phainon, his voice lower than before. His eyes burn with pale blue fire, and he smiles with teeth. “Let’s do it.”

“You’re on,” Mydei breathes, circling around him with fresh vigor in his footsteps, “Phainon.”

And then they battle, right there on the dry plains, kicking up dust in a swirling cloud around them with every rhythmic movement of their feet.

Phainon is, against his expectations, reasonable competition. No country boy could truly be a match for Mydei, of course, but… this one isn’t so bad, he thinks, as his fists meet the air once again, leaving him stumbling. Phainon is steady on his feet, sure with his hands. And Mydei is weakest to heavy weapons like his. He can counter long-range weapons easily, but one blow from Phainon’s sword is enough to knock him off his feet.

He’s strong. He’s got the kind of strength that no one else in the Detachment has. The kind of strength that would have been sung about, immortalized in ballads. Sheer power, with nowhere for it to go.

But he lacks experience and training. His swordwork is too slow, and he’s clearly thinking his way through every move instead of having them memorized.

Mydei grins. His next punch uses his full force, swung with his shoulder and his whole back.

“Oh, joy,” says Ptolemy drily. “They’re fighting.”

“Well,” says Perdikkas hopefully. “Mydeimos is nothing if not consistent.”

Hephaestion says nothing. He just sighs.

They fight on the dry plains for longer than Mydei expects. Long enough that Peucesta gets bored and brings out his lyre, and Hephaestion grows weary of standing still and sits down to try to breathe easier. Mydei can’t be sure how long it’s been. Long enough that his arms hurt and his legs are sore and his back is going to be killing him tomorrow. Long enough that Phainon’s swings are getting fewer and further between.

At last Mydei lands one final blow, right in the center of his chest. Phainon chokes out a breath and tumbles to the dusty ground.

Mydei takes a step forward, so that he’s standing with his feet on either side of Phainon’s hips, and looks down at him. His blood thrums with delight and adrenaline. “Do you yield?”

Phainon looks up at him, his chest heaving. “Only,” he says, “if you give me the honor of introducing yourself.”

Mydei blinks. “Of—what?”

“Introducing yourself,” Phainon repeats, cringing slightly as he pushes himself up to sit. “So that when I write to Cyrene, I can tell her of the beautiful man who defeated me.”

Mydei’s face burns. Still, he straightens his spine and stands tall. “My name is Mydeimos,” he says. “Leader of the Kremnoan detachment, and Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos.”

Phainon accepts his offered hand to stand again. He brushes the dust off of his robes. Then, slowly, “Wait. You’re the what?”

“Come on,” Mydei says, throwing his supply pack at Phainon. He groans, but catches it easily, hoisting it onto his shoulder like it weighs nothing. “As payment for losing, you’ll carry my pack for the next week.”

“For the next—wait,” says Phainon, spluttering helplessly. “You’ll let me come with you? To find Castrum Kremnos? And—and you’re the crown prince?”

“I’m not letting you do anything,” Mydei mutters, turning away to hide the heat in his face. “I’m making you come along. As payment for losing.”

“He means ‘yes,’” says Perdikkas.

Mydei scoffs, but doesn’t deny it.

“We’re headed north,” Leonnius explains, already at the head of the group. “The last known sightings of Nikador’s titankin were in that direction, so we’re following the traces. And if we can save people from the corrupted titankin, all the better.”

“Then I’m all for it,” Phainon says earnestly, shifting the bags on his shoulders to even their weight. “Let’s set off! I’m ready.”

Mydei has to admit this answer pleases him. But before he can say anything, or even turn around, Hephaestion’s hand lands on Phainon’s shoulder.

“Anyone seeking Kremnos alongside us is one of our own,” says Hephaestion warmly. “So… welcome to the Kremnoan detachment, Phainon.”

***

The thing about the plains is that they are, as the name suggests, very plain.

There’s simply nothing out here. No battles to fight, no towns to visit. So the detachment, and now Phainon, marches on for three days across the desolate, dusty wasteland. There is no entertainment. Sometimes Peucesta hums half-composed tunes, or Perdikkas stops to gather some odd ingredient from the sparse plants amidst the dust, but other than that, the only thing to do is talk to one another.

“So you’re from a farming town?” says Leonnius, walking backwards in front of Phainon. He likes to do that—says something about training his calves.

“Georios, I presume?” says Ptolemy eagerly. “Kremnoans are somewhat familiar with Georios’ rites, but, pardon me for saying this, you don’t seem to observe them.”

“Oronyx, actually,” Phainon corrects. “The growth of grain defines our seasons and marks our passage of time. So it makes sense, right? We pray for time to pass mercifully and give us our harvest before it grows too cold.”

“That would explain why you’re wearing shoes.”

“Shoes?”

“Followers of Georios frequently walk with their bare feet to the earth, or wear more exposed skin. You’re dressed very conservatively; I was curious.”

“Oh! Right.” Phainon smooths out the fabric of his chiton, adjusting his belt. “It’s more practical, you know? I have to protect my skin when I’m in the field for long days. And they say Oronyx grants easier aging to those who cover their skin.”

Mydei doesn’t care about time and grain and easier aging. The conversation is starting to irritate him. He tries to walk faster.

“Mydeimos,” says Perdikkas warningly.

Mydei slouches, scorned, and falls back into line.

Perdikkas sighs and looks at him oddly. “It’s not you,” he says, quieter this time. “It’s all of us. We have to stick together. What if we had—”

“—An ambush, I know,” Mydei mutters. “I just don’t care for this.”

“Conversation?”

“Conversation about him,” Mydei mutters, jerking his head vaguely in Phainon’s direction. Behind him, he hears the sharp note of Phainon’s laugh through the dry air. His easy joy makes something stir in Mydei’s stomach. “I don’t like him. I don’t trust him. He’s suspicious.”

“And yet,” says Hephaestion pointedly from behind him, “he’s carrying your pack.”

Mydei spares a glance for Phainon, over his shoulder. He’s walking side by side with Ptolemy, his eyes lit up with fervor. Mydei’s own supply pack sits on Phainon’s right shoulder; Phainon’s hand traces idle patterns along its strap sometimes, like it’s his to touch, his to leave a mark on.

“Because he lost,” Mydei says sharply, turning away again. “And I won.”

At his side, Perdikkas and Hephaestion share a look.

Phainon laughs again, this time joined by the ever-serious Ptolemy. Mydei’s stomach twists. Illness. It must be illness.

***

After three days in the plains, they finally reach a village. It’s a trading stop, made for people to pass through rather than stay a while, but it’s a welcome sight nevertheless.

“And,” says Leonnius excitedly, already back from his scouting expedition into the town, “they’ve got a bar.”

Peucesta cheers.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Mydei says, crossing his arms. “We don’t have nearly enough money for drinks. One bottle, if anything, and we’ll take it for the road.”

“I’ll take it,” Peucesta says, staring dreamily at the sky. “Anything to provide some sweet liquid inspiration.”

“You could also try writing music sober,” Perdikkas suggests, sighing fondly. “Oh, and Mydeimos—if we have the budget, I could use some more alcohol for disinfecting wounds. The bar might have something strong enough, if you ask nicely.”

At that last word, Peucesta snorts.

“I’m nice,” Mydei says, shoving at his side. “I’m very nice.”

“Oh, here’s your bag back, by the way,” Phainon says brightly, holding it out.

Mydei glares at him. Nicely. Glares at him nicely.

“I know, I know, four more days,” says Phainon hastily. “But you carry the detachment’s money, don’t you? You might want that, if you’re planning to spend any.”

Mydei blinks. He’d forgotten entirely that his pack contained their money. Phainon easily could have run off with all their funds, leaving them destitute—well, more destitute than they already are—and yet here he is, handing it back to Mydei as if it were nothing. Mydei, who has been nothing but cruel to him.

“Well?” says Phainon.

Mydei quietly takes the pack from him. Their hands touch momentarily over the strap, then separate just as quickly.

“…Thank you,” Mydei says, his voice raspier than he intends.

“Yeah,” says Phainon, looking him right in the eyes. He offers another winning smile. “I’ve kept it safe for you.”

Mydei’s chest feels odd. He tears his eyes away from Phainon and instead busies himself counting the coins in his bag. It’s exactly as he remembers: no more, no less. “We’ll go to the bar,” he decides, standing up again. “Rest for a few hours, have a meal. No drinks. Then we’ll make camp outside of town.”

No one seems particularly enthused about this, but they all stand up and follow his lead.

The townspeople across Amphoreus are often wary of the detachment. They’re obviously warriors, if not obviously Kremnoan; understandably, no one is fond of foreign warriors in their lands. Mydei is used to the side-stepping, the avoidance, but it still tastes bitter in his mouth.

He leads them into the bar. They take a far corner, away from the ordinary patrons, with a curtain to keep them far away from polite society. Mydei counts out a reasonable amount of coins to spend and prepares to go to the counter for their meals.

Then he looks at their prices and does a double take.

“We’re too short for the medicinal alcohol,” Mydei says, frowning at the price board. “Why is everything expensive? Isn’t this a backwater town?”

“Trading stop,” Leonnius says, sighing. “They know there’s nowhere else for miles around.”

“Just do what you can,” Hephaestion says, smiling reassuringly. “We understand.”

Mydei grimaces. He prepares to stand up.

A hand lands on his arm.

“Wait,” says Phainon, his voice a little rough. He clears his throat, steadying himself. His face is faintly red, but he presses on: “I think I ought to do the negotiating. I’m—well, perhaps this is a bit self-centered of me, but I’ve been told I’m rather charming. And—Your Highness, I mean no offense, but…”

Mydei huffs. His face feels warm. “Charm is not a necessary component of a warrior.”

Beside him, Peucesta masks his snicker with a well-timed cough.

Mydei shoves the handful of coins at him. “I will make an exception,” he says, looking Phainon right in the eyes. “If you come back with all of our meals and the medicinal alcohol, I’ll let you have my tent for three nights.”

Phainon’s eyes widen. “Your tent? You mean—”

“Yes,” Mydei says, sitting up taller. “If you prove yourself in this challenge.”

Phainon takes the coins and stands up to his full height, strolling over to the counter with a spring in his step.

Mydei watches him go. The smile spreads across his face. He slips the remaining eleven coins back into his pack, leaning his head in one hand in amusement.

“Don’t be cruel to the poor boy,” Ptolemy sighs, shaking his head. “How much did you give him?”

“Twenty-one,” Mydei says, his grin widening. He’d initially budgeted thirty-two, and even that was tight; Phainon would have to pull off a miracle to bring back anything worthwhile.

Peucesta cackles.

“They’ll eat him alive,” says Hephaestion mournfully, smiling despite his tone.

Perdikkas only shrugs. “He had to pass a test sometime or another.”

Mydei grins, victorious, as he draws the curtain around their seating area again. He leans back, his hands above his head, and waits.

And waits.

Thirty minutes later, there is still nothing.

“…Do you think he’s alright?” Ptolemy says at last. There’s actual concern in his voice; Mydei has overheard one too many philosophical conversations between them not to realize they’ve become friends.

“If they’ve attacked him…” says Hephaestion carefully.

“We’re not going to defend him,” Mydei says coldly, before he can finish. “Let him deal with his own mistakes.”

Hephaestion looks at him sideways. “You’re the one who gave him too little money.”

Mydei’s mouth twists into a frown. He looks to the other detachment members, waiting for one of them to speak up in his defense. But they all simply look concerned, even vaguely sympathetic. Initially, Mydei hadn’t felt the least bit guilty about his test; but now that Phainon’s been gone for so long, the first tendrils of worry are starting to creep into his stomach.

“Never mind him,” Mydei says at last, shaking the feeling off. “Didn’t you have a poem to recite?”

Ptolemy’s eyes light up. “Ah, right! Phainon has been telling me his hometown’s stories. I was reminded of a composition I once read.” He clears his throat, breathing in slowly, then begins: “Some say cavalry and others claim infantry or a fleet of long oars is the supreme sight on the black earth. I say it is the one you love. And easily proved. Did not Mnestia, who far surpassed all mortals in beauty, desert—”

“Your meals,” interrupts someone from outside the curtain.

Mydei blinks. He draws the curtain.

Waiting for them are three waitstaff laden with enormous meals, and a fourth carrying nothing but goblets of wine. Seven goblets. Seven meals. And behind them is a well-dressed woman, smiling pleasantly at them.

“You are all very welcome here,” she says, bowing her head to them. “Should you desire anything else, please let me know. This is a local wine, brewed from two different varieties of red grapes. Should it be to your liking, I have plenty more.”

The entire detachment is stunned into silence. They simply watch as the lavish plates of food—meat and breads and fresh steamed vegetables—are placed before them, and the goblets are passed down.

At last Phainon slips in behind them, beaming like the sun. He holds up a small bottle, then hands it over to Perdikkas. “Your disinfecting alcohol! The strongest within a hundred kilometers, they assured me. It should do the trick.”

Mydei stares at the spread before them. In reality it’s not terribly grand. But to him, to their detachment, it seems like the feast of kings.

“But I gave you insufficient coin,” Mydei says at last, looking across the table at him. “You contributed funds of your own?”

Phainon laughs. “I grew up on bread and potatoes. You think I have money to spare?”

Ptolemy takes a sip from his goblet and laughs, tipping his head back. “I ought to immortalize you in legend! The broke farm boy, turning twenty-one coins to five hundred!”

He raises his glass into a toast. The other members of the detachment follow suit. Phainon looks faintly embarrassed, but drinks deeply to match.

Mydei takes a small sip, cringing at the taste as he sets the glass down. He discreetly slides it toward Peucesta, who nimbly slips the goblet’s contents into his own underneath the table.

“You weren’t kidding,” says Leonnius, grinning. “Your charm is nothing to be trifled with.”

“Right,” says Peucesta, looking up at him slyly. “The owner seemed quite taken with you. I wasn’t aware we had a man of the heart with us.”

“Nothing like that,” Phainon says sheepishly, his face pink. “The owner told me she had a problem with wild dogs breaking into her cellar, so I fixed up her door and secured the perimeter with rosemary to ward them off. In gratitude, she offered me and my companions her hospitality.”

Mydei frowns. “Rosemary? Is that not a cooking ingredient?”

“Exactly. The strong scent deters wild dogs from coming near! And you can use it in your cooking, or burn its dried stalks for rituals.”

Mydei isn’t sure what to think. He takes a slow bite of meat. To his mild displeasure, it’s delicious.

“Oh, and here’s this,” Phainon says. He plunks down a stack of coins and slides them across the table. Twenty-one of them, right back into Mydei’s hands.

Mydei stares down at the coins. Slowly, he puts them back into his pack.

“You passed our prince’s test with flying colors,” Hephaestion says, inclining his glass in Phainon’s direction. “Excellent work.”

“Indeed!” cries Peucesta. “Excellent work!”

They both toast him. Phainon drinks again, emptying his glass.

“A man of integrity,” Ptolemy says approvingly, refilling his glass for him. “Our dear prince can’t hold his liquor for the life of him. Good to have someone of our speed with us!”

Phainon laughs, bright and flushed and brilliant under the low lights of the bar. “To our search,” he says softly. “May we all find what we’re looking for.”

And with that, he drinks again.

Mydei watches Phainon’s throat bob as he swallows. He eats another bite of meat. His heart thunders inexplicably in his chest.

***

He isn’t really part of the detachment until their first battle. Before then, Mydei can convince himself that Phainon isn’t really one of them. That he’ll leave anytime.

And then they’re attacked, three days outside of the town.

It’s not a fair fight. Mydei is fine with fair fights, because he usually wins them; but this group attacks at night, slicing open Perdikkas’s tent and narrowly avoiding killing him. They’re only stopped because Mydei is awake and aware. It’s the third and final night of Phainon sleeping in his tent. The first night Phainon had asked if they might share, but Mydei’s stomach churned at the thought and he took the grass instead.

Mydei has spent the whole night lying out on the grass cursing Phainon to high hell and back in his mind. Of course he notices the approaching ambush.

To Phainon’s credit, he’s the first out of his tent. He springs to action at Mydei’s call like he’s been waiting for it his whole life.

He’s seen Phainon fight before, but only from the front. This time, they fend off the bandits, back-to-back, waiting for the others to gather their wits from sleep and join them. He’s warm and solid against Mydei’s back, a strangely reassuring presence.

The first attack has only three bandits. They’re defeated easily; Mydei takes two, and Phainon takes one, and then it’s over. For a moment, it’s only them in the cold air, pressed against each other, breathing into the night. Mydei’s heart races beneath his skin.

And then an arrow lands by his foot, and more attackers surge toward their camp.

By the time they approach, all seven members of the detachment are awake and ready to fight. Mydei glances back—his five men, and his one, odd outlier—and his heart swells with pride.

Then they fight.

It’s not easy. It’s never easy. But it’s familiar, fighting alongside the detachment. They’ve been together for almost two years. Mydei knows, by now, what they’re made of. His fists striking at the center; Hephaestion’s sword to his left; Leonnius’s spear to his right; Ptolemy’s glaive in front of him; Peucesta’s arrows at the rear; Perdikkas’s shield holding down the fort; and now, Phainon closest to the center, right behind him. At his back.

…Mydei usually hates having people at his back.

By some miracle, Phainon feels natural there, like he wasn’t built for treachery or dishonor. Mydei trusts him, by the instinct of battle, by the warmth of their backs pressed together.

By the time the final blow is dealt—one of Peucesta’s arrows, fired clean into the arm of the final bandit—it’s nearly the entry hour, and they’re triumphant.

Peucesta wheezes in exhausted victory as he sits back down heavily at their camp. He’s got a wound on his leg and a smile on his face. “Success,” he declares, leaning back. “We live to search another day.”

“Is this common?” Phainon asks, holding a sluggishly bleeding slice on his thigh. “Getting attacked, I mean?”

Mydei laughs at him.

“No,” says Hephaestion, grinning. “We’re usually the ones doing the attacking.”

Phainon blinks. Slowly, a smile spreads across his face.

“By the way,” says Ptolemy, leaning closer to Phainon. “You fight with a lot of power. Too much for this sword.”

Phainon looks down at his sword in his lap. He frowns. “But it’s the only sword I’ve ever known,” he says, his voice wavering slightly. “And we don’t have the budget for another one, do we?”

Ptolemy looks expectantly at Mydei.

A bigger sword. A heavier sword. Mydei glares back at him and pretends he hasn’t been thinking the same thing.

“Fine,” Mydei huffs, standing from their campfire circle. He stalks off into his tent—Phainon’s tent, as of right now—and goes through the chest of his meager belongings, the few articles he keeps to remind himself of the royal status he usually forgets.

Before he was born, his mother’s right-hand man had a beautiful greatsword forged for his future coming-of-age. It was emblazoned with the Kremnoan crest and the rising sun, meant to symbolize the new light that Mydei’s rule would bring. But Mydei’s father threw him into the sea of souls on his first birthday, and threw the greatsword along with him. For nine years it kept him company as he drowned, over and over again. Sometimes he ended his life faster with the help of its blade, rather than inhaling the deadly sea water.

Now he takes the greatsword—one of the very last symbols of his royal heritage—and lays it at Phainon’s feet.

Phainon looks down at him, astonished. His mouth hangs open. “Your Highness,” he breathes. His hands tremble as he picks it up. “This is—this is incredible. I can’t possibly use this.”

“No one else will,” Mydei says.

Phainon stares at his own reflection in the blade’s gleaming surface. He lifts it carefully by the handle, not even staggering under its weight. He’s strong, Mydei thinks, his stomach twisting. Strong enough to make use of this weapon.

“It was designed to be used by the King of Kremnos,” says Ptolemy, leaning back. “And the King of Kremnos alone.”

Phainon drops the blade like he’s been burned. It lands, flat, on his lap.

“Take it,” Mydei says. He places his hand on top of Phainon’s, entwining their fingers on the hilt of the blade. “We have fought alongside one another. I trust you with my life.”

“I’m not a king,” Phainon says quietly.

“I am not king either,” Mydei says. “And yet here we are.”

Phainon looks down at their joined hands on the blade’s hilt. He swallows thickly.

“Then,” he says at last, picking up the sword, “thank you, Mydeimos.”

***

“—And I’ll tell her about all of you,” Phainon says eagerly, his pen scratching away. “She’s always loved philosophy, and especially philosophy about death. She’s a morbid one, Cyrene, but we’ve always been like that. I suppose it fits: a warrior and a priestess. Two very morbid positions, aren’t they?”

Ptolemy laughs. He leans in over the paper. “She’s from your hometown?”

“Aedes Elysiae,” Phainon says, not even looking up from the paper. “Cyrene and I have known each other all our lives. She’s already started her training at the Oronyx temple several towns over. But she comes home every weekend, so she’ll get my letter.”

“She sounds dull,” Mydei scoffs, staring into the fire.

Phainon finally glances up. “That’s because you haven’t met her! She’s one of the most brilliant, dedicated people I’ve ever met.”

Mydei wants him to get offended. Wants to fight him, right here, over the campfire. Wants to pin him to the ground and snarl in his face. Instead he crosses his legs and oils the joints of his right gauntlet.

“She sounds very important to you,” says Leonnius, standing up to stretch out his legs. “Have you settled the betrothal, then?”

Phainon barks out a laugh. Ink bleeds from his page.

“No?” Leonnius says, looking at Mydei out of the corner of his eye.

“Of course not,” Phainon says, like it’s ridiculous. “Cyrene is like a sister to me. And besides, I’m not very interested in people like her.”

Ptolemy and Leonnius share an indecipherable look. They both look at Mydei, then away again.

“People like her?” says Ptolemy carefully.

“Ah, it’s not important,” Phainon says, waving his pen vaguely through the air. Watered-down ink splatters across his clothes. He doesn’t appear to notice. “I’ve always wanted to marry someone who was my match, you know? Someone who would push me to my limits. My mother says once I get married, she’ll never need to lift a haybale again, because I’ll be so busy competing with my partner that we’ll finish carrying them all before she even wakes.”

Mydei coughs vaguely into his gauntlets. He buries his face further into the metal, hoping to hide the heat in his cheeks.

“But I’m not worried about it,” Phainon continues. “Maybe I’ll find someone in Castrum Kremnos. Maybe I won’t.”

“Ah,” says Leonnius, nodding. “Mydeimos is like that too. Never tells us what kind of spouse he’ll take one day.”

Mydei grits his teeth. He polishes the damn gauntlet, even though it’s already spotless.

“We just want to meet our future consort,” Leonnius sighs, like it’s the greatest suffering in the world. “Is that so much to ask?”

“Yes,” Mydei says sharply.

Phainon laughs. His joy is blinding. They’re too far from the dawn device for his smile to be washed out. Here, it’s vibrant. Here, it’s the closest thing to sunlight that Mydei can see.

Mydei’s breath suddenly comes short. He tries to look away from Phainon, but his eyes don’t move.

“Who knows?” says Phainon, looking back down at the letter he’s halfway through writing. “Maybe you’ve met them already, and you just don’t know it yet.”

Mydei abruptly stands up. The metal creaks in protest. He shoves the gauntlets aside and retreats into his tent to lie down.

He stares blankly at the fabric roof. His stomach feels odd. He can’t sleep.

***

“Perdikkas,” says Mydei. “I think I’m falling ill.”

Perdikkas sets down his paring knife instantly. “What is it, Mydeimos?” he asks, his eyes urgent. “Are your wounds infected? Is it something with your lungs again?”

“It’s my digestion, I think.”

“Describe your symptoms,” Perdikkas says, already pulling out his notebook full of ailments and remedies.

“Often when I look at Phainon, my stomach feels unsettled,” Mydei says. “Not as if I’ve eaten something that disagrees with me, but… as if there is something trying to escape from within me. Something long-suppressed and dormant. Whenever it occurs, my heart rate becomes unpredictable. And I frequently have odd impulses. Things like desiring to dig my nails into him, or sink my teeth into him. Violent urges.”

Perdikkas’s fingers pause in his book. Slowly, he looks up at Mydei.

“Do you think he’s cursed me?” Mydei asks, frantic. “Have we been tricked? Does he truly have nefarious intentions?”

Perdikkas reaches out slowly for him. “Mydeimos…”

Mydei’s heart pounds in his chest. He lets Perdikkas take his hand.

“I am afraid it’s terrible news,” Perdikkas says gravely.

Mydei sighs. He closes his eyes.

“You like him.”

Mydei’s eyes snap open.

“It’s incurable,” says Perdikkas, shaking his head softly. “You’ll have to live with this ailment for a while longer. Perhaps for the rest of your life.”

“Wait,” says Mydei, his voice strangled. “I don’t like him. That’s ridiculous.”

Perdikkas looks at him in silence.

“…He isn’t terrible, I suppose,” Mydei mutters, looking off to the left at some distant, tiny feature of the tent.

“You could do much worse,” Perdikkas says, patting him reassuringly on the hand.

“I will not do worse, because I don’t like him.”

“You have explained to me the textbook definition of lusting after someone and expect me not to call a spade a spade?”

“I do not lust for him.”

Perdikkas looks at him pointedly. “You would not like it, then?” he says, raising his eyebrows. “If he were to desire you, you would not have to think about it?”

Mydei frowns. He imagines it: Phainon would approach him, his eyes wide, his hands fumbling. He’d admit to his desire with flushed cheeks and confess everything in a hurry. Then Mydei would clamber into his lap and hold his face with both hands and lick into his mouth, and Phainon would gasp against him, and they’d tumble back to the grass entwined with one another, and Mydei would finally strip him of all his ridiculous layers and—

“Mydeimos,” says Perdikkas sympathetically.

The quiet acceptance is worse than anything else. If Perdikkas had laughed, it would have been easy.

Mydei sighs, defeated, and ducks his head. “Please do not tell the others of this.”

***

“You like him,” Peucesta drawls, the very next morning, when Phainon leaves their breakfast area to change into his dayclothes.

Mydei nearly spits out his drink. “Who?” he asks, out of vain hope.

Peucesta laughs at him.

“It’s alright,” says Hephaestion, smiling over his bread. “We know. We’ve known for a while. You don’t need to hide these things from us, Mydeimos.”

Mydei’s face flares with heat. “It’s not—I wasn’t hiding anything. I really don’t feel that way about him.”

“You let him fight at your back,” says Leonnius.

“Because there was nowhere else for him to stand.”

“You gave him the sword that Lord Krateros commissioned for your birth,” says Ptolemy. “Such a fine weapon is nothing short of a betrothal gift.”

Mydei blinks. He hadn’t thought about the implications when he gave it away; he was just glad it had finally found a purpose, aside from slicing open his own wrists when he wanted to die quickly. But in retrospect, giving him a personalized weapon, especially one engraved with the symbol of Kremnos and the sunlight his rule was prophesied to bring…

“It’s not a betrothal gift,” Mydei says incredulously, his voice rising. “I’m a prince, and he’s hardly anything to me. In fact, he ought to be nothing to me.”

Silence.

“He ought to be nothing to me,” Mydei repeats, weaker this time. He sighs and buries his face in his hands.

Perdikkas shifts to awkwardly pat his back.

“It’s alright,” says Hephaestion, in his most reassuring voice. “It’s a good thing! He’s a fine man, and he aims to become a warrior. You already trust him in battle. He will suit you well.”

Mydei looks gloomily into the depths of his waterskin.

“You should court him,” says Peucesta brightly, his eyes gleaming. “If you start a courtship now, you’ll be nearly done by the time we finally reach Castrum Kremnos, and he can immediately begin serving at your side alongside all of us.”

“Hmm,” says Mydei slowly. He might as well cut his losses, if this is the route he’s going down.

Then, turning around, he yells at the top of his lungs: “PHAINON!”

Moments later, Phainon comes skidding back into camp, winded and pink-faced and only half-dressed. His built legs are exposed to the world beneath the hem of his short chiton; his usual linen pants are missing. “Yes, Your Highness?” he asks, breathless.

“Kneel,” Mydei tells him.

Phainon kneels instantly.

“Repeat after me: I wish to prove my loyalty and strength to you, that you might accept me for the rest of my days.”

Phainon looks up at him, tilting his head. But he obediently lowers his eyes again and says, “I wish to prove my loyalty and strength to you, that you might accept me for the rest of my days.”

“Now kiss my hand,” Mydei says, extending it.

Phainon sighs through his nose. “Mydei,” he says, his voice weaker than usual.

“Do it.”

Phainon brushes his lips against the back of Mydei’s hand, more tenderly than he’s ever touched even the finest blade.

Mydei’s heart roars in his chest.

Phainon looks up at him again. He doesn’t release Mydei’s hand, just holding it in his own. Mydei has the odd, half-formed thought that he could kiss him, right now, could shove him to the ground and kiss him. He’s certain that Phainon would lie there and take it without protest. Perhaps even with enthusiasm.

“Fight me,” says Mydei, because it is the only thing he can think of.

Phainon’s grip on his hand tightens. “Gladly,” he says, and then Mydei drags him off to the side of camp to wrestle with him, hand-to-hand and barely clothed like real warriors.

In the main camp, Ptolemy just laughs.

“Well,” says Hephaestion, patting Peucesta’s shoulder, “at least you tried.”

***

Two months, and the summer has fully descended. Phainon joined them in the late spring; he said he left home after planting season, and found them about a month later. The summer means more trade, which means more travelers, which means news travels faster. And so it is in the summer that they finally hear of Nikador’s titankin, sighted in a city to the west.

It’s supposed to be four days’ travel; they make it in two and a half.

Carmitis is a large city beside a bay, with sprawling stone streets laid down in a haphazard grid. It would have been beautiful if it were not starting to crumble already under the attacks.

Mydei doesn’t spare them time for sightseeing. He just glances down the pathways toward the docks and makes his decision. “Ptolemy, Hephaestion, Leonnius, left. Perdikkas, Peucesta, right. Meet up again at the docks with the heads of our adversaries.”

Then he takes off down the central road, dragging Phainon’s wrist along with him.

“Wait,” says Phainon, breathing heavily as he catches up to the harsh grip on his wrist. “Aren’t we seeking the black tide monsters’ source? Why would we kill them?”

Mydei laughs, sharply, just once.

“It might be more efficient,” Phainon explains, “to leave some alive, to see where they flee back to.”

Mydei supposes this isn’t a bad strategy, objectively speaking. It might lead them to Castrum Kremnos faster, if it worked. And yet he would never, not for all the success in the world, do it. He shakes his head.

Phainon looks perplexed. “Why not?”

“There's still one thing you don’t understand about us.”

Phainon looks at him oddly. He still hasn’t untangled their hands, even though he’s caught up.

“Kremnoans,” Mydei says, “don’t leave survivors.”

***

When they’re done, they have the heads of fifty-nine titankin between the seven of them, sitting on the docks at their feet.

Phainon is the first to break the silence. “So,” he says carefully, “do we know where they were coming from?”

“There was a higher concentration of Titankin on our side of the city,” Ptolemy says. “They must have been moving in pursuit of Nikador; Castrum Kremnos should be to the south, and heading due southeast.”

Phainon nods. He shifts his bag on his shoulder and turns away from the docks.

“Where are you going?” Peucesta asks, sounding amused.

Phainon blinks. He turns back around. “South?”

Peucesta laughs at him.

“We’re not setting off right away?” Phainon asks, looking a little lost. “Don’t we want to catch up to the city, if it’s moving away from us?”

“If titankin are escaping, it’s moving slowly,” Ptolemy explains. “Its speed is variable; the angrier Nikador gets, the slower it moves, and the more titankin are sent to the lands below. It won’t get far.”

“And we need to rest,” says Perdikkas.

“And celebrate!” says Leonnius brightly, grinning with teeth. “Think you can work some of that charm again? I could use another free night on the town…”

Phainon sets down his bag again and offers a winning smile. “I don’t even need to,” he says, leaning in closer. “Look at us! The saviors of this city! All we have to do is look pleasant and presentable, and act heroic, and they’ll all open their doors to us.”

“Heroic,” Hephaestion repeats. Understanding dawns on his face. He takes the blood from the severed titankin heads and drags it across his face, down his nose and his cheeks, so that he glows golden.

“Nonono, don’t do that,” Phainon says hurriedly, kicking the titankin remains away. “Do you not know what a hero is?”

“A warrior,” says Hephaestion.

“A glorious warrior,” says Ptolemy.

“A glorious warrior covered in blood,” says Peucesta.

Phainon sighs and drags a hand over his face. “Okay, look—look—have you never read storybooks about heroes?”

“Yes,” says Peucesta. “They were glorious and covered in blood, and then they were made into exalted figures whom no one dared approach without warning.”

Phainon groans into his hands. “Great,” he mutters. “I forgot you’re all Kremnoan.”

“That seems rather hard to forget,” says Hephaestion, still dripping blood.

“Get that off,” Phainon says wearily. He dips his hand in the water of the bay and pours it over himself, cleansing his face of all the grime and splattered blood. “Here,” he says, cupping his hands again. This time he pours the water over Hephaestion’s face and scrubs gently at the blood on his face, until it all runs off in a wash of red and gold.

Mydei’s stomach twists. Suddenly, without much logic, he takes his own bloodied hands and smears them as severely as possible across his face, his collarbones, his mouth.

Phainon looks at him, exasperated. “What did I just tell you,” he says drily, and then he scoops up more water and dumps it all over Mydei’s front.

Mydei splutters. Here he’d been hoping for Phainon’s hands all over him; instead he just gets doused with water. “You were supposed to help me clean it off! What is this?”

“I’m helping,” Phainon tells him, and throws another handful of water at him.

Mydei spits out a mouthful of water onto the ground. He sulks.

“This isn’t Kremnos,” Phainon tells them. “This is a city of Mnestia, didn’t you notice? They like beautiful things. Beautiful by Mnestia’s standards. So no blood, okay? The exposed skin is fine, but be sure all of it is as clean as you can make it. Tame your hair and make your expressions pleasant, please. That’s what heroes look like, to them.”

Then he returns to Mydei’s side with another handful of water.

Mydei braces himself to get splashed again. But this time Phainon pours it down his face, starting at his hairline and trailing down to his jaw.

“Some of it has dried,” Phainon says softly, rubbing his thumb along Mydei’s temple. “Let me help.”

Mydei swallows. He looks up at Phainon; his eyes are concentrated, his mouth twisted. His thumb drags lower, along the sensitive corner of his eye. Mydei winces.

“Oh,” Phainon whispers, and his touch grows gentler. “Sorry. Did that hurt?”

Mydei’s face burns. It doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts. He died a thousand deaths before he was ten years old. And yet the gentle touch feels nice. He doesn’t protest.

“I’ll be careful,” Phainon promises. Then his hand drops to Mydei’s mouth, where he had smeared the blood in an act of pettiness.

Now that Phainon’s hands are actually upon him, his whole body sings in anticipation. He stares at Phainon’s focused expression, his freshly-cleaned face, the sweat on his brow and the ease in his eyes. His thumb rubs across Mydei’s lip, so gently that it could be a kiss of worship.

Mydei wants to push them both down into the water. Wants to let Phainon save him from drowning again, beneath the relentless waves. Instead he closes his eyes.

Phainon makes a small, displeased sound. He rubs harder at Mydei’s lower lip, like there’s a particularly stubborn stain there.

Mydei blinks his eyes open. “Phain—”

The moment he opens his mouth, Phainon’s thumb slips inside.

For one, long second, they stare at each other. Phainon’s finger presses down on his lower lip, on the inner edge. Mydei’s mouth feels dry. Phainon looks at him like he’s never seen him before, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. His hand curves around Mydei’s chin, cupping his face. He leans inexplicably closer.

Then someone laughs from behind them, and the moment is shattered.

Phainon pulls away like he’s been burned. “Sorry, Your Highness,” he breathes, turning his face away.

“Call me by name,” Mydei demands, his head still spinning. “If I ever hear my title from your mouth again, I’ll make you sleep on the ground outside my tent every night.”

“It wouldn’t be a terrible fate,” Phainon says, grinning, as he brings over another handful of water. “At least I’d be close to you.”

Mydei’s face burns. He sits there, defeated, and lets Phainon pour the water on his chest.

***

“And then I stabbed them through the hearts,” says Leonnius, roaring with laughter as he tips back yet another glass. “Two of them, at once, with a single blow! That’s why you don’t fight back-to-back against a Kremnoan!”

Mydei thinks vaguely of Phainon’s back pressed against his, the warmth and security of it. His face feels warm. He takes a long sip of juice. It’s not pomegranate, but it tastes alright. Sweet. He likes sweet things.

Leonnius turns toward him, raising his eyebrows. “What of you two?” he asks, gesturing with his cup at Phainon. “You presented dozens of trophies. You must have some recollection of the battle.”

Mydei looks down into his glass. He huffs. He does have recollections of the battle—it’s only that most of them involve the close press of Phainon’s body against his, the warmth of his golden blood against both of their skin. Mydei hadn’t known he was a Chrysos Heir; he’d always assumed the gold blood on Phainon was from their enemies, or from Mydei himself. But it makes sense, he thinks, that a man with such grand dreams would be like him.

“Don’t be like that,” Perdikkas says. He turns to Phainon, sitting across from Mydei at the table. “At least you’ll regale us with some of your exploits, right?”

Phainon smiles over the rim of his glass. “Our trophies should speak for themselves, shouldn’t they?”

Hephaestion grins and claps him on the back. Phainon takes it with a laugh.

“I’ll regale you with the rest of that poem,” says Ptolemy hopefully, already sitting up straighter. “Some say cavalry and others claim infantry or a fleet of long oars is the supreme sight on the black earth. I say it is the one you love. And easily proved. Did not Mnestia, who far surpassed all mortals in beauty, desert the best of men and sail off to Okhema and forget her dear kinsmen? Merely Romance’s gaze made her bend and led her—”

“Ptolemy!” Peucesta calls from across the room.

Ptolemy sighs. “Yes?”

“I’ve learned another tune on the water lyre! Come listen!”

Ptolemy reluctantly stands from his chair. “One minute,” he calls back, gathering up his belongings. He turns to the rest of the table. “Anyone else want to accompany me?”

Perdikkas and Leonnius both stand up almost instantly. Hephaestion is already halfway across the room.

Phainon frowns. “I’ll come too, then—”

Before he can stand, Perdikkas places a hand on his shoulder. “Someone has to keep our dear prince company,” he says, his voice innocent. Too innocent. “And who better than you?”

Mydei glares at him. He shouldn’t have done the dumb courtship thing in front of everyone. Now everyone knows his damn business.

Phainon glances at Mydei, just briefly. His face flushes. He sits back down.

Peucesta plucks strings on the water lyre next to two beautiful women, who appear to be teaching him chords. Their robes cover nearly their entire bodies; they’re followers of Mnestia, alright, draping themselves in things they find beautiful rather than showing off their hard-earned bodies like Kremnoan women would.

Mydei watches them for a while, but eventually something moves across the table, distracting him. Phainon is drinking again, lifting his glass high like it’s nearly empty.

Mydei stares down at it. “What is that, anyway?”

Phainon sets down the cup. “You’re not drinking?”

“Juice. Perdikkas swapped it for me.”

Phainon’s mouth twists into a jaunty half-smile. “They brew mead here,” he says. “You didn’t even try it?”

Mydei shakes his head.

“I think you’d like this one,” Phainon insists, his fingers tapping restlessly against the stem of the cup. “It’s sweet. You like sweet things, don't you?”

“I don’t mind them,” Mydei mutters, his face warm.

Phainon’s smile widens. He slides the cup across the table towards Mydei. “You should try some.”

Mydei can’t look away from him. His breath feels short. Carefully, he lifts the glass to his mouth and tips it against his lips.

In reality he barely registers the taste of the alcohol at all. He just registers the heat of Phainon’s eyes lingering on him, on the part of the cup where both their mouths touched. He sets the drink back down and slides it across the table without looking down at it.

“It was alright,” Mydei says at last, though he can’t recall the taste for the life of him.

“Yeah?” Phainon breathes. He reaches for the cup; his fingers rest on top of Mydei’s, but he doesn’t tug it closer, doesn’t pull away.

Mydei looks him in the eyes. His heart pounds in his chest.

We’re courting, he thinks, and he can almost taste the words in his mouth. Can almost hear himself saying them, right across this table. We’re courting, and we could do anything we wished. No one could stop us.

But the words get stuck in his throat.

Eventually Phainon pulls the glass back towards him, letting Mydei’s hand slip away. “I ought to write another letter to Cyrene while we’re in town,” he says at last, taking a piece of paper and a pen from his bag. He wets the inkstone with a drop of his mead, and dips his pen into it with a slight grimace.

Mydei watches him write upside down. My dearest Cyrene, he writes, his letters looping and beautiful. In your absence I want not for company, and yet with every town I reach, I find myself wondering how you might react, were you at my side. I am—

“She truly is not your betrothed?” Mydei asks, apropos of nothing.

Phainon’s pen comes to a standstill. His expression shifts, just slightly. “What’s it to you, if she is?”

“But she is not,” Mydei says.

“No,” Phainon agrees. “Cyrene is very dear to me, as a sister would be. And besides, she has a lover—another of the Oronyx priestesses in training at her temple. I have yet to meet her, but I’m told she’s strong enough to carry a haybale on each arm, or to carry Cyrene in both.”

Mydei exhales. Strange relief floods him. He looks away from Phainon’s page, back across the room. It’s a music hall, with alcohol and refreshments. The women at Peucesta’s side are watching him play the water lyre with admiration. His music sounds gentle, peaceful. Nothing like the Kremnoan war ballads he usually plays. Maybe it’s a local piece.

“Why do you ask?” Phainon says suddenly.

Mydei scoffs and looks back at the glass they’d shared. “No reason.”

“Hm,” says Phainon. Slowly, he takes the glass to his mouth one last time, tipping his head back and draining it. Mydei’s eyes follow him. His mouth goes dry.

“Let’s go out,” Mydei blurts, apropos of nothing.

Phainon sets down the glass. He tilts his head.

“I’ve never been to a city of Mnestia,” Mydei says, a little flustered. “Just—come with me. We’ll explore. Perhaps they’ll be something we can fix up together along the way.”

The corner of Phainon’s mouth quirks up. He gathers up the letter, stowing it away in his pack.

“In that case,” he says, “lead the way, Mydeimos.”

***

“You’re finally back,” Leonnius cries, when they return to the art hall to find the rest of the detachment. “Took you long enough! What were you doing?”

“Ah, getting lost,” Phainon says, smiling brightly. His hair is windswept and his face is tinged red from the exertion. “We raced back here from the other side of town. The streets here are so confusing!”

Mydei huffs. “They’re not that bad,” he mutters, shoving at Phainon’s shoulder. “Don’t be a sore loser.”

“I’ll have you know we tied,” Phainon says, shoving him back. “In fact, I touched the door handle before you! So there.”

Mydei’s jaw drops. “Is that why you opened the door for me? You said you were being a gentleman!”

Phainon laughs, breathy. “Can’t a man want more than one thing?”

Mydei clenches one fist. He raises it in the air.

“Wait, wait, wait,” says Peucesta, waving his hands at them. “Don’t do that. Come listen to me play! We were just in the middle of a music game!”

“Music game?” Phainon repeats, beaming. “Count me in! What do we do?”

One of the women with her own water lyre strums a sequence of five notes, slow and methodical. Peucesta imitates them on his own water lyre.

“All you have to do is count up whenever the music stops,” Peucesta says. “But if any of us speak at the same time, we lose the streak, and have to start over.”

Then he starts playing, an expansion of the same five-note melody from before. The music only goes for about fifteen seconds before it ceases.

“One,” says Leonnius immediately.

Then the music resumes.

The game is simple enough, and the rest of the crew has been playing long enough to have a strategy. They make it all the way to thirty before hesitation becomes an issue.

The music pauses once more. Thirty-one.

No one speaks.

Mydei glances at everyone else. He should say it, he thinks. No one is going to say it if he doesn’t.

Then he locks eyes with Phainon.

Phainon holds his gaze. Then he nods.

“Thirty-one,” Mydei says.

“Thirty-one,” Phainon says simultaneously.

The whole crowd groans. Peucesta laughs and strums up a different tune, just to fill the quiet. His hands move easily, and the two women join him on their own instruments, fusing into a gentle, ringing song.

“You two,” Leonnius groans, throwing back his head. He’s clearly been taking advantage of the open bar given to them in celebration for driving the monsters out. “This cannot stand! Punish them!”

Phainon’s eyes go comically wide. “Punishment?”

“Mnestia’s judgment,” says the woman to the left, her eyes mischievous. “Traditionally, whichever two people fail the game together have to forgive each other through a kiss.”

Mydei stares at her. Then, slowly, he looks over at Phainon.

“Ptolemy nearly bit my face off when we lost,” says Leonnius mournfully, shaking his head. “Beast.”

“It was your fault, you buffoon,” Ptolemy mutters, rolling his eyes. “And anyway you deserved it.”

Leonnius just laughs.

“Well,” says Phainon, red all the way to the roots of his hair. “If it’s tradition, then—”

“Oh, shut up,” Mydei grumbles, and drags him in by the collar of his robes.

Phainon gasps a little, like a scandalized maiden. It’s almost funny, Mydei thinks, hauling him in closer. How easy it is to fluster this poor farm boy, unused to matters of the heart.

But then, once their faces are close enough to have Mydei’s vision blurring, he can’t seem to close the gap.

Phainon looks at him. He draws closer, so that their noses brush. Then, as Mydei stands there with his hands fisted in Phainon’s collar, he leans down and presses their mouths together.

Mydei shudders and holds his breath. It’s—strange, he thinks, as Phainon places a hand behind his head to gently support him. It’s nicer than he’d expected. Warm. Soft. His legs feel vaguely unsteady. Mydei holds tighter to his collar, feeling lightheaded.

Then Phainon pulls away again.

“There we go,” he says brightly, smiling like nothing ever happened. “Punishment over!”

Mydei stares at him. His eyes feel heavy, his gaze intense. His mouth is still warm. He hasn’t let go of Phainon’s collar yet.

“Shall we play another round?” Phainon asks, turning to face the rest of the group.

Mydei’s hands tighten in his robes.

Phainon blinks. “Mydei?” he asks blankly. “Is everything alright? Are you—”

Mydei tugs him back with such force that Phainon yelps and stumbles into his chest. It sends both of them toppling to the floor. Mydei lands beneath him, hands still twisted up in his clothes. Phainon looks at him, inches away. Then he laughs.

Mydei looks up at him. His heart is racing. Slowly, the corner of his mouth quirks up. Then he starts laughing too, breathless against Phainon’s face.

“Let me guess,” Phainon says, grinning down at him. “You want to fight?”

“Yeah,” Mydei says, “I always want to fight,” and then they’re scrambling for control on the floor, swinging at each other and laughing into each other’s mouths and it’s not quite kissing but it’s nice, it’s really nice, and Mydei wants to stay here on the floor with him forever, neither of them winning, neither of them losing, just perpetually tied and happy.

***

That night Phainon can’t let go of him for even a second, and Mydei doesn’t want him to. They stumble up the stairs of the tavern, tangled together, and fight on the floor of their inn room until Phainon hits his head on the leg of the bed.

“Ow,” he hisses, bringing a hand to the back of his head.

Mydei instantly lets go of his throat and brings both hands to cup his face instead. “Are you alright?” he asks, a little too earnestly. “Are you feeling fine? Do you need me to fetch Perdikkas?”

“I’m fine,” Phainon says, scrunching his eyes shut. He pushes Mydei’s hands away and tries to clamber to his feet, using the bedpost for support. “Just—let’s stop for tonight, okay?”

Mydei’s heart sinks. The fight is the only place they can be close. If Phainon wants to stop fighting, then Mydei will have to leave, will have to find his own room in the inn and spend the rest of the night alone, and he doesn’t want to. He wants to lock Phainon into a draw, so they have no choice but to keep holding onto each other forever.

“No,” Mydei says. He presses one hand lightly against Phainon’s shoulder, a tacit threat to shove him down again. “I don’t want to stop.”

Phainon leans against the bedpost. “It’s always fighting,” he sighs. “Fighting, fighting, fighting. Do you ever think of doing anything else with me?”

“Yes,” Mydei breathes, before he can think better of it. “A thousand times.”

Phainon looks up at him helplessly. His breath catches in his throat.

Mydei’s hand tightens on his shoulder. “I’m not going to let go,” he says, a little lightheaded. “You can fight me, or we can declare a perpetual draw and keep holding onto one another. Your choice.”

“You want me to hold you?”

Mydei’s face feels warm. He turns his face away.

“No, no, Mydei, wait,” Phainon says hurriedly, grabbing onto his waist. “I want to… I do…”

“Then stop being a coward,” Mydei huffs, leaning further into his touch.

Slowly, Phainon leans in to match, until they’re so close that their noses nearly touch.

Mydei closes his eyes. Neither of them closes that final distance, so they just stand there, nearly touching, hands all over each other and breath mingling together.

The detachment only spends one night in Carmitis. Mydei and Phainon spend it tangled together in a single bed, breathing in sync and holding tight to each other. The next day they’re on the road again, and they’re back to their separate spaces again like nothing ever happened.

***

“I’m fine,” Phainon says sheepishly, holding the sluggishly bleeding wound on his arm tightly in one hand. He’s wrapped it up in the fabric of one of his shirts; his pale chest is exposed to the whole world. He’s sweaty and shimmering and covered in blood and by Nikador if that isn’t every Kremnoan’s ideal man. “It wasn’t even a hard hit.”

“You didn’t need to take it,” says Perdikkas, still fussing over him. He pours some sort of mysterious tincture into a glass. “Drink this.”

“Don’t make him drink that,” Ptolemy sighs, snatching the odd mug away again. “Didn’t you hear the man? He’s fine.”

“Wait,” says Phainon, frowning. “What do you mean I didn’t need to take the hit? If I hadn’t fended it off, Mydei would have been hit instead.”

Mydei looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “I would have been fine,” he says, instead of saying something more normal, like, Thank you, or, I want to lick the sweat off your arm.

“But it’s you,” says Phainon, like this explains anything.

Perdikkas tugs the fabric tighter around Phainon’s arm. Phainon winces, but bears the pain without complaint.

“Next time, just let me get hit,” Mydei mutters. His stomach feels strange again. In his mind he hears Perdikkas talking. You like him. You like him. You like him. “It doesn’t matter.”

Phainon looks at him oddly. He opens his mouth.

“I’m taking you off of night watch tonight,” Perdikkas says, looking down at Phainon sternly. “Leonnius will take your shift instead.”

Leonnius glances up from the tent he’s halfway through setting up. Normally he would protest the extra shift, or at least playfully argue. But he takes one look at Phainon and just nods. “You got it, boss.”

Phainon pouts.

“Don’t tell me you like sleepless nights,” Perdikkas says drily.

Phainon’s face turns pink. He looks at Mydei, then at the ground, then back at his own arm. “It’s just—it was me and Mydei tonight.”

Understanding dawns on Leonnius’s face like an epiphany descending upon a wise scholar. His eyes go almost comically wide and he drops everything in his hands.

“PEUCESTA!” he yells.

Peucesta sticks his head up from the river nearby. “YEAH?”

“TAKE NIGHT SHIFT WITH ME!”

“OKAY,” says Peucesta, and then his head vanishes again.

Phainon’s brow furrows minutely. “What was that about?”

“Nothing,” says Leonnius, very unconvincingly. Then, not even a second later, “Now you and Mydeimos can spend the evening together anyway. He can help treat your injury.”

“It’s really not that b—”

“Nonono,” Perdikkas interrupts. “You need someone to look after you. It’s basic wound treatment. It’s on your dominant arm, so we can’t trust that you won’t agitate the wound in your daily life.”

Why does Mydei like them, again? They’re all terrible. He never should have told them anything. He should have kicked Phainon to the curb months ago. “Smug bastards,” Mydei mutters under his breath.

Phainon looks at him. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Mydei says, louder. “Insulting you for getting injured.”

“But Ptolemy was telling me that for Kremnoans, battle scars are honorable and precious.”

“And sensual,” Leonnius adds helpfully.

“Shut up,” Mydei tells him.

Leonnius just laughs.

“Kremnoans find skin markings beautiful or honorable,” Perdikkas explains, as he wraps Phainon’s arm in a better bandage than his shirt. “Scars and tattoos are both good examples. In fact, your sun tattoo is well-suited to Kremnoan tastes.”

Phainon tilts his head, looking down at his shoulder. “Really? Most people back home think my sun marking is strange.”

“You’ve seen the prince,” says Perdikkas, gesturing vaguely with one hand.

Phainon’s eyes slip from his own tattoo down to Mydei’s chest. His eyes trace a long, slow path along the red markings, like he’s studying their curvature. He looks. He looks for a long time. Long enough that Mydei’s ears feel warm.

“Mydeimos was born with them,” says Leonnius. “Most of us have tattoos inked on us based on our achievements. Arm for victory against man, face for victory against the divine.” He holds up his own arm, etched with a single black line, swirling from his elbow to the top of his shoulder like a single wing.

Phainon studies the tattoo intently. “I didn’t know the locations meant anything.”

“Ptolemy knows them all,” says Leonnius, shrugging. “I just know the basics. The closer to your face, the more glorious and prestigious the achievement was.”

“Would mine mean anything?”

Leonnius scrunches up his mouth. “Not sure.”

“There,” says Perdikkas, trimming the end of the bandage with his paring knife. “Don’t unwrap it for two days. And don’t move it. Mydeimos, make sure he doesn’t so much as breathe in the direction of that sword, alright?”

Phainon just laughs. “You make me sound like some sort of battle-hungry maniac.”

“You want to become a warrior,” Mydei says pointedly, finally looking at him again. “You have to be battle-hungry to some extent.”

Phainon shakes his head. “I don’t want to fight,” he says, quieter than usual. “I only fight so that other people won’t have to.”

Their encampment falls silent for a while. Phainon tugs awkwardly at the bandage on his arm. Over his shoulder, Perdikkas repacks his medical bag, his vials clinking together.

“Anyway,” says Phainon eventually. He cracks a tiny smile and leans on his good arm exaggeratedly, like he’s trying to charm someone he’s never met. “So… you and me tonight?”

Mydei rolls his eyes. He thinks vaguely of Phainon taking that hit for him. Thinks of Phainon trying to protect him, not from a fatal wound, but just from pain. Trying to save him the suffering. It makes his chest feel odd. “You suck,” he mutters, through the thrumming in his heart. “I hope you scratch off the scab in your sleep.”

Phainon’s smile widens.

That night they stay up next to each other until Phainon finally falls asleep, dead to the world. Mydei stares at him in silence. He traces the slope of his eyebrows and his nose bridge with his eyes. This man. This strange, indecipherable man.

Mydei watches his chest rise and fall. He wonders when, exactly, he became someone worthy of Phainon’s protection.

***

When he hears his tent flap opening, Mydei assumes the worst. He scrambles to his feet and holds up both fists in front of his chest, braced to hit.

“It’s just me,” Phainon whispers into the darkness.

The tension bleeds out of Mydei’s shoulders faster than he wants to admit. He sighs out the stress and relaxes again, sitting back down. “I thought we both got off of night shift.”

Phainon sits down next to him heavily, exhaling like he’s been carrying the weight of the world. “We did. I just wanted to come see you. Do you mind?”

Mydei doesn’t think he’d mind even if Phainon came to him bleeding out and said he wanted to die in his arms. Of course he doesn’t mind this.

“I dreamed of that night again,” Phainon says quietly. In the dim, hazy light of the tent, his eyes look sleepless, haunted. “The night Aedes Elysiae was attacked.”

Mydei goes still. “You’ve never told me about this.”

“The black tide.” His hands curl into loose fists. The bandage on his arm draws tight. “It encroached upon us, two summers ago. Destroyed all of that year’s harvest. We went hungry, but we lived.”

That doesn’t make sense. No one lives through the black tide, not without a powerful defense to keep them safe. “You said your town had no warriors.”

Phainon laughs, dry and humorless. “That’s the thing,” he says, his voice dull. “We don’t. We have hunters, but…” He sighs. “We all should have died. Should have been razed to the ground. And yet this swordmaster appeared, clad in black, and fought on our behalf. They protected us. Protected our town like it was their own, like they had everything to lose.” He looks up at the canvas top of the tent, then closes his eyes. “But I was the only one who saw them,” he says quietly. “Everyone else in town said I had done it. That I had singlehandedly drove off every monster, all alone.”

Mydei reaches out slowly, his hand hesitating over Phainon’s. Then he thinks better of it and takes his hand back.

“They called me a hero,” Phainon says, blinking his eyes open with a wry smile. “So I vowed not to come home until I had become the hero they all believed me to be.”

“You are a wonder,” Mydei says firmly, before he can think better of it. “And you’ll be the finest hero in Castrum Kremnos, if you stay by my side through it all.”

Phainon looks at him, startled. “You’ll let me stay?”

“If I become king, I will need the people I trust most to rule alongside me.”

Phainon’s eyes widen. His mouth tightens into a thin line.

Mydei shifts his legs. His face is faintly warm. He isn’t used to admitting such things.

“I’m sorry,” Phainon whispers. “I… once everything is over, once I’ve completed my training, I’m returning to my hometown. When the black tide returns, I’ll be there, and I’ll be ready.”

Mydei sighs. He lies back down and stares at the fabric of the tent.

Indecipherable, indeed. He doesn’t understand Phainon at all. He is by far the most loyal soldier Mydei has ever fought alongside. He is by far the person Mydei trusts in battle the most. The only one Mydei has ever allowed to stand at his back. And yet he gives all that loyalty with no plans to stay.

Mydei almost wants to feel bitter about it. Of course good things can’t stay. Of course Phainon would want to leave again. Of course he wouldn’t stay with the Kremnoan detachment, battle-hungry maniacs that they are.

The rustling of fabric. Behind him, warmth. Phainon’s arm drapes across his waist, holding him so that they’re pressed back-to-front.

“Forgive me, Mydei. Please.”

Mydei closes his eyes. He has someone he trusts at his back, holding him safely. If he pretends, it’s almost perfect.

“Tell me you’ll stay here forever,” Mydei requests, just above a whisper. “Tell me that if we never find Castrum Kremnos, you’ll stay with me forever.”

Phainon’s hand on his waist squeezes tighter, pressing them together. His soft breath is warm against the nape of Mydei’s neck.

“I can’t,” he says, pressing his nose into the back of Mydei’s hair. “I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”

Mydei exhales. His breath leaves his chest deflated, and he sinks further back into Phainon’s touch.

Phainon tucks his nose into the curve of his shoulder. “Sometimes,” he starts slowly. When he speaks, it vibrates through Mydei’s back, sending shivers down his spine. “Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if that swordmaster hadn’t protected us.”

Mydei stares at nothing. He leans his head, giving Phainon more room to bury his face.

“Sometimes,” Mydei says back, “I wonder what would have happened if my father hadn’t thrown me away.”

Phainon breathes out through his nose. He’s quiet for a while. At last he says, “Is that why you want to kill him? Revenge?”

“That revenge is for my mother. My revenge is that I will be a better king than he ever was.”

Phainon smiles against his skin. “I don’t doubt it,” he says. Then, quieter, “Mydeimos.”

Mydei wants to look at him. Wants to turn around and see the expression on his face. Instead he just closes his eyes. “Yes?”

“Mydeimos,” Phainon says again. “Mydei.”

Mydei realizes he’s only saying the name for comfort, for the taste of something sweet in his mouth. He sighs out a long breath. “Phainon,” he says back, even softer.

Phainon’s arm slings further across his waist, tilting him closer. “Mydei,” he murmurs back, his voice trailing off into something soft and hazy.

Mydei sighs and curls further into him. They don’t speak for the rest of the night.

The next day they sell Phainon’s tent, and never sleep apart again.

***

In the fall they find another lead on Nikador, and start heading east. The terrain is terrible. It’s mountainous and unwelcoming and there are no cities anywhere. They end up making camp nearly every night.

It’s better than their previous winters, though, because with more people, they all get better rest. Seven people means that each person only has to take two night shifts per week; and since there are two people watching, there’s also time to rest during each shift.

Mydei has just woken up from a short nap on the night shift when Ptolemy, his partner for the night, looks over at him and raises one eyebrow.

Mydei groans and sits up, blinking the sleep from his eyes. “What?”

Ptolemy glances pointedly towards Mydei’s tent, where Phainon is sleeping by himself.

Mydei sighs. He scrubs his hands over his eyes. “Shame me if you like, Ptolemy. It does not matter.”

Ptolemy looks at him quietly for a while, like he’s considering. At last something shifts in his expression and he just sighs. “It isn’t like a Kremnoan to flee from confrontation.”

“This isn't a confrontation.”

Ptolemy breathes a laugh. “Isn’t it? You’re confronting the changes he has wrought upon you.”

Mydei supposes that’s true. He’s not so far gone as to say that Phainon has changed him entirely, but there are a few noticeable differences. He’s less weary now. Less paranoid. More comfortable. More certain.

“It isn’t my place to judge the shape that love takes,” says Ptolemy, smiling gently into the night air.

Mydei lies down on his back. There’s no one around them; he can afford to take a moment off to look at the stars. There were no stars in the sea of souls. He likes the stars. They remind him that he’s free, now, that he doesn’t have to fight the water anymore.

Eventually Mydei turns his head toward Ptolemy and looks up at him. “I didn’t think you liked to philosophize about love.”

Ptolemy leans back against his hands. “There’s only so much war and politics a man can handle, Mydeimos. I had to branch out eventually.”

Mydei hums softly into the crisp air. “Yes,” he says, where he once would have argued. “We all need something to fight for.”

They settle into comfortable silence. Above them, the dawn device casts long shadows along the mountain they’ve made camp on, and the wind sweeps along the ground, gathering fallen leaves. The summer is well and truly over now. They’ll need to find somewhere to settle down for the winter months. Maybe a town or a city. Somewhere Peucesta can play his songs and Phainon can send his letters.

“I never finished reading that poem,” Ptolemy says. “Do you mind if I continue?”

“Go ahead.”

Ptolemy clears his throat. “Some say cavalry—”

“You already read that part. Twice.”

Ptolemy glares at him. “It’s a poem,” he says. “I am reading you the whole poem.”

Mydei shuts his mouth.

“Some say cavalry and others claim infantry or a fleet of long oars is the supreme sight on the black earth. I say it is the one you love. And easily proved. Did not Mnestia, who far surpassed all mortals in beauty, desert the best of men and sail off to Okhema and forget her dear kinsmen? Merely Romance’s gaze made her bend and led her from her path.”

Mydei sits up on his elbows, dragging himself up. He glances over at Ptolemy, who’s looking out toward the distant horizon like he’s expecting a sun to rise from it.

“These things remind me now of Anaktoria who is far,” Ptolemy continues softly. “And I for one would rather see her warm supple step and the sparkle of her face than watch all the dazzling chariots and armored hoplites of Kremnos.”

Mydei blinks and sits up fully. “Kremnos?”

Ptolemy nods. “It was in the Kremnoan library.”

“Hm,” says Mydei vaguely. A love poem in the Kremnoan library. A love poem, in the nation said to have no word for affection. His chest feels odd. He curls his knees to his chest.

“You were never the only one, Mydeimos.”

Mydei’s heart leaps. “But I’m not like that poet,” he says, before he can think better of it. “I don’t prefer his face to the glory of conquest. That’s idiotic.”

Ptolemy looks at him. He smiles, just slightly.

“He fights beautifully,” Mydei says weakly. “More beautifully than a thousand soldiers. It isn’t his face that I prefer the sight of, Ptolemy. It is his everything.”

Ptolemy just sighs. “You’re a strange one, Mydeimos,” he says, still smiling. “But I think it’s about time Kremnos had a strange king.”

Mydei cracks a small smile. He sits up again, looking out at the horizon with Ptolemy. They spend the rest of the night shift together in companionable silence.

***

As the winter sets in, and they keep chasing Castrum Kremnos to the east, they stumble across the city-state of Sabany.

It’s a vassal state of Okhema, supplying the larger city with their forges and their tools of Georios. While the city isn’t huge, it has everything they would need for the winter. And the townspeople aren’t too keen on the Okheman forces that have occupied their lands; surely they’d be more open to Kremnoan rule, which tends to be far more hands-off.

So the Kremnoan detachment immediately gears up to drive the Okheman soldiers out of the city and claim it as one of Kremnos’s vassals instead. The townspeople here are valuable; they’re skilled in the art of forging, and their soil is rich enough to have a surplus of food. Ideal territory for a military state.

But of course making arms means the people know how to wield them too.

It isn’t a sword that Mydei falls to, in the end. It’s an arrow, shot from some coward atop the walls of the city, straight through the stomach. Mydei grimaces as he looks down at it, and knows that the blood loss from the wound will be fatal. He can feel his head spinning already. He groans and falls to the ground, willing his death to come quickly and mercifully.

And then, just as his vision fades—

“MYDEI,” a familiar voice yells, and there’s only one person who calls him that, only one person dumb enough to make up a nickname for a prince—

Mydei’s eyes swim, blurry. He tries to focus them one last time. A mess of white, above his face. Phainon’s hair, he thinks.

“Mydei, you can’t,” Phainon blurts, his voice urgent. His hands pat frantically around Mydei’s chest, just shy of the wound. “I’ll—I’ll get something to stem the bleeding. It’ll be fine, Mydei, just—just bear with me, okay? It’s fine! Hold on! It isn’t even that deep, I promise, you’ll be—”

Then he’s in the nether realm.

Mydei sighs. The nether realm is calling him back again. He grits his teeth and trudges up the river of souls.

***

He wakes up to Phainon’s mouth on his.

Mydei blinks his eyes open. Nope. He’s not seeing things. Phainon’s still laid over him, Mydei’s head cradled in his arms, and he’s kissing him furiously, like he’ll never get the chance again.

Mydei wraps his arms around the back of Phainon’s head.

Phainon’s eyes fly wide open. He drops him so fast that Mydei hits his head on the dirt.

“Ow,” Mydei mutters, rubbing the back of his head. “If you were going to drop me, you could have at least held me closer to the ground.”

“You’re alive,” Phainon breathes, his eyes shimmering wet. “Mydei, you were—your heart stopped. You died in my arms. And now you’re alive.”

“Yes,” says Mydei slowly. “That’s kind of my whole deal.”

Phainon looks at him blankly. Tear tracks glow on his cheeks, half-dried.

Mydei gapes at him. “You’re telling me no one told you that I’m immortal?”

“No!” Phainon yells, shoving him back onto the ground. “You bastard, you could have said that five minutes ago, before—” He groans and stumbles to his feet, scrubbing a hand over his face to wipe off the tears. His cheeks are bright red. “Did you hear any of that?!”

“Any of what?”

Phainon’s face flushes impossibly darker. “Nothing,” he says, too high-pitched to be true.

“Wait,” says Mydei slowly, as the pieces click into place. “You thought I was dead. Really dead. And you were kissing me. Kissing my dead body?”

“It’s not important,” Phainon mutters. “Come on. They’ve already moved into the city—we should follow.”

Mydei catches his arm.

Slowly, Phainon turns back around to face him.

“Did you give a whole speech to my dead body?” Mydei asks, incredulous. Then, mustering his courage, he says what he really means: “A love confession?”

Phainon turns on his heel. He tries to slip free of Mydei’s grip.

Mydei tightens his fingers. “Don’t just leave,” he demands, standing up again. “You don’t get to get out of this. A love confession, to my dead body? When I can’t even hear you?” He scoffs. “Coward. At least say it to my face.”

Phainon’s hand turns in his grip, slipping their fingers together. “To your face?” he asks, his voice faint. “That almost sounds like—like you wouldn’t mind hearing it.”

“Of course I wouldn’t mind. That sword I gave you is as good as a marriage proposal in Kremnos.”

Phainon’s jaw drops. He stares down at the hilt of his sword—Mydei’s sword, the gift of his prophesied rule, safe in Phainon’s hands. “You gave this to me ages ago,” he says weakly. “Ages ago, Mydei. It’s been months since then.”

“And in those months, my mind hasn’t changed.”

Phainon stares at him. His mouth hangs slightly open. His lips are still shimmering wet, maybe from tears, maybe from the kiss.

“Come on,” Mydei says, grabbing his hand. “We can’t let the rest of them have all the glory.”

Phainon looks at him like there’s nothing else in the world that could ever catch his eye. He tangles his fingers together with Mydei’s one last time. Then he releases the hold and follows him into battle.

***

The detachment wins Sabany handily, with the help of some of the Okhema-hating townspeople, and the Okheman soldiers flee at the drop of a hat. Okhema has plenty of vassal states; they won’t miss this one, and the detachment will certainly treat its people better, given that they fought alongside them. The people even offer them weapons and food in exchange for protection over the winter months. It’s the perfect place to settle.

The only wrinkle is that they lose track of Nikador for good.

Phainon is despondent over it for days. He sits around writing melancholy letters to his sister and burning them before he finishes. He stares up at the sky with heavy eyes. He polishes his sword over and over again until his hands look shaky. He even passes up a trip to the Sabanian fields, where normally he’d have been talking their heads off about farming techniques and whatnot.

While the rest of the detachment is gone, looking at Sabany’s resources, Mydei puts his foot down.

“Stop it,” he says, taking the cloth from Phainon’s hand. “It’s already fine. In fact it was probably dimmer when it was forged.”

Slowly, with a long exhale, Phainon sets the sword down again. He looks up at Mydei. “You aren’t the least bit sad about this? You’ve been pursuing Castrum Kremnos all this time, and it’s sped up again, out of your reach?”

Mydei laughs.

Phainon frowns slightly. “What?”

“Of course I’m not sad,” Mydei says, sitting down next to him. “I’ve achieved a glorious conquest with my most trusted men by my side. I’m a greater Kremnoan than anyone in that city is.”

Phainon’s mouth softens, like he’s considering.

“And besides,” Mydei says, leaning back against the wall. “We’ve been looking for Castrum Kremnos for two years already. What’s another lost lead?”

Phainon whirls around to look at him. “Two years?”

Mydei nods.

“And you’ve died how many times, in those years?”

Mydei blinks. No one’s ever asked him that. “…I don’t know,” he admits, feeling strange about it. “I don’t keep count.”

Phainon looks at him, his mouth twisting. “You keep track of every single enemy whose life you end, and yet when it comes to your own deaths…”

“They’re unimportant,” Mydei says flatly. He looks down at the sword on the table, and thinks of its blade, his only companion in his drowned youth. “They do not matter.”

“Of course they do,” Phainon says. “They hurt you, don’t they?”

Mydei hesitates.

“If you had died,” Phainon starts, his voice hesitant. “Outside the gates. If you had really left me, I would—” His breath cuts short, and he shudders. “I would have stayed there forever, Mydei,” he whispers. “I would have stayed there, holding you, until they shot me down, too.”

“A perpetual draw,” Mydei says quietly. He’d like that, he thinks. He liked waking up to know that Phainon had held him close, even in death. Knowing that their fight would have lasted both of their lives, and that neither of them ever emerged victorious. Knowing that when Mydei met his defeat, Phainon met his own soon after. It sounds romantic, in its own strange way.

Phainon looks over at him oddly. “Mydei,” he says. “I’m in love with you.”

Mydei doesn't know how he could have missed that. “I know.”

“I don’t think you do,” Phainon says, louder this time. “I don’t think you understand. It’s not—Mydei, it’s not that I want to fight you. I want to be your lover. I want to be the first person you think of when you have news to share. I want you to keep me around always, just because you like me. I want to kiss you and amuse you and talk with you and—and keep you company. I don’t just want to fight.”

Mydei sighs. He takes Phainon’s face in both his hands and looks at him, head-on. “In Kremnos,” he says, “a king can only take a lover who is his equal. So each king and his lover engage in a fight. The longer the fight lasts, the more respectable a match the king’s lover is.”

Phainon tilts his head slightly.

“I’m fighting you,” Mydei says. His face feels warm, but he presses on: “I’ve been fighting you all this time. And I will keep fighting you. Our fight will last the rest of our lives.”

Phainon’s face goes spectacularly red between Mydei’s hands.

“So we will fight forever, and you,” says Mydei, still holding him close, “will be the most respectable match any king of Kremnos ever had.”

Phainon looks at him like he’s never seen him before.

Flustered, Mydei drops his hands away from his face. “Or something,” he mutters, trying to salvage the situation. “Kremnoan respect is hard to earn. I’m just looking out for you.”

“Regardless,” says Phainon, catching his hand. “Thank you.”

His smile is too soft. Mydei’s heart skips a beat. “I’m only trying to keep my people from eating you alive.”

Phainon smiles like he knows something Mydei doesn’t. “Of course.”

In the ensuing silence, Mydei half-expects Phainon to close the distance between them. To kiss him. But instead Phainon just interlaces their fingers and picks up his polishing cloth, and begins oiling the sword again, one-handed.

Mydei sits there next to him and watches their reflection in the gleaming blade. He used to only see misery in this cursed sword. Yet here is Phainon, treating it with such care. Here is Phainon, taking something he’d used to end his own life countless times, and making it into something beautiful, something useful. Something precious.

“Our reflections look like they’re in love with each other,” Phainon says, as he swipes the cloth against the metal yet again. “Don’t you see it?”

Mydei rolls his eyes and turns his gaze away from the shimmering sword. He holds Phainon’s hand a little tighter.

***

That night the detachment throws a feast in the biggest drinking hall in Sabany and invites the entire town.

“What’s this for?” Mydei asks, crossing his arms as he stares out at the enormous crowd of people. “You can’t tell me you’re still celebrating our conquest.”

“No,” says Ptolemy. “This one’s for you and Phainon.”

Mydei whirls around to look at him. His face burns.

“Don’t give me that,” Perdikkas says, grinning at him. “It’s not hard to tell. The poor boy looks at you like he wants to do your yardwork while you sit on the porch and watch him toil away.”

“It’s very romantic,” Peucesta adds, like this is in question.

Mydei huffs. “He’s very pathetic, yes,” he mutters distastefully, though a hint of fondness creeps in. “But why do you think anything’s changed?”

From the head of the long table, Hephaestion gives him a look.

“What?” Mydei says, bemused.

Hephaestion just smiles, gentler than usual. “Here,” he says, passing him a glass. “Pomegranate juice. No milk, but there’s some apple juice to sweeten it.”

Mydei wrinkles his nose. “I don’t need you to sweeten my drinks. I’m not a child.”

Hephaestion slides the drink closer to him with a knowing look.

“…Thank you.”

As he takes the drink, Phainon rushes up to their table, windswept and beaming. “Sorry!” he says, breathless. “I got caught up talking to some of the ladies who preserve the olives—one of my favorite foods, you know, since my hometown doesn’t really have fresh olives—and then one of them wanted me to meet her baby cat, and so I had to run over to her house and say hello to it, and then it scratched up my hand pretty bad so—”

“Shut up,” Mydei tells him, hitting him on the shoulder.

Phainon’s eyes light up. He takes his seat next to Mydei with sheer delight written on his face.

“See,” says Ptolemy, tilting his glass in Phainon’s direction. “That’s why we can tell something’s changed. He gets it now.”

Phainon looks at him oddly. “I get what?”

“The fighting.”

Phainon’s expression grows even stranger. “What about the fighting?”

Ptolemy’s eyes light up. He reaches for something from his bag. “I’m writing a book on this, actually. It’s all about the traditions of Kremnoan courti—”

“Nothing,” Mydei interrupts, glaring at him. “It’s about nothing.”

Phainon laughs. “Don’t get embarrassed, Mydei! I know you’ve been courting me. You told me yourself.” He drapes his entire arm across Mydei’s seat, leaning his chin on his shoulder.

Mydei’s face flushes. He turns away. “It’s different when you read about it.”

“Because then you’ll realize how much of an idiot Mydeimos is,” says Peucesta conversationally. “You know, Kremnoan courting is very straightforward. You just go up to someone and say, Let’s start courting, and then you fight a few people. Usually each other, if you’re both warriors. Then you give each other dowries and pay respects to your families if they’re around. And then you’re done.”

“Yeah,” says Ptolemy. “That whole oath Mydeimos came up with? Brilliant. But completely unnecessary.”

“And don’t even get me started on the sword,” says Perdikkas. “That thing’s worth more than this whole city.”

“And the pining,” Hephaestion says, shaking his head. “You’re supposed to tell someone when you’re courting them, Mydeimos.”

Mydei’s face is burning. He shoves as much of his face as possible into his glass to hide it.

“Well,” says Phainon, his voice a little bashful. “I guess none of you know this, because you’ve never been to Aedes Elysiae, but—I’ve kind of been courting him too.”

Mydei blinks. He glances up from his glass. “Your hometown also implements duels in their courtship rituals?”

“Not duels,” Phainon says, waving his hand dismissively. “But you’re supposed to provide for your lover and their family, especially food. Like a feast. And you’re supposed to tell your family members about them, like Cyrene does with me. You need to treat them gently when they’re hurt, and tell them things you’ve never told anyone else. And…” Here his face flushes slightly pink. “And kiss them, and lie next to one another. Things like that.”

The entire Kremnoan detachment stares at him.

“What?” Phainon says.

“Your courtship,” says Mydei. “It’s very strange.”

“Yeah,” says Leonnius, raising his eyebrows. “When do you prove your strength?”

Phainon thinks on this for a second. Then he says, “There’s strength in caring for someone, isn’t there? It’s a different kind of strength. The strength to be vulnerable with someone, and trust that they won’t hurt you.”

Peucesta stares at him, bewildered. Slowly, he reaches for his lyre. Next to him, Ptolemy is scribbling furiously on a scrap of paper, like he’s just heard the most brilliant thesis in the world.

“…Is it that odd?” Phainon says. “That there’s more than one kind of strength in the world?”

“Yes,” says Mydei plainly.

Phainon ponders this for a moment. His mouth furrows into a strange half-frown.

“It’s good,” says Leonnius, before Phainon can go on another philosophical rant. “In fact, this is great news! We were thinking this celebration could be a courtship announcement for you two, if you wanted.”

Phainon’s eyes snap to him. “A courtship announcement?”

Peucesta nods, beaming. “If a future King of Kremnos takes a lover, it’s a big deal! Tell you what—I’ll write you a ballad when you join the royal court.”

“And I’ll announce the event to everyone,” says Leonnius.

“And I’ll record the epics of your acceptance of the throne,” says Ptolemy.

“And,” says Perdikkas, a little too calmly, “I’ll clean your wounds after the ceremonial battle.”

Hephaestion just grins. He gives Phainon a nod. “What we’re saying is, you’ll make a fine prince consort, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.”

All of them raise their glasses. Though his face is still warm, Mydei raises his too, caught up in the spirit. Six glasses clink together. Six people drink.

One of them is missing. Phainon’s hand is still on the stem of his glass. His eyes are almost watery.

Mydei frowns at him, setting down his glass again. “Phainon?”

Phainon snaps back into focus. His smile is softer than usual when he looks back at Mydei. “Thank you,” he says quietly. Then, standing up from the table, he raises his glass. “You’re right,” he calls, beaming. “Mydei and I are officially accepting one another as lovers, so let’s celebrate!”

The whole table cheers. Phainon’s eyes are softer than usual as he sits down. He doesn’t leave Mydei’s side for the entire night.

***

When the celebration dies down, hours later, Phainon finally glances at him, his smile cracking in half, and says, “I need to talk to you.”

Mydei’s stomach drops. He takes Phainon’s hand and waves to everyone like they’re going back to their shared quarters. They approach the stairwell, winding up and up, and with each step Mydei feels dizzy, unsettled. He doesn’t want to talk. He wants to linger in this perfect night forever, where everyone is happy and glorious and Phainon can be his forevermore.

Phainon finally stops against the far wall of the stairway, with his back turned to the wall. He sighs out a long breath. “Mydei,” he says, like it’s a sentiment all on its own. “I’d love to be your lover. You know that.”

Mydei braces himself. “Just say it.”

“But I’m going to return to Aedes Elysiae once this is over.”

Mydei stares at him. He’d thought Phainon was going to say he didn’t love him. Or that he was already betrothed to a lovely farm girl back in his hometown. Or something else appropriately drastic. “That’s it?” he says, almost bewildered.

Phainon’s mouth flattens out. “I’ve told you this already,” he says quietly. “You know I can’t stay.”

“Phainon—”

“I’m honored by the whole celebration, and by everyone’s enthusiasm,” he says hurriedly. “I really am! I just—I can’t accept this. I’m not going to be your consort. I’m not going to live in Castrum Kremnos. I can’t.”

“Phainon—”

“I promised my mother I’d come back. Surely you understand? I can’t just leave them. Hell, Mydei, I’d take you with me if I could, but you have things you need to do, and I have things I need to do, and—I’d really love to stay, I really would, but Aedes Elysiae is my home, and it’ll never—”

“Phainon,” says Mydei, placing a hand on his shoulder to cut him off. “Castrum Kremnos is a moving city.”

Phainon’s voice dies in his throat. He looks up at Mydei with his wet eyes.

“The kings of Kremnos harness Nikador’s will to move it,” Mydei says slowly. “Do you understand?”

Phainon’s eyes widen. A single tear slides down the side of his face, from the corner of his eye. “You mean…”

“When I become king,” Mydei says, taking Phainon’s left hand in both of his, “I will move Castrum Kremnos to sit right beside you, every single day of our lives.”

Phainon sobs out a laugh. He curls his fingers tight around Mydei’s. “Not every day,” he says, smiling through the shimmer in his eyes. “The winters are boring in Aedes Elysiae. Just stay nearby during harvest season.”

“But in the other half of the year—”

“I’ll come with you,” Phainon promises. He blinks the remaining tears away from his eyes. His lashes glimmer as they move. “Every winter I’ll cross Amphoreus with you, and we’ll fight together, just like always.”

Mydei draws their joined hands closer. “The fight has to last forever,” he says, a little desperate. “If you come with me every winter, I’ll have to stay with you every summer. To make the duel last.”

Phainon’s eyes slip shut as he laughs. “You know,” he says, their noses nearly brushing, “you’re very romantic, now that I know how to read you.”

Mydei scoffs. “That’s ridiculous. I’m not romantic.”

“Uh huh,” says Phainon, grinning. He loops his arms around Mydei’s neck, smiling so widely he can hardly talk. “Remind me of the Kremnoan term for that again?”

“Actually,” says Mydei, his heart pounding, “there’s no word f—”

Phainon kisses the rest of the words off of his lips.

***

My dearest Phainon,

Congratulations! I’m delighted to hear about the engagement. Hieronymus says you’ve done very well for yourself as long as you love each other. I agree with him. From the way you have talked about him, I can tell that you feel very strongly for him. He sounds like a lovely young man.

Snowy is doing well. She just gave birth to two puppies, and we thought that one of them could come with you. They’re easily trained as hunting dogs, if you have the patience to wait through the first year or two. Your Kremnoan would probably appreciate a loyal pet to keep you both company. Audata says we need to keep one of them for Galba’s wife because she wants a new sheepdog, but you can take the other one along with you.

The harvest was wonderful this year. We are all missing our favorite hero. I read your letters to the whole town. You’re lucky that I paraphrase, or else everyone in Aedes Elysiae would know that you spend half your waking hours staring at your lover’s back muscles. What a pervert.

Awaiting your homeward arrival. I am glad you’ve settled in Sabany for the time being. I missed writing back to you.

Your favorite newly-certified Priestess of Oronyx,
Cyrene

How many haybales can he lift? If it’s less than three, I’m kicking him out. I don’t care that he’s a prince.
-Audata

***

My dearest Cyrene,

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE CAN WE HAVE A PUPPY I WANT A PUPPY SO BAD!!!!!!

Mydei and I are coming for the harvest season. His five men might also stop by sometimes. Ptolemy is very interested to talk to you about our belief systems. He plans to give you a harder quiz than any test at your priest initiation. Be warned.

My dearest mother,

He can lift five haybales. With one hand.

All my love,
Castrum Kremnos’s most respected Prince Consort of all time,
Phainon

***

My fuckass brother,

Stop flexing your titles. You got them by being pathetic and annoying.

Aedes Elysiae’s greatest priestess of all time and most beautiful tarot artist ever, WHO’S ALREADY MARRIED TO THE STRONGEST AND MOST BEAUTIFUL WOMAN IN THE UNIVERSE, BY THE WAY, SO TAKE THAT, YOU BASTARD,
Cyrene

I like him already.
-Audata