Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Phainon grew up plowing the wheat fields of Aedes Elysaie. 

He was proud to be a farmer, proud to continue his father’s work and help his parents. However, when his father retires, and his mother is chronically ill, he begins his studies as an apothecary with Hyacine’s help. (A friend who had the opportunity to study in The Grove, and now comes to Aedes Elysiae periodically for work.) 

It is hard to sell wheat when it has always been in abundance, and the pay is too little to cover Cyrene’s tuition fee and his mother’s expenses. 

While Phainon is no longer the little boy who played swords and participated in his younger sister's readings, he is now a man who knows as much as scholars do these days. 

He is an apothecary in a brothel. 

—

The brothel is situated in between the distance of Okhema and Aedes Elysiae. 

The grand city of Okhema being a well-renowned tourist place and capital, while Aedes Elysiae being the abundant haven for all cities to rely on, it is expected for travelers or regular citizens to come and curiously peek through the crimson curtains. 

Phainon visits as much as he can, shifting from wheat fields to medicinal notes, but he does not mind the two hours needed to get there — in fact, he has grown fond of the courtesans, they took care of him well and were like a second family. 

“Deliverer! What have you brought my girls today?” Cifera chirps, in her usual sing-song voice. 

“You really ought to stop calling me that, Miss Cipher,” Phainon laughs. 

“Oh, please. Are you not a delivery boy?” Cifera raises a brow, playfully, peeking into his bag as her eyes hover over jars and jars of herbs and what not. 

“I’m your apothecary,” Phainon says. “But just the usual. I’ll be checking everyone today, if you mind?” 

Cifera (more known as Cipher) was the owner of the brothel house — House of Trickery, taking in struggling women and men alike then training them rigorously to exploit the customers who come in, and boy do they rack in a lot of money. While Phainon commends the gold earned, and respects all the courtesans, he does not desire to work as one — he enjoys being paid well doing something interesting and taking care of everyone. 

Though, he will say, Cifera was very adamant on him becoming an escort himself.

“Go ‘head,” Cifera replies, going through the containers. “Try learning from them while you do, will do you some good, boy!” 

“No, thank you, Miss Cipher!” Phainon shouts as he enters, and he huffs out a laugh when he hears her cackle behind him. 

He visits the small corner where he stores his medicine for those in the house, brushing past the olive green curtains adorned with gold, he quickly unpacks and places them atop the shelves, seeing a few empty glasses and taking them back into his back to refill. 

He turns when he hears a small click of a heel, entering into his little space, he sees a familiar pool of grey hair. 

“Hey, snowy,” Caelus greets, waving a hand. 

“Caelus!” Phainon smiles, placing his hands on the wooden counter. “How have you been? No symptoms?” 

Caelus, or rather, Grey Peony, is one of the more sought after courtesans of House Trickery. Soft, grey locks and smooth, pale skin — but his conversations were the real kicker. He was humorous, witty, and it was so easy to grow fond of him. He resides with the other popular escorts, and he used to take an abundance of clients, until a particular one had paid extra to only serve him. 

“None.” Caelus shakes his head. “I’ve been fine, you know my immunity is pretty strong.” 

“Of course, it’s all you ever talk about.” Phainon rolls his eyes playfully. “Has Lady Aglaea visited?” 

“She came with new garments just yesterday,” Caelus says. 

“Ah, I missed her then…” 

“Unfortunately,” Caelus laughs. “But I think you came on time, actually.” 

“Oh?” The white-haired man tilts his head, closing his bag, and cleaning away the wooden counter he placed his hands on top of. Though it was already pretty maintained, he still wanted to do it just in case. 

“Dan Heng bought my contract.” 

Phainon blinks, before meeting Caelus’ gaze and the little happy smile on the edge of his lips. He gasps, eyes widening, because he knows what this means. 

While not many, as courtesans and escorts, experience the same story as Caelus — everyone in the house knew of Dan Heng’s (very obvious) infatuation with him. Caelus, too, agreed to serving him alone and genuinely enjoyed the time they spent together. It’s not always like this, where customers willingly buy a courtesan’s freedom. Sometimes, it is an act of love, other times, it is an act out of self-interest. 

It is evident which of the two is the case for Caelus. 

“Caelus,” he says. “I’m so happy for you! Is he taking you to Penacony like he promised?” He takes the other’s hands into his, grasping them in a warm hold. 

“He’s taking me to his home — The Xianzhou Luofu — then we get married.” 

“Kephale, it’s been months, and now he finally said something,” Phainon laughs softly. “You’d better write to us.” 

“Of course, I will! Who do you take me for?” Caelus scoffs, light-heartedly. “I still have two weeks until I leave.” 

“Miss Cipher must be ecstatic… your contract was one of the more expensive ones.” 

“Cipher was too excited to see me go, actually.” Caelus rolls his eyes, and they both laugh over the small clinks of the jars until it’s time for Phainon to start doing his job. 

—

Phainon tries to visit more than twice a week at the House of Trickery. 

Mostly because he has a good batch of medicine he needs to sell, and again, he wishes to care for the workers of the house — but the newest reason being Caelus’ send off. Usually, a banquet-like celebration is held for a courtesan or escort if their contract has been bought, and Caelus’ would be in two weeks time, which is enough time for everyone to spend with him while preparing for the festive day. 

Phainon has never seen such a tradition, granted, it is because he’s new to the whole thing — but he’s excited! Especially because it’s one of his best friends who is going to participate! 

That’s why he’s spending much more time in the house now, a few days after Caelus breaks the news to him, sometimes he ends up sleeping over cause it gets too late out to go back. (Stelle looks over his parents when he’s out late, so it’ll be fine.) 

Today is one of those days, where he’s taking boxes of decorations in them, and encouraging the few courtesans practicing their musical performances. 

He ends up serving a few customers drinks, the few who cannot afford a personal visit, so they linger in the lobby where they drink to their heart’s content while a few newer workers perform small songs. While it is not his job as the apothecary of the house, he has been mistaken as a novice serving boy plenty of times — and Miss Cipher paid him extra for the work! He wasn’t complaining. He was glad to be of service. 

The customers gossip very loudly, though. Perhaps it was the alcohol that you can hear through the small slurs, and elongated strings of words. 

“The House of Trickery is so expensive,” a man hiccups. “But so worth it. I can completely understand its popularity.” 

“Even if you can’t afford the higher tier courtesans, the servers are still eye candy,” another man says, nodding along. 

It was just regular old drunken talk between men, Phainon has already grown used to it, already moving to refill another table’s beverages. 

“I hear it’s so popular, the crown prince of Castrum Kremnos is intrigued.” 

Phainon’s eyes widened a little, raising a brow, almost slipping the pitcher between his hands before smoothly recovering. While he does know rumors were just rumors, he can’t help but become curious when they are talking about royalty becoming interested in the House of Trickery. Miss Cipher would absolutely have a field day if it were true.

“Bah! That’s bullshit. Everyone knows Mydeimos to be uninterested in anything besides battlefields and war.” 

“Exactly. He has no weakness, no pretty little thing who can strum a few strings would interest him.” 

“I… kinda feel bad for the dude. He should get a vacation—or, or something.”

Phainon huffs out a laugh at the last comment. 

He has heard of the crown prince of Castrum Kremnos, Mydeimos the Undying. He was infamous for his loyalty to his home land, and his love for the battlefield. Consequently, rumors of the bloodline of Gorgo ending with him would surface, but none mattered when the glory of his conquests overshined it all; the hypnotic tales of his leadership, the songs that bards sing in his honour, the pride he must have to be such a wonderful son and beloved prince. 

Okay, maybe Phainon was praising him a little too much, but what was true was true! 

…And, maybe he had a small, tiny infatuation with the man. 

But that was very normal for his age, okay! The women by the libraries always gush over their literature and the guys he knew fawned over their own crushes.

“I think he’d be a harem dude,” one man says, snapping Phainon out of his little inner monologue, and the idea is quickly rejected by one of his friends, who’s shaking his head profusely. 

“That’s mischaracterisation, dude. He wouldn’t even step foot into a brothel, I’m telling you!” 

“I think he’d be traditional. Only one partner, the whole loyalty shazam,” another says, a little quieter than the rest, sipping on his drink on occasion. 

“That’s what I’m saying! He would, eventually, find himself a partner—” 

“He’s eighteen. His circle of friends are known to be quite the chaotic bunch, aren’t they? He’s in the experimenting stage.” 

“Experimenting doesn’t mean— why are we even arguing over a man? We’re here to drink and woo beautiful women. Get your shit together, men!” 

The white-haired man snickers to himself, watching the group of drunkards as they cheers to another night spent, which they would surely regret in the morning.

“They’re quite loud…” Phainon jumps, turning to find a familiar pool of pastel purple hair, a shy expression with a tug of frustration; furrowed eyebrows, a small pout, and a side glance directed towards the loud group. 

“Castorice!” Phainon greets with a beaming smile, “Finished with your client already?” 

She nods, clasping her hands together. “She enjoyed my story again and wanted to know what happened next, but our time was up.” 

Castorice (or known as the Hand of Shadow) was one of the special courtesans, on the pricier side, but didn’t offer pleasure as a service. She accepted the job as long as she only got to narrate her stories and rant about her ideas to willing customers and Cifera had agreed. Luckily, plenty were fond of her and paid to listen to her stories — at first, a lot believed it was because she was a pretty girl, but gradually people came for her narratives rather than her. If Phainon remembered correctly, she was a part time novelist. 

“That’s great! I’m still waiting on the latest chapter too,” Phainon laughs, putting the empty pitcher back. 

“I’ll have it by the end of the week, Caelus has been bugging me about it because he’s leaving soon.” Castorice smiles, giggling into her delicate hands. 

“We must send him off grandly, after all.” Phainon nods. 

They continue chatting each other’s ear off, Phainon occasionally cleaning a few glasses as he listens to his friend ranting, something about the newest romance novel she was obsessed with… what was it again? 'The winter I turned ugly’?

“Ladies.” 

They both jolt in surprise, turning around to find Cifera with a scary smile. 

“Finished with tea time?” She claps, “We’ve got customers to serve!” then briskly walking around while increasing her volume, a few servers quickly moving to offer glasses of alcohol and courtesans fixing themselves up before attending to their clients. 

“Gosh,” Phainon shivers. “She’s scary when money is involved.” 

Castorice nods in grim understanding. 

—

“And then he asked me for the colour of my thong,” one of the escorts scoff. “Like really? Not even a ‘you’re so good at the guitar’ or anything?” 

“Babe, we’re in a brothel house,” another courtesan replies. 

Phainon huffs out a small laugh, sorting through another batch of medicine he had made. A week has eventually ended, and the event for Caelus’ departure is drawing near. Now, however, the workers of the house were relaxing and leaning against the wooden counter of his little work space, listening to them gossip about their latest clients. 

“I heard Livia’s client was from Okhema,” someone says to Castorice. “He’s the owner of some antique shop that’s popular.” 

“Mine was from Castrum Kremnos,” Castorice adds. “She’s a general, I think.” 

Phainon’s head turns at the mention of the grand warrior city, “Castrum Kremnos?” 

Castorice nods, “A lot of people from there have been visiting.” 

“Oh!” Lucretia gasps, in the far corner of the apothecary’s office. “Could it be because of the rumor surrounding the crown prince?” At that, everyone in the room turns to face her, intrigued at the sudden shift of topic. Though, Phainon thinks it’s just because everyone was interested in the mention of the prince.

“What rumor?” someone asks, blinking dumb-foundedly. 

“Oh, come on. Everyone knows about the prince becoming interested in the House of Trickery!” Caelus interrupts. “It’s all that’s been talked about these days.” 

“I wonder how it started,” Castorice murmurs, but everyone has developed special hearing abilities for her. “I mean—How could he have become interested if he’s never stepped foot in here?” 

Huh, Phainon thinks, because she’s got a good point. The crown prince has never entered the brothel house, nor has he ever left Castrum Kremnos besides conquests and wars, so how could the rumor have surfaced? 

“Maybe someone who looks like the prince came and the scandal came out?” Livia, having entered the room, speaks up. 

“I bet it’s got something to do with his friends,” Caelus adds. “Especially that Hephaestion.” 

“Oh,” Phainon mutters. “The scrawny general?” 

Caelus nods with a small hum. “Heard he teases the prince like crazy. But he gets a pass cause he’s a childhood friend apparently.” 

“Well, either way, business is doing better than usual because of the rumor.” 

Everyone hums in agreement, nodding their heads.

Suddenly, everyone screams bloody murder, a few squeaks and surprised gasps erupting, turning to the doorway to find Cifera leaning against it, a smirk across her smug face looking like the cat that got the cream. 

“Wow, you came out of nowhere, Miss Cipher!” Phainon laughs. “You’re frighteningly fast.” 

“Get used to it, deliverer boy,” Cifera says, but there’s a more… mischievous gleam in her eyes. It is not the usual sparkle of roguery, it is something knowing in her gaze that unsettles Phainon. Granted, he does not know what the woman thinks of him, conversing with sarcasm but spinning her nimble fingers around his strayed strand of hair, popping out of his scalp like a sprout — but he does not recognise this particular look. 

“Alright!” Cifera suddenly claps, loud and thunderous, snapping Phainon out of his train of thoughts and his raised brow relaxing. “To the baths, or else, no more gossip time after work hours!” 

Everyone groans, standing up to exit Phainon’s corner of the house. 

“Why don’t you join us, Phai?” He turns to find one of the courtesans and her small clique, and the rest of them peeking in to see if he’ll agree. Usually, he doesn’t mind, but…

“Not tonight,” Phainon shakes his head, refusing. “Maybe next time.” 

“Aw,” they chorus. “Next time, then!” They turn to leave, waving small goodnights to him as they leave. 

Cifera moves to strut out, but as soon as the last of the escorts are out of her sight, she closes the door and swivels around on one foot. 

“You have a crush on the prince, don’t you?” 

Phainon chokes on air, feeling his saliva go down the wrong pipe, hitting his chest with a fist. “I’m—” he coughs, facing her with a flabbergasted expression. “I’m sorry?” 

“You have a crush on the prince.” Cifera smirks. “No point in denying it.” 

“That—I—I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Phainon laughs nervously, scratching the back of his head, but the woman’s knowing gaze pierces into him like he was playing into her little game. “I haven’t even met him—I don’t—I don’t know who he is.” 

“Oh please, it is just a celebrity crush,” Cifera huffs. “And you’re not exactly subtle, you know?”

Phainon’s lip thin into a straight line, before he sighs, groaning as he slumps onto the counter. “What gave it away?” 

“You’re oddly interested in the rumor, hm?” Cifera snickers. “And Castorice made a betting pool that your type was a large, Kremnoan man.” 

“She what?” 

“Nothing!” Cifera cackles hysterically, speedily running out through the door, leaving the horrified man alone to let the realisation dawn on him. 

Miss Cipher was definitely going to use this against him. 

—

“I’m home!” Phainon shouts, shutting the door behind him as he begins to unpack. 

“Welcome back,” Cyrene greets from the dinner table, waving her free hand while another holds a piece of paper in bold writing and a few illustrations. 

While Cyrene was indeed studying in Okhema, today was the start of her study break, choosing to spend it back home in Aedes Elysiae rather than in the small dorm room she was provided with. It eased his mind knowing she was home, safe, and was able to look after their parents when Stelle and he couldn’t. 

“Today was fun,” Phainon says, laughing softly. “The courtesans were gossiping extra.” 

“About the prince, no doubt,” Cyrene replies, and he looks up with a curious brow raised to the roof of his forehead. She shows him the piece of paper in her hands, lo and behold, the crown of Castrum Kremnos on the front page of a news pamphlet. In bold, red writing: The Crown Prince to be married?! Prospective brides have started entering the palace! 

“Huh,” Phainon mutters. “Well, yes, but—the rumor was about his interest in the House of Trickery being piqued.” 

“Oh?” Cyrene tilts her head. “How curious.” 

She turns to read the front page once again, taking in the words of the article with a calculative look. “Perhaps, it is a scheme.” 

“A scheme?” Phainon asks, dumb-foundedly. 

“Hm,” Cyrene hums, eyes narrowing, before her expression returns flat with the small, soft smile that usually adorns her face. “Nothing. I was just overthinking.”

Phainon blinks. “Alright?” 

“Tell me the rest of your day,” Cyrene decides to say, crossing her legs. “Does lamb sound good for dinner?” 

Phainon is used to his younger sister's little ramblings, her small murmurs, and her big thoughts. So, when the topic suddenly shifts, he follows along. 

“Sounds great! Oh, wait—Did I tell you about Caelus? Well—” 

The night continues like that, talking to his sister about what’s happened the past few months she's been gone, words he could not manage to relay through ink and paper. 

That night, Cyrene does a divination, and the cards tell her this: Unexpected Encounter. 

—

In the middle of Okhema, there is a tailor shop constantly hustling and bustling, garments constantly being made and adjusted, bleeding until the late nights of the city. Tonight, however, the shop is closed with the curtains blocking the large windows, dimly lit with the candles creating a leisure ambiance. 

“I do not understand why you must barge into my home,” Aglaea, owner of the tailor shop, remarks. “Are you not a busy man, Professor?” 

“You and your incessant arguments.” Anaxa, on the opposite end of the table, huffs. He crosses his arms. “I recall you complaining that I have been far too busy to make time.” 

“I remember no such thing.” Aglaea glares. “Pray tell, what brings you here at this hour?” 

“Straight to the point, as always.” Anaxa takes a sip of the glass of wine, offered to him even amidst their banter. “It is that crown prince I have been teaching, nowadays.”

“Oh? The one that is preparing to marry?” 

“Not quite,” Anaxa sighs. “It is known throughout Amphoreus that he has little interest in marriage, yes?” 

The divine woman hums in response, taking small periodical sips of her own drink. 

The slow jazz that echoes throughout the store is light, blurry, but provides a relaxing atmosphere. They can hear the muffled sounds of the citizens of Okhema talking and walking along the stone path, the lights of the city seen through the fabric of the curtains. 

“Now that the boy is eighteen, his father’s advisors have begun bringing their daughters in for a possible marriage.” He sighs again, exasperated and exhausted. 

“Ah,” Aglaea hums. “The problem is the prince.” 

“Correct.” Anaxa nods, grimly. “Him and his little scheming clique of friends have created a rumor that he is interested in Cipher’s little brothel.” 

“To scare off potential brides, I assume.” Aglaea chuckles at the ridiculous scheme. “Though, I fail to see why you are stressed over this. This will be another scandal eventually coming to pass, no?” 

“Yes, except—” Anaxa brushes a hand through his hair, gripping his locks in frustration. 

“He is traveling down to the brothel house now.” 

—

Cinnamon, check. Basil, sage, check. Hibiscus…

Phainon is in the middle of sorting through new medicinal jars when it happens. 

There is a sudden commotion in the lobby of the brothel, while it is not chaotic, it is enough for him to turn his focus to the room behind the viridescent curtains that ward off any customers from entering his space. Beyond the slow tempo of strumming strings, the chatter amongst customers has risen in volume, hurried footsteps clack against the wooden floors.

Curious, he steps out of the apothecary’s corner to take a small, tiny peek. 

He turns to find a fellow serving boy — Cicero, was it? — refilling a pitcher of alcohol, albeit a little shaky and aghast, as if the man had seen a ghost. 

“Cicero,” Phainon calls out, and the man turns to meet his gaze. “What’s happening?” 

“Phainon,” he gasps, “you are not going to believe this.” 

“Believe wh—” He lets out a startled sound as Cicero grips him by the shoulders, staring deeply into his eyes. “The prince—the prince he’s—he’s here!” 

Phainon blinks. “Huh?” 

“The crown prince of Castrum Kremnos? Mydeimos the Undying, Son of Gorgo, Conqueror of—whatever!” He flails his hands around like a mad man. “He’s in the special lounge for esteemed guests right now and—ugh, Phainon, please take my place!” 

“What?” Phainon gapes. 

“I’m going to make a fool of myself if I go in there,” Cicero reasons, taking a bottle of expensive wine and placing it onto the tray, handing it to the lost, dumb-founded white-haired man. 

“And I won’t?” Phainon cries, reluctantly taking the tray, heart racing. “I’m an apothecary!” 

“And part-time serving boy,” Cicero retorts, taking random bottles of juice and the like to mix with the enormous amount of alcohol he was piling up. “Thanks, I owe you!” 

Before Phainon can argue, the man is already running off to another corner of the house, almost mimicking Cifera’s speed, his feet spinning in a cartoon-ish manner, flying out of the vicinity like he were a wanted criminal. 

“What the fuck.” 

He stares at the tray of alcoholic and fruit beverages in his hands, feeling his palms begin to sweat, the grip on the flat metal loosening until he tightens his hold. 

Surely, he could just pass this off to someone else, righ—

“Phainon!” He looks up to find Livia, of all people, rushing towards him. “Is that for the crown prince?” 

“Huh?” Phainon responds intelligently. “Uh—Yes, yeah! But—” 

“Great, quickly!” She tugs at his wrist, and he almost trips if not for his perfect balance, then he’s dragged up through crimson curtains into the quieter, pricier area of the brothel house, doing his best to not spill any of the bottles and glasses on the tray. 

“Livia, slow down, plea—” He gasps as they come to a stop, right in front of a booth behind blood red curtains, alongside gold adorning them, and sheer fabrics of a lighter shade across. He can hear them; the rowdy shouts, the booming laughter, the terrifying sound of glasses already clinking against each other.

In the middle of the chaos, he can hear Cifera. 

“We have plenty of courtesans available,” She says, giddy and eager, the taste of gold already on her tongue — and she is serious, she will stop at nothing to get what she wants tonight. 

Phainon gulps, choking a bit when Livia pats his back a little too roughly.

“Good luck.” She salutes him, exiting the area with whispered steps. He doesn’t bother reaching out, begging her to take his place, because she knew she was busy with the next lobby of drunken men and women. 

Inhaling, then exhaling, he turns to try and look beyond the bold curtains. 

“We are at your service,” Cifera continues, then he hears another voice, unfamiliar and a man’s. 

“Don’t be shy, Mydeimos! Take your pick.” 

There follows a chorus of laughter, boisterous and audacious. “Tonight’s your night, don’t waste it.” 

Then, a small huff, and a powerful snort. “Bastards.” 

Phainon’s breath hitches as soon as the rough, gruff voice reaches his ears. Domineering and absolute, he could hear a low rumble behind the deep baritone, it almost made his knees buckle. 

He gulps, hesitantly moving a hand to brush past the curtains. 

He grips the smooth fabric, pushing past and entering the booth. 

It is a very very bad decision. 

As soon as he makes his presence known, the atmosphere shifts, and there are a few eyes on him. Granted, majority of the prince’s circle of friends are still joking and laughing, but he is being stared at, he can feel eyes peering into his figure, and it is the first time he feels like this in the brothel — it is like a predator to prey, but he is the latter, attempting to quiet his attempts at breathing. 

He glances at Cifera, who only smirks at him, then he turns back to start pouring drinks. 

He is taken aback when a pair of rich, gleaming, golden eyes are staring into his own. 

The gaze is deep, observant, but barricaded. Yet, there is a flash of interest, the dimly lit room making gold glow. If amongst a room of Kremnoan men, all staring into him, glancing at him, this man—no, the prince, who sat against the plush, velvet couches, was the real predator amongst them. It was almost suffocating, how his mere eyes are able to steal his breath away, how they narrow with concealed lust, the way his brow raises in intrigue. 

Mydeimos, the gap between his legs wide as he manspreads, was exactly how he was depicted in his portraits; fiery, wild lion’s mane, biceps as thick as a head, flexing every time he stretched, a deep red of tattoos adorning his body, his princely garments barely covering his modesty — Kephale, the large, intimidating gauntlets that only add to his domineering aura. 

He almost forgets how to breathe. 

Dammit, Phainon curses. He’s hot. 

“Deliverer,” Cifera purrs, snapping him out of his little trance, and he sucks in a breath. 

He places a few cups down onto the table, golden goblets slowly filling up with wine. He looks up to refill a man’s cup, when he catches the small grimace the prince makes. 

Huh? 

He looks down to the alcoholic drinks when he realises. 

Does he not like wine? 

Phainon’s eyes drift to the tray of an assortment of beverages, when he catches a bottle of pomegranate juice Cicero must have mistakenly added into the mix. Although an accident, the colour of the drink was enough to be mistaken as wine, unless tasted. 

If he is displeased, Phainon gulps. I am so dead. 

He pretends the wine bottle in his hands has finished, storing it behind the rest of the bottles, and pouring the pomegranate juice down the golden goblet, half way to the top. He offers the goblet to the prince, head down, and bowing. 

“Your highness,” he manages to say. 

Reluctantly, the blonde man takes the offered drink, gripping the base of the golden cup. “Come on, Mydeimos,” one of his friends jeers. “Don’t let the pretty boy’s hard work come to waste.” 

The prince scoffs, “Hold your tongue.” 

They laugh, and frankly, Phainon doesn’t find it very funny. He supposes that’s what the tempting ambrosia does to you, seeing as their cheeks have begun to redden, some slurring a little at the end of their sentences. 

Mydeimos takes a small, tentative sip. 

Then his brow raises again, taking another. 

Golden irises meet his once again, and Phainon sucks in another breath. 

Dead, he thinks. I’m so dead.

Phainon closes his eyes, bowing his head further, avoiding the piercing gaze. He opens his eyes to see the sad sight of his shoes, but from the corner of his eye, he can see Cifera waving her hand — signaling for him to continue, but he doesn’t think he can endure pouring another drink in the tense room. 

Her hand shakes more aggressively, and he picks up another bottle—

“Thief,” Mydeimos suddenly says, and the crowd suddenly quiets, still muttering and murmuring but unlike the chaotic rowdiness from before.

“Little prince,” she tuts. “What is the matter?” 

He’s silent for a moment, circling the “wine” in his cup, watching as it flows and stains the metal. 

“I want him,” Mydeimos declares, pointing to Phainon, whose eyes widen. 

What the fuck. 

His mouth opens, but before words can escape his aghast state, Cifera is already by his side — she pinches him on the back, and he struggles to hide the jolt, but quickly morphs a customer service smile on the edge of his lips. 

“He is quite the expensive courtesan, your highness,” she leers, and Phainon’s eye almost twitches, because did he hear wrong? 

He was an expensive what now? 

Mydei only tilts his head, and Kephale, it was absurd how attractive he looked. A sharp brow raising once more, a scoff threatening to escape his lips, as if he couldn’t afford to buy the entire brothel. 

“Name your price.” 

—

“Ack—!” 

Phainon is pushed into a warm pool of water, the heavy scent of floral perfume and oils surrounding his bare skin, and he shivers as his arms are taken out to be scrubbed roughly with soap that smelled like lotus and fresh water. 

“We’ve got an hour, people! Make this quick!” Cifera claps her hands, commanding another worker to quickly grab a spare uniform. 

“Miss Cipher—” He calls out, but is immediately cut off by the rub of shampoo in his hair, a streak of it uncomfortably close to his eyes. 

“What, boy?” She turns to face him, tilting her head. “Or, shall I officially call you the deliverer?” 

“Miss Cipher,” Phainon groans. “Please. I’m a farmboy, an apothecary! Not a courtesan.” He tries to reason, pausing in between as water is dumped over his head multiple times. “I can’t do this. What if—what if I displease him? Then what? You’ll become bankrupt!” 

“Don’t jinx us!” Cifera hisses, splashing water onto his face, to which he successfully dodges. “You’ll catch up on everything you need to know, relax.” 

“In an hour?” He cries, frustratingly, because he was stressed. Extremely stressed. More than when Aedes Elysiae had gone through drought, when Cyrene’s educational fees had come by quicker than he thought it would, when he tried falling asleep on the night of an important day but ended up staying up. 

Him. A mere farmer’s son with calloused, rough hands that were unlike the soft, delicate fingers of the escorts. An apothecary that has worked with herbs and poison on his fingertips, never to caress another with intent. 

Now, all that he has ever learnt is being reshaped right in front of him, meant to serve a prince of high caliber. 

Phainon gasps as he’s taken out of the bath, covered with a silk robe, writhing under the cold air embracing him. He whines when he feels a flick of a finger on his forehead, opening his eyes while rubbing at the reddening spot, meeting Cifera’s glare.

“You’ll be fine, deliverer boy,” she scoffs. “If all goes wrong, this face of yours will save the day.” 

She did have a point, he was indeed attractive. 

But nothing about his body was similar to the nimble, fragile image that courtesans usually had! 

“Phai, just cause you’re on the muscular side doesn’t mean you aren’t pretty!” Livia, sweet angel she is, says on his side, drying his hair with a small towel. “You’re very healthy!” 

“And thick,” Caelus adds. 

“Uh,” Phainon murmurs. “Thanks?” 

“You act like you are unpleasant to the eye.” Cifera rolls her eyes. “You have assets that can be put to use. Furthermore, you have this.” 

She points her index finger to his chest where his heart was and he can feel the sting from her sharp nail digging into his skin. 

“My heart?” 

“Your boobs.”

Phainon stutters, flushing a light pink when suddenly, garments are shoved onto him and he instinctively adjusts his arms. He hears a small click, eyes peering down when he realises just what he was wearing; a sheer pure white chiton adorned with a deep periwinkle, that did absolutely nothing to cover up his legs, only reaching mid-thigh and if he moved the fabric would ride up and expose his goods. His chest was completely exposed all the way down to just centimetres above his hips, baring his sun and orbit mark.

The silk barely hid what was meant to be kept away, even worse, his back was completely vulnerable and open — he feels the cool air against it, and he flusters. 

They clasp golden bands onto his biceps, the same colour at the edge of the short chiton and the blatant sun design similar to his birth mark on the side of his neck. On top of his head, they lay a circlet of ivy and grapevine, almost as if he were Dionysus. 

Was that his concept? For a guy who disliked wine? 

He feels a small tap on his ankle, looking down to find an escort asking him to lift his foot up, to which he does, and he feels a cool sensation sliding up to his ankle and he realises it’s a golden anklet in the shape of a flower — yet it was almost similar in shape to that of a sun, a beautiful, twinkling violet gem in the middle. 

“Do not tell me I am going barefoot,” Phainon groans. 

“Many are very appreciative of feet.” 

Before he can protest, a light hue of rouge is carefully applied onto his lips, and something slightly sticky is smeared on top, making the colour shine. 

“Wow, look at you,” Caelus purrs, almost too Cifera-like. “That body of yours is absurd.” 

While Phainon is aware he was attractive, handsome to the village girls and pretty to the few who have approached him, being complimented like this… was a little embarrassing. No one has ever called him petite, he was on the muscular side and was proud of it. He has never been told his waist was tiny, little, pleasant to hold. And, yes, he was pretty — but he has not been called beautiful. 

Well, never to his face, anyway. 

“Listen well, boy,” Cifera says, hands on her hips. “Because you’re new, we’re going to give you a concept you can work with.” 

Well, it was obvious he had something to do with wine. Was it like… he was a tempting, ethereal God who would grace the prince with his presence? Or, perhaps, a simple pretty boy who serves drinks as a pastime. Maybe, a playboy who—

“You’re going to be a top-tier shy, blushing, virgin maiden.”

Phainon blinks.

“Huh?” 

“Perfect, right?” Cifera smirks. “Nothing’s changed. You’re still the bashful little boy you always were.” 

He tilts his head. “And… that makes it easier for me?” 

“He won’t expect you to take the lead,” Cifera answers, as if she had foreseen all his questions. “There are plenty of people who pay for such a courtesan, so he will not be suspicious and deem your clumsiness as experience.” 

For some reason, Phainon finds this a little too convenient, but he supposes it’s just Cipher’s genius strategy and marketing tactic. She was indeed renowned as the “legendary thief” for sucking every rich man’s pockets dry. 

Phainon’s lips thin into a line. 

Everything has been laid out for him, Miss Cipher practically spoon-feeding him. He was beautifully dressed in the Goldweaver’s silks, and had an image that would save himself if needed. 

But he is way too nervous. 

Too fidgety, his hands too sweaty, and he feels his nape burn for some reason.

The fact he is dressed like this, that he is pretending to be a courtesan for Cifera to exploit the prince. 

It makes him a little light-headed.

“Hey,” Cifera suddenly speaks, and he doesn't notice but his gaze has moved down to the floor, so he looks up to meet her stern gaze. “I can’t drag you out of this, he won’t accept another besides you in that room.” 

Phainon gulps.

“But,” she continues, pulling something out of her pockets, a pull-string in the shade of yellow tied into a knot at the base. “There is a lever in the room, next to the couch and another near the bed. If that prince tries anything you don’t want—”

The look in her eyes turns into something incredibly serious. 

“Then pull it and shove him off.” 

“Oh,” Phainon breathes. “Like—like a security system?” 

Cifera nods. “Not even a prince can defy my authority in this house.” 

“Even if you go bankrupt?” Phainon tilts his head, but he’s met with another light-hearted glare. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” she sighs. 

He doesn’t need to say anything else when he catches the shift in her eyes, the mischievous gleam is back and his stomach drops, because he knows that isn’t good. Any question he has right now, especially with how undertrained he was, has flown out the window as fast as Zagreus themself. 

“Now, go time, my pretty deliverer!” She sings, high and exaggerated, and he’s immediately guided by two other workers into the pricey side of the brothel house — both of them holding his arms, as if he were a prisoner. 

“Don’t forget to arch that back!”

Kephale, Phainon prays. Please, ask Nikador to strike me down. 

—

The first thing Phainon thinks upon entering the suite is that it is incredibly large. 

There are plush, velvet couches that greet him as soon as he steps inside, and look like they cost more than his house alone. In front of it is a circular wooden table with complementary drinks, and of course, among them they were mostly alcoholic. To his left there’s a huge bath, clear water steaming with rose petals, more beverages by the edges of the pool and— was that real gold on the designs? 

The room is dim, the scent of candles and their flames creating a sensual, hypnotic ambiance, but it is enough to see the enormous bed on the opposite end. In a similar colour to the couches, it was covered in various silks and expensive furs, the pillows fluffy and so… so tempting. 

Snap out of it! Phainon screams to himself, smacking one side of his head. 

He hesitantly walks towards the couches, wincing at the feeling of his bare feet against the cold wooden floor, and settles down while taking in the view of the room. From the corner of his eye, he finds the rope with the same design as the one Cifera had pulled out, and he shifts closer towards it. 

Just as his eyes are scouring through the assortment of drinks in hopes of finding a non-alcoholic beverage, the doors to the suite creak open, and he flinches at the sound — his head looking up and his eyes follow, tracing the silhouette of the crown prince from his shoes to his gaze; impassive, straight-faced, deadpanned, whatever you wish to name it. He was a total stone. 

Wow, Phainon thinks, impressed. His gaze is so fierce. 

They stay in their positions, blinking and staring at each other, as if Oronyx had frozen time. It is incredibly awkward and no one in the house had told him how exactly he had to greet his guest. In fact, weren’t most already in the room? How come the prince wasn’t already there when he entered?

“Shall—” Phainon tries, clearing his throat. “Shall I serve you, your highness?” 

He picks up a random bottle on the table, praying it works. 

Mydei continues staring at him, unblinkingly, until he coughs into his fist — his eyes shyly drift from his own, gazing down onto the floor. 

Huh, was this really the brute Kremnoan prince? 

“Very well.” 

—

Mydeimos’ relationship with his father is… complicated. 

His image to the public is as contradictory; mighty, grand, the undying prince, Castrum Kremnos’ pride — and yet, he is also the Kremnoan’s greatest downfall. The only royal prince uninterested in marriage or anything resembling romance outside of the battlefields. 

He understands where the misunderstanding stems from. 

But he is only eighteen. 

He is his mother’s son, the devoted prince of Castrum Kremnos. He is not against the idea of his own marriage, Nikador forbid. But he is incredibly young, even if it was the prime age to marry, his duties as a young royal were demanding — so demanding that he has had no time to meet someone, get to know them, laugh with them. 

Was the fearsome warlord of Kremnos a hopeless romantic? 

…Yes. 

Did anybody know he was one?

Well, maybe just five people. His mother might have known but kept her silence. 

The point is that Mydeimos is not as hopeless in the art of romance as much as he seems to be, but frankly, he doesn’t really care for such gossip. 

Not until his father brings it up during dinner. 

“I have been thinking, Mydeimos,” his father suddenly says, in the middle of cutting through the thick steak on his plate, and he looks up to meet his gaze. Calculative, careful, yet cold and foreboding. “You are at an age to marry.” 

Mydei pauses, the grip on his utensils tightening. 

“In three days' time, you will begin to find a prospective bride.” 

He blinks, “Excuse me?” 

“It is as I’ve said.” Eurypon places his utensils down onto the plate, taking a napkin from the side and wiping gently at the corners of his mouth, ignoring the questioning look sent his way from the queen’s side. 

“Father—” 

“Mydeimos,” Eurypon interrupts him. “If you are not agreeable to my decision, then I will arrange for a marriage.” 

“Father,” Mydei hisses. “I am not agreeable to any of the two — I am eighteen!” 

“The people are growing restless,” Eurypon argues. “This is your duty as much as fighting on the frontlines is. Do not forget that.” 

“Don’t make me laugh,” Mydei scoffs, frustration building. “When have I ever forgotten duty in your presence?” 

Gorgo sighs, playing with the meat on her plate before settling down and placing the fork aside. Honestly, how rowdy could they be? It is as if every point of their conversations have gone over each other's head.

“Settle down, my son, my husband,” she waves her hand, before turning to face Eurypon. “Why don’t you give Mydeimos some time?” 

“Time,” he echoes. “He will take another decade to marry and become a cuck in the process.” 

Mydei groans. “Father, please.”

“I mean that you should allow him to get to know someone, have them court for a few months.” Gorgo gestures to themselves. “We followed the same, did we not?” 

Eurypon’s lips thin into a straight line, glancing over to his restless son, arching a brow right back at him. Reluctantly, he huffs and turns to face Mydei. 

“Very well,” he decides. “You will be given time but the brides will still enter the palace. They are important, children of officials and nobles, you cannot refuse them.” 

Well, he was still unhappy with the brides coming in, but he’ll take what he can get. 

“Am I clear?” 

Mydei huffs. 

“Crystal.” 

—

Mydeimos’ relationship with his father is as clear as it was unclear, confusing as it was not, and extremely complex. 

It was like a never ending guessing game between them, two embers born to burn brighter than the other, children of Strife set alight with familiar flames. His mother often calls them similar, eerily so, and it was the primary reason for their constant clashes. It is not far off, he cannot help but boil at his father’s words, rebel against a few of them, become upset because of him. 

(But he still calls him father, because he can see the gleam of something proud underneath, the evidence that he cares.) 

Even now, his father cannot seem to understand his stance, nor hear his pleas. 

“Come on, Mydeimos,” Hephaestion sighs, leaning back against the velvet cushions in the comfort of the prince’s home. “You know he just cares for you, that's all.” 

“His way of speaking is harsh,” Ptolemy agrees. “I always wondered if his majesty had a terrible backstory.” 

“Well, I turned out just fine, didn’t I?” Mydei huffs, roughly shutting the curtains and taking a seat next to his scrawny friend, he opens his eyes to look up and find his group staring at him with deadpanned expressions. “What?” 

They stare at him, unblinkingly. 

“I know he cares for me,” Mydei sighs, crossing his arms. “I know he doesn’t want loneliness to swallow me whole, masking it as duty. I just wish he would say that to me like I was his son rather than his heir.” 

“That’s true,” Leonnius hums, leaning against the wall. “The king has always had a hard time showing you and the queen some love, huh?” 

Mydei knows that. 

Mydei knows his father better than anyone else in the world. 

(His mother is the exception.)

He knows underneath cold, foreboding rules that shackled him to the throne was the kindest love he would ever receive. That his father shaped him into the man he was today, alongside his mother, and he dares to say he can see a spark in the man’s eyes when someone praises his son. 

But, sometimes, it is hard to remember. 

Especially now when it was his future on the line. 

“Well, why don’t you get to know the brides? Perhaps, you will fall in love with one of them?” 

“They are all the same,” Mydei sighs, again. “Worse, I dare say, since they are the children of my father’s court.” 

Everyone in the room groans at that. 

“I mean, there might be someone amongst them that genuinely likes you,” Perdikkas tries. 

“I’m not satisfying any of those power hungry bastards,” Mydei replies. 

“Good point.” 

Silence stretches on once more, everyone engaged in their own thoughts, pondering deeply. Ptolemy scratches his chin, Hephaestion huffs, and Peucesta is cleaning his instrument when a genius idea occurs to him. He gasps in delight at the thought, a wicked grin on his face, and everyone looks at him to find a mischievous gleam in his eyes. 

“You’ve thought of something,” Mydei speaks. 

“My prince,” Peucesta purrs. “How do you feel about a little scandal?” 

Mydei raises a brow, intrigued. 

—

It only takes a day for Amphoreus to fall under Peucesta’s spell. 

Granted, Mydeimos is not too sure how well this scheme of his would execute, he suspected it was just another one of his playful tricks that may help out one way or another. It was simple, but also complicated. 

Apparently, Peucesta was a regular at the famous brothel — House of Trickery — but for no reason other than listening to the few courtesans strumming a few strings. (Or, that’s what he claims.) 

He deemed that since plenty of the officials and their children were quite traditional, the prospect of Mydeimos growing fond of visiting brothels would force them to retreat. 

(“Would that not damage Mydeimos’ reputation?” Perdikkas asks. 

“Perhaps, rather than brothels themself, he grows fond of a courtesan?” Ptolemy offers, always the intelligent one. 

“Are you insinuating I court an escort?” 

“The people of Kremnos would just be happy if you liked someone, Mydeimos.” Hephaestion sighs.) 

Unsurprisingly, his people could care less that he gained ‘interest’ in a brothel house, even if some were quite conservative. The people of Kremnos have always respected hard work, even if they were no mighty warrior by dictionary, if they fought to live then that was enough. 

It’s a little overwhelming when they greet him out in the open, in the middle of the streets, though. 

The brides had to come in the end, many of them unhappy and were likely forced to enter the palace in fine silks and jewelry, dolled up just to hypnotise him in order to ascertain power. 

It does not work. 

Mydei does not end up falling at first sight with any of them either. 

His father’s reaction had been the most surprising. While he must have known his son would reject the brides born by his court, he did not expect the casual conversation about the ‘courtesan’ he was enthralled by. 

(“He is utterly bewitched!” Peucesta sings. “He might start courting soon!”)

“I hear you are soon to be courting,” Eurypon says. 

Mydei chokes on the sip of pomegranate milk that goes down the wrong pipe, hitting his chest with a fist. 

“Such exciting news! I told you being patient would work.” Gorgo claps. “When can we meet this enchanting beauty?” 

Nikador, Mydei pleads. Why must you abandon me now of all times? 

“Soon—very soon, mother,” he decides. “But, first, I need to wait for their acceptance.” 

“Ah, of course, that will take a while,” Gorgo hums, nodding. “We will wait as long as needed, my son. We are pleasantly surprised you have found someone.” 

Mydei nods in grim understanding. 

—

“Kneel,” Perdikkas grits out, glaring down at Peucesta who immediately falls to his knees with his head down. 

“Peucesta never cures a problem without a new one being born,” Leonnius cackles, throwing his head back as he clutches his stomach, a free hand wiping away a tear. “I cannot believe that worked!” 

“A little too well, if you ask me,” Mydei mutters, crossing his arms. 

“I mean, what else did you guys expect?” Ptolemy says, popping a grape into his mouth, turning a page in his newest novel. “Any rumor about Mydeimos’ love life explodes in a day, we know this.” 

“My parents think I’m bewitched.” Mydei huffs. “I haven’t even left Castrum Kremnos in the last few days.” 

“Perhaps they think you sneak out at night,” Hephaestion suggests, taking a seat next to a leisurely lounging Ptolemy. “Which, you do, by the way.” 

“To train. Not to run off with some courtesan!” 

“Ugh, you might as well let loose a little!” Peucesta nags from the floor, where he’s now laying flat on his stomach with Perdikkas sitting atop of him. 

Leonnius hums in agreement. “Now that the rumor is in motion, we should really sell it.” 

Mydeimos raises a brow. 

“It’s not like we have plenty of duties these days, anyway.” Ptolemy closes his book with an echoing clap and Hephaestion nods along. 

“Professor Anaxagoras is going to murder Mydeimos,” Perdikkas says. 

“That prof from Okhema?” Leonnius whistles. “We’ll be fine, we’ll just sneak out.” 

“What,” Mydei grits. “Are you buffoons talking about?” 

Everyone in the room turns to look at Mydeimos, including Peucesta still splayed across the floor uncomfortably. Leonnius shares a knowing look with Hephaestion, who huffs in amusement and rolls his eyes. Ptolemy watches the exchange with a glint in his eyes, and Perdikkas stands up from his punishment for Peucesta, who immediately springs up.

“We’re going to the House of Trickery!” Peucesta proudly shouts, fist on his chest, then Perdikkas smacks him on the back of his head. 

Mydeimos blinks. 

“Huh?” 

—

The first thing that greets Mydeimos as soon as he enters the establishment is the intense aroma of perfume and alcohol, which were already overwhelming scents on their own, then he hears the light strikes of strings among laughter and drunken whispers. 

It’s only seconds into the night when he feels eyes prying into him and the hushed slurred words immediately surge in excitement. 

I wanna go home, Mydei thinks. 

Unfortunately, his confidants seem too knowing of his dilemma, as a loud smack against his back reverberates against the walls and he groans, glaring at Hephaestion who wore a huge grin on the edge of his lips. 

“No you don’t, Mydeimos!” Hephaestion laughs, as if he were already drunk.

“You don’t even know what I was thinking about,” he huffs, reluctantly getting dragged along to the reception, Peucesta leading the charge for them — the woman behind the counter enthusiastically welcoming him, earning a questioning look from Perdikkas. 

“Oh, but you were thinking of sneaking home, hm?” Hephaestion snorts. “You’re too easy to read, prince. And I fear Peucesta is right, you need to let loose once in a while.” 

“I am letting loose.” Mydei turns away. “I know how to relax.” 

“In theory? Yes.” Hephaestion nods, then tilts his head. “But you aren’t very good at executing it, ironically enough.” 

“You dare claim your prince to be lying?” Mydeimos raises an eyebrow. 

“No, but I do know that the prince of Kremnos is far too high up here.” Hephaestion points his index finger high in the air, then dropping down to where they stood. “That he forgets what it’s like down here — with his friends.” 

Mydei blinks, before turning away guiltily and sighing, rubbing at his nape. “Hephaestion, I—” 

“I’m not scolding you, Mydeimos,” Hephaestion quickly interjects. “Maybe a little.” 

Mydei returns his sheepish look with an ‘are you serious?’ expression. 

Hephaestion clears his throat. “Okay, my point is, I’m not shaming you or anything. We know how busy you can be and what that does to you.” 

“I—” Mydeimos tries to say, before being hushed. 

“Don’t you know why we’re here, Mydeimos?” Hephaestion asks, and he thinks. 

“To seal that rumor,” Mydei replies. “Is that not the reason?” 

The scrawny man chuckles, shaking his head. “Not at all, Mydeimos.” At that, the blonde prince tilts his head, curious. 

“We’re here for you. To get you out of there and relax here with us.” 

Mydei huffs out a small laugh.

“Of course, you all did,” he weakly says. “Though, are you certain Peucesta isn’t here for himself?” 

The bard must have heard from the small shout of ‘hey!’ directed towards them, but they ignore him. 

“We’re just here to get away,” Hephaestion affirms. “Just to fuel the rumors a little bit. We can always figure it out later.” 

“Who knows,” Leonnius suddenly speaks up, shrugging his shoulders. “You might grow an interest in someone here.” 

“I highly doubt that,” Perdikkas says. 

Mydeimos is about to say something when they are suddenly interrupted, a silky and sultry voice greeting them. 

“Esteemed guests.” 

They turn around to find a grey-haired woman with feline-like features, her eyes narrowing as she observes them — almost like a cat to mice — and it makes them mildly uncomfortable. There’s a smug grin on her face and her chiton is quite long, adorned with gold trimmings and the symbol of the Goldweaver. It was obvious to anyone this was not a courtesan, or just any woman, this was Cipher of the House of Trickery, the greedy owner of the brothel house. 

Her gaze pierces through Mydeimos’ form in amusement. 

“Little prince,” she drawls, bowing dramatically. “I take it that the rumors of your interest are true.”

“The legendary thief in the flesh?” Mydei mimics her tone, “Pleasure to meet you.” 

(“Woah,” Leonnius whispers to Ptolemy, “Is this some kind of power play?” 

Ptolemy stares at him with an exasperated look on his face.)

“This humble thief is only looking out for her patrons,” she says. “Please, my guests, you shall bathe in luxury tonight in our finest lounge.” 

(“I never get invited into the luxury lounge!” Peucesta whines to Perdikkas, scandalised. “Has the money I invested into this place gone to waste?” 

“So you do admit you spend money here,” Perdikkas sighs. 

“For the music! The wine!”) 

“Very well,” Mydeimos decides. “Lead us inside, thief.” 

—

Mydeimos and his group are brought to the lavish room through crimson curtains and sheer fabrics, the rich aroma of burning wax and perfume strong and prominent, and there are already complementary drinks on the table. 

“Nikador,” Peucesta groans as he sits down, letting the plush couch drown him. “This is what being buds with royalty gets you.”

Leonnius laughs, slapping him on the shoulder playfully, then taking a seat next to Ptolemy who crosses his legs and inspects the few cups on the table, golden and gleaming. 

Mydeimos finds the room quite nice, quieter than the main lounge, but the ambiance creates such a sensual atmosphere… he is unused to such things. Taking a seat in the middle where his friends left the space for him, he realises he hadn’t taken off his gauntlets when being dragged out the palace.

“We are glad it is to your satisfaction, esteemed guests,” Cipher purrs, taking a bottle with one hand, uncapping it with a single nail. “Do you have preferences, gentlemen?” 

“Oh, no,” Perdikkas quickly waves a hand. “We’re here just for him.” He points to Mydeimos, whose eyes widen. 

Traitors, he thinks, pettily scoffing. 

“My, then what do you wish for, your highness?” Cipher grins with a little bit of teeth. 

Mydei is about to say something along the lines of ‘I don’t care for such things’ until he pauses, his mother’s words echoing in his head, and the tales Peucesta had strung for him singing alongside those words. He feels their gazes, expecting as he ponders. 

“Bewitching,” Mydei decides to say. 

He is expected to be laughed at. 

Cipher only smirks, like she had foreseen this outcome, and snaps her fingers — the humble serving boy behind her bows and nears her as she whispers something in his ear, though he can make out only one word through her fervent mouth. 

(“Livia is free right now. Ask her to find Phainon while you collect beverages,” Cifera whispers in Cicero’s ear. 

“Then give it to the deliverer. Bring him here.”) 

The serving boy nods as he rushes through the curtains. 

“I have the perfect courtesan for you, your highness,” she says, clasping her palms together. “Is your circle adamant on not receiving some themselves?”

“Yes, thank you,” Perdikkas quickly says.

“I’m afraid to be hit if I say no,” Peucesta sighs. 

He gets smacked anyway, and the loud groan elicited causes a wave of laughter to surface. Mydeimos does not follow along, instead, he ponders over the word he had caught. Or, a name, rather. 

Deliverer, Mydeimos thinks. A courtesan name? 

He has heard the rumors surrounding the flowers of House Trickery; Grey Peony, Hand of Shadow, and many others above all. While he is not well versed in the world of escorts, especially in a house he has never stepped inside of until now, he has never heard of a Deliverer. 

He snaps out of the build up of thoughts when Leonnius laughs a little too loudly, one of his ears ringing.

“If it is not to your taste, then your prince may pick multiple, if he wishes,” Cipher offers, giddy and her eyes gleaming. 

“We have plenty of courtesans available,” she continues, hinting at the group to give in and enjoy themselves. “We are at your service.” 

“Don’t be shy, Mydeimos!” Peucesta rejoices, “Take your pick!” 

He can see Perdikkas, light-weight that he is, laugh alongside the bard — likely encouraged to take a sip, then another, and another, before falling face first into a puddle called ‘idiot.’ 

“Tonight’s your night,” Hephaestion reminds him, taking an amused sample of his own drink. “Don’t waste it.” 

Mydei snorts. “Bastards.” 

At that moment, the curtains at the entrance to the lounge open, and footsteps against the wooden floor echo as a man enters. He shifts his gaze from his friends to who has come in, and his breath hitches as he meets the man’s eyes. 

The courtesan’s sky eyes glowed underneath the flames of lit candles, creating a beautiful ombre of yellow and blue, as if a thousand stars were born underneath his gaze; it was like he was sinking into a sea of unknown, cold and vast, but his presence was almost scorching, like the sun, like Kephale themself had blessed him with eternal warmth. It is then that he realises his eyes had trailed down to the side of his neck, bearing the mark of a sun along his pale skin, his soft, almost white locks neat aside from the strayed strand in the middle. 

Mydeimos is not easily enthralled. 

But the escort in front of him, looking back with such a curious glint in his eyes, had so easily swayed his will. 

He catches the hectic movement behind Cipher, her hands signaling this ‘Deliverer’ to do something, then the courtesan steps forward and kneels down to fill the goblets on the tray. The scent of wine is pungent and strong, while it is not unpleasant, he cannot help but grimace at the idea of drinking — the last time he had consumed a glass, it was on his debut. 

“Your highness,” the Deliverer breathes, barely above a whisper, presenting the wine in the fancy golden goblet — albeit a different design from everyone else’s. 

“Come on, Mydeimos,” Leonnius slurs, playfully. “Don’t let the pretty boy’s hard work come to waste.” 

He scoffs, shaking his head at how rowdy his friends could get after a few drinks. “Hold your tongue.” 

Mydeimos takes the cup, his gauntlets brushing past the courtesan’s fingers, and he notices the way they are calloused and rough — likely from hours of strumming his instrument, and the evidence of the man’s hard work elicits something almost prideful in him, for some odd reason. 

He circles the liquid, watching the vermillion hue stain the gold, before sighing and taking a sip. 

Instead of the distasteful tang of fermented grape and its bitterness on his tongue, a burst of sweet juice floods his mouth, and raises a brow as it settles into his mind that this was not an alcoholic beverage — he was served pomegranate juice. It is obvious that he seems to be the only one to have been presented with the juice, if his circle’s drunken antics had anything else to say. 

He looks up to meet the courtesan’s gaze, and he catches the hitch of breath, quickly looking down to the floor anxiously.

Not many knew of Mydeimos’ dislike for alcoholic beverages, or bitter dishes and drinks in general, his own group often forgets when they are in the throes of celebration. Though, when they are sober, they often tease him for his sweet tooth. 

The fact that this escort has caught on… 

“Thief,” he says, and his friends who were laughing were now quieter, hushed in their voices. 

“Little prince,” Cipher sings delightfully, crossing her arms. “What is the matter?” 

He points his finger to the bewitching courtesan, whose eyes widen. 

“I want him,” Mydeimos declares.

He can hear the excited whispers, the scandalised gasps, the teasing calls of his name. Above all, he can hear the greed behind Cipher’s merriment. As he watches the escort about to speak — in that boy-ish, youthful voice — the brothel’s owner quickly steps in, interjecting. “He is quite the expensive courtesan, your highness,” she says, and he watches the panic on the courtesan’s face settle into a small, service smile.

He raises a brow. 

He could clearly buy the entire house, could he not? 

“Name your price.” He drinks from the goblet, maintaining eye contact with the pretty boy, making a show of it as the small flush on his face motivates him further. 

What in Nikador’s name am I doing? He thinks, for a second, but continues in his teasing. 

“Fifty million per night, your highness,” Cipher demands. 

(“Per night!” Peucesta gasps, whispering into Perdikkas’ ear. “Fifty million is Grey Peony and the Hand of Shadow’s price combined!” 

“So you do visit the courtesans here,” Perdikkas hiccups.) 

“Done,” Mydeimos says, throwing bags of golden coins onto the table, one of them tipping over and the few coins inside rolling out. 

Cipher cackles, eyes gleaming. “He will be ready for you in an hour, little prince!” 

With speed as quick as Zagreus, the pouches of gold are taken away and so is the courtesan, a surprised gasp elicited from his mouth as he’s carried off by the strange owner. 

The silence in the room stretches, Mydeimos taking small, tentative sips of his pomegranate juice — cough, wine, cough — then downing the entire thing, wiping his mouth with his gauntlet, ignoring the sharp metal against his skin. 

“Mydeimos,” Hephaestion speaks up. “Did you just buy a courtesan’s time?” 

The prince hums in response, placing the empty goblet down. 

“Fifty million!” Leonnius shouts, flailing his arms around as if he were drowning, perhaps he was after seeing the amount of gold the prince had carelessly thrown like pocket change. “Per night! Fifty million! Do you understand? Mill—” 

“We get it!” Ptolemy shoves a piece of buttered bread in Leonnius' screaming mouth, who promptly shuts up, chewing and enjoying the softness of it. 

“So many zeroes…” Perdikkas gulps. “Is that price not already greater than the house’s worth?” 

“I’ve never heard of a courtesan costing half a hundred million!” Peucesta says, “Grey Peony and the Hand of Shadow are only twenty-five million per night!” 

“His name is the Deliverer,” Mydeimos offers. “Rings a bell?” 

“None.” Peucesta replies, aghast. “Grey Peony’s contract got bought recently, that was fifty million.” 

“So his cost a night is the equivalent of a contract being bought,” Mydeimos concludes. 

“A famous one at that,” Leonnius says. “And you just bought it! Like a scammer’s wet dream!” 

“House of Trickery is too prestigious to scam customers.” Peucesta shakes his head. “But the fact that I am unaware of this courtesan is a little weird.” 

“I find it weirder that you know so much,” Ptolemy says, biting into his own piece of bread. 

Their gossip— ahem, productive conversation was interrupted when they hear a small creak to the entrance of the lounge, turning to find a petite, pretty brunette with her head down. 

“Your highness, would you like to wait in the lounge?” 

Before Mydeimos can respond, Peucesta does it for him. “He’ll stay a little longer here, could you call him over once the courtesan is ready?” 

“Of course, esteemed guest,” the girl says, nodding and bowing her head, then quietly exiting the lounge. 

“You are not going in there without training, young man,” Peucesta immediately says, snapping his neck to face him, and he winces a little at the brute force. “You barely know how to talk to a woman who isn’t your mother.” 

“Excuse me?” Mydeimos stutters, aghast. 

“I said what I said,” Peucesta huffs. “You’ll embarrass yourself the moment you walk into that room and fumble that pretty boy.” 

“Well then, how do you propose I talk to him?” Mydeimos scoffs. He did know how to talk to women, thank you very much, he was just uninterested in them most of the time. All the time. That didn’t mean he didn’t know how to speak with them! 

“I’ll teach you everything you need to know,” Peucesta cackles, eerily familiar, as he rubs his hands together evilly. 

“Oh dear,” Hephaestion mumbles. 

—

Mydeimos stands in front of the personal room, the closed wooden door designed with gold and more crimson curtains alongside it, Peucesta’s voice ringing in his ears as he takes a breath. 

(“A man with confidence is very sexy,” Peucesta says. “Walk in there like you own the place.” 

“I think he’ll do that anyway,” Ptolemy whispers.) 

Confidence, Mydeimos echoes. Taking the knob of the door and opening it. 

As soon as he steps inside the dimly-lit room, keeping his cool and his confidence at an all time high, he pauses in his ‘I’m the shit’ walk or whatever Peucesta called it as soon as his eyes lay on the Deliverer’s form; instead of the rags from before, he wore the shortest chiton with golden trimmings and purple accents, long, slender legs exposed and — and the thickest thighs he has ever seen in his life. Golden bangles, flowers adorned with gold atop his fluffy hair, an anklet on his bare feet — did he mention how much skin the man was showing? Because he was practically naked with how much he exposed. 

Castrum Kremnos took pride in showing their skin, their battle scars, and their tattoos. Mydeimos never deemed the exposure of skin as sexual, it would be hypocritical of him with half of his chest out. 

But the way the Deliverer wore his garments, perky pink nipples out and so… so much skin… 

It was nothing less than lewd. 

The bewitching beauty fumbles with his fingers, searching through the complementary drinks with anxious movements, taking out a non-alcoholic beverage in between his two palms. 

“Shall—” the Deliverer stutters, “shall I serve you, your highness?” 

Mydeimos blinks. 

(“If a bad bitch tells you to do something,” Peucesta says, and he is the most serious he has ever been, crouching in front of his circle of friends with his two hands on his knees. “Then you do it. No questions.” 

“None?”

“None.”) 

Mydeimos coughs into his fist, his gaze drifting down as he remembers the bard's words, then looking back up to meet the beauty’s curious expression.

“Very well,” he manages to say, walking towards the velvet couch and taking a seat next to the courtesan, who flusters at the distance. They are only centimetres away, and Mydeimos decides to lean back, making himself comfortable; manspreading and turning his head to face the flustered white-haired man, he takes the goblet off the table and offers it. 

“Go ahead.”

The beauty blinks, before unscrewing the cap of the bottle, then scooching a little closer to pour the drink. He looks down to find that it’s pomegranate juice, sweet, alluring, and tempting thighs—juice. Sweet, alluring juice. 

The silence is awkward, and Mydeimos feels far too rigid in his relaxing position. 

(“Initiate everything,” Peucesta says. “Guide them to allow them to know what your boundaries are.” 

“Is this dating advice or talking to bad bitches advice?” Leonnius raises his hand.

“It’s both.”) 

“Your name,” Mydeimos suddenly speaks. 

The Deliverer looks up, blinking cluelessly as he pauses his pouring. 

“Do you have one?” Mydeimos weakly adds. 

Do you have one? He smacks himself mentally, mocking his weak tone. Of course he has one. 

“Uhm,” the beauty mutters. “Phainon, your highness.” 

Mydeimos hums. “Phainon,” he mumbles. “It is a fitting name.” 

Phainon flushes a little, though not visible he can see the hue of pink on his cheeks, and he places the bottle back onto the table before his hands retreat to his lap above the heavenly thig— 

“Thank you, your highness,” Phainon laughs lightly. 

Mydeimos blinks, as if being taken out of a trance. “Right,” he tries. “You’re, uh, welcome.” 

(“If it’s still incredibly awkward,” Peucesta says, sighing. “Then just wallow in misery.” 

“What, no advice?” 

“Pray to Nikador that you’re manly enough.”) 

Nikador, Mydeimos wallows as advised. Have you truly abandoned me? 

“Well, uh,” Phainon speaks up. “How has your day been, your highness?” 

Mydeimos returns back on Amphoreus to stare at the Deliverer, nervously and fidgeting with the edge of his chiton, if he accidentally hitched his leg up it would expose more of his— 

“Fine,” Mydeimos chokes out, flabbergasted at his own depravity. Honestly, what was wrong with him today? He was nothing like his usual self. “I’ve been fine.” 

Alternatively, he isn’t too sure this is how conversations between courtesans and customers went, and the extremely awkward environment was definitely not helping his first time in a lounge with a pretty boy, who likely had plenty of experience. He felt like he was a new-born babe taking his first steps, waddling around. 

Mydeimos takes a small sip of the drink he was served. 

He stares down at the liquid in his goblet, while it was a similar colour to the pomegranate juice, it held a tanginess that was foreign to the typical taste of the juice. 

“Ah!” Phainon exclaims, noticing his observant gaze. “You seemed to have liked the pomegranate juice, so I took a mixed berry bottle for a change.” 

Mydeimos raises a brow, glancing at the courtesan, before taking another sip. “Mixed berry?” 

“Like raspberries and strawberries mixed in with the pomegranate,” Phainon answers. “It’s popular amongst the patrons who don’t drink.” 

The prince hums in response, allowing himself to indulge in the fresh taste that bursts on his tongue. If he didn’t know better, he would have mistaken the Deliverer’s skills for a serving boy. “You are aware I dislike wine?” He decides to ask, turning to face the courtesan, who tilts his head before realisation dawns on his face. 

“Ah!” Phainon exclaims again, before a hesitant expression settles. “Ah… Your highness…” 

“What?” Mydeimos glares. What was with the stalling? 

“Well, forgive me, your highness but you—you grimaced.” Phainon chuckles nervously. 

The prince blinks, before a hushed tint of pink flourished across his face, he coughs into his fist. “Was it that obvious?” 

“A little,” Phainon laughs behind his palm. “But wine is an acquired taste, my prince.” 

“You are insinuating I am far too young,” Mydeimos states, matter-of-factly. “Like a newborn babe.” 

“Alcohol is not an obligation, your highness.” Phainon shakes his head, taking the bottle once more and filling the goblet to the top, the prince watching in intrigue. “Neither is visiting a brothel. What brings you here, prince of Castrum Kremnos?” 

The deliverer relaxes, and words begin to flow smoothly, unlike the tense atmosphere from before. While both were still guarded, there was some sort of mutual understanding between the two. How they got that from mixed berry juice will forever remain a mystery, even to themselves. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Mydei huffs a light laugh, taking another sip of his drink, the flavour oddly addicting. 

“Well, I have an inkling.” Phainon grins. “But honestly? I’m a little clueless.” 

“It was a team effort,” Mydei decides to say. “A scheme to get me to relax, get away from my princely duties.” 

Phainon blinks. His lips thin into a line. 

“Speak your mind,” Mydeimos says. 

“Well,” Phainon hums. “Is a brothel house the first thing they thought of for… relaxation?” 

Mydeimos coughs, looking away. “Partly.” 

The first reason was to fuel rumors. He thinks, lamenting all his life choices up until now, the light judgement behind the Deliverer’s unsure gaze is almost more embarrassing than the sensual candles and the rose petals. 

“Partly,” Phainon echoes, a little unimpressed but more concerned. 

“Well,” Mydeimos huffs, “what would you do then, Deliverer?” 

Deliverer. Phainon feels a shiver down his spine at the way the prince’s rough voice enunciates the word, his gaze flickering to his own as he savours the taste of the concocted drink. 

The name is almost an endearment, or perhaps it is mocking, but it is what he is often called. The villagers had gone from calling him childish nicknames (much like Snowy or Phangry) to “Deliverer” simply because he had pulled out that card from his younger sister’s deck. Miss Cipher, however, had picked up on the name not because he was some sort of hero — but because she had him walking a good distance every few days for medicine. For labour. 

The way they call out to him is teasing, endearing, and light-hearted. 

But the way Mydeimos says his name is like… like he knows him. That he is carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. 

But that was a silly thought, wasn’t it?

Speak your mind. His voice echoes in his head. 

“Sparring,” Phainon suddenly says. “Reading a book… laying beneath the sun and the wheatfields.” 

“Sparring,” Mydeimos echoes, and he would’ve accused the man of mocking him. “You spar?”

“I used to,” Phainon chuckles. “I had a wooden sword for my thirteenth birthday. It was my entire world until… Well, growing up.”

“I see,” Mydeimos hums sympathetically, circling the juice in his goblet, tapping a foot lightly onto the floor. Truth be told, he didn’t know what to say. Whether his words would be deemed as advice or unhelpful comfort, he’s not entirely sure. He doesn’t know this man, his troubles and his world, nor does he plan to. Whatever a stranger says must not be much to him. 

But he’s itching to say something — to dispel the awkward silence. 

“I could teach you,” He blurts out. 

Phainon chokes on his spit. 

“Teach me?” The Deliverer laughs. “I doubt you would wish to mentor this lowly one, your highness.” 

“Fighting is not a privilege,” Mydeimos says, shaking his head. “It is what we do every day.” 

He takes a gulp of his drink before settling it down onto the table, wiping his mouth with his gauntlet, then standing up and looking around the sensually decorated room. When his eyes land on the door, shimmering gold and great in size, he shakes his head. While he was a paying customer and the prince, it would be far too odd to bring one of their prized courtesan’s outside. 

“Your highness?” Phainon calls out. 

Mydeimos ignores him, turning to find a window. This will do, he thinks. 

Before he takes a step to go ahead and open it, he pauses when remembering a very important detail. He turns right around to find the Deliverer completely lost, and his gaze drops down to his bare feet. 

This will not do, he decides. 

From the corner of his eye, he spots two pairs of complementary slippers, likely to slip into after a passionate night. He takes a pair in two strides, returning to kneel down in front of the pretty courtesan to slip on the shoes, and a red blush flushes all over his collarbone. 

“Ah—” Phainon mutters. “Do you not like feet?”

Mydeimos raises a brow. “What?” 

“Nothing.” 

The prince ignores the comment, taking his cloak off and wrapping it around the Deliverer. 

“Wh—” Phainon gasps, feeling himself lose his balance as he’s taken up in the air, his arms instinctively wrapping around the prince’s neck to stabilise himself. “Your highness!” He cries, completely aghast. What in the world is happening right now? 

“What?” Mydeimos repeats, turning with one arm full of a flustered courtesan —  it was almost embarrassing with how similar their builds were. 

“What are we about to do? Why are you carrying me?” 

“We’re about to spar,” Mydei answers, using his free hand to open the window, looking down to feel the cool breeze across his lion’s mane. The second floor of the establishment wasn’t too far up, so it was a safe landing, especially with cargo in his hands. 

“What?” Phainon gapes, looking down. “Can we not take the door like any normal person?!”

 “The thief would never allow me to,” Mydei counters. “Not without a price, at least.” 

“What, can the prince of Castrum Kremnos not afford it?” Phainon dares to scoff. 

Mydeimos merely raises a brow, planting a foot onto the window sill and getting ready to jump, then grins — razor sharp. “This is much more exhilarating, isn’t it?” 

“No it’s—not?!” Phainon screams as they jump off, clutching onto the prince’s bare neck, before the rush of air comes to a halt and the impact of hitting the ground causes his head to become a little dizzy. 

They stay still for a few seconds, before the prince decides to finally stand and help the courtesan down, guiding his slightly shaking form. Perhaps the adrenaline was too much. 

“Are you alright?” Mydeimos asks, concerned and a little bashful. (He might’ve been too excited, but he would never admit that himself.) 

“Yeah,” Phainon decides. “Are all princes as brash as yourself?” 

Mydeimos scoffs. “Do all courtesans have some sort of shrewd remark?” 

The prince turns to find a long, thick branch that’s light enough to carry. From the Deliverer’s looks, he can carry it with no trouble, so he passes the branch onto the courtesan — who manages to catch it in time with a small “woah!” 

“How much do you remember about duels?” Mydeimos presses the hilt of his gauntlets together. 

Phainon carefully inspects the branch with a confused look. “Enough to know I need a sword,” he laughs. 

“You don’t need a specific weapon,” Mydei says, turning around to allow the Deliverer to gaze upon his back. “Aim here. If you manage to hit my back with that branch, you win.” 

“Well, it seems a little unfair I’m stuck with this stick,” Phainon chuckles, scratching the back of his head. “Where do I aim again? Your—” 

Before Phainon can utter another useless word, a sudden gush of dust flies past him, and he feels a terrifying, brooding presence behind him — almost instantly, he turns with both of his hands gripping the branch, feeling the harsh texture against his calloused palms, allowing the stick to halt Mydeimos’ movement, stopping him mid-way through his punch. 

“I told you, weapons don’t matter.” Mydeimos laughs, carefree and loud, the most he has ever been. “It’s all instinct.” 

He lands another blow, Phainon quickly jumping back and dodging, panting as he feels the rush of adrenaline through his veins, his heart beginning to beat faster. 

“Prince!” Phainon laughs along, blocking another attack to his face. “You aren’t giving me any breathing room, huh?” 

Mydei doesn’t respond, instead, he continues to lift his fists and land fist after fist. 

Let’s see how well you do, Mydei thinks, panting. 

Against the undying. 

—

Phainon gasps, collapsing against the cold hard ground and letting go of the branch, taking a look at the burns and marks on his palms. The prince’s cloak beneath him manages to keep the Goldweaver’s precious garments clean, but sweat drips filthily down his bare chest, and he pants heavily as he succumbs to the heat. 

Mydeimos follows a similar state, laying next to him as he breathes through his nose. 

The duel had gone for almost an hour, more like years, and both were unable to rest for as long as their weak spots remained untouched. 

No one had won. 

And that had stumped Mydeimos, The Undying, that he was almost bested in what he knew best. 

Yet, nothing resembling envy nor hatred buried itself in his heart. An almost floaty, carefree feeling makes itself comfortable in his core, and he can’t breathe; the adrenaline, the pace, the way the man had managed to laugh whilst battling him. 

“Has our duel satiated your bloodlust, my prince?” Phainon turns, grinning. 

Mydei glances, still panting. “Hardly,” he manages to say. 

“Hardly!” Phainon laughs, boisterous and reverberating, throwing his head back in glee. “Shall we settle this once and for all then?” 

Before Mydeimos can respond with a quick-witted counter, they hear a pair of footsteps clacking against the floor behind the back wall of the brothel house, and find silhouettes of two escorts. Their breaths hitch at the same time, eyeing the two shadows behind the illuminated walls. 

“Snowy has been with the prince for over an hour,” Someone says, muffled by the barrier. “Do you think he’s okay?” 

“I think he’s more than okay,” Caelus, he recognises, replies suggestively. “He’ll be okay, he’s strong. Cipher told him about the safety rope.” 

“I hope so,” Castorice, he recognises as well, sighs. 

They both wait with bated breaths as they walk away, and they heave at the same time. Turning to find themselves looking at each other with the same expression, Phainon can’t help but let out another laugh, more muted than the last but it carried the same carelessness. 

“We should be going, my prince.” 

Mydeimos huffs, likely in agreement. 

—

The climb up isn’t too scary. 

Phainon’s experience in climbing only consists of trees during Aedes Elysiae’s anticipated spring, or when he and the rest of the village children climbed atop the trees during hide and seek. It helps that he’s holding the prince’s sturdy, broad back rather than doing the work himself. 

“How fun, I didn’t expect the prince of—” Phainon turns to remark, but immediately gasps and turns right around as fast as he could, feeling his skin heat up. 

He had caught Mydeimos in the middle of stripping his garments, and he could hear the rustle and unclasping of buttons, then the sloshing of water. The water, still steaming, was covered in rose petals, candles, and emitted a similar romantic aroma. 

Kephale, Phainon cries. What do I do in this situation? 

The prince being shirtless with his muscles and biceps greeting the world didn’t bother him as much, it was Kremnoan culture, a farmboy like himself could easily figure that out. But— but this was far too much. His quick glance had almost gone below the man’s waist, catching the cheeky glimpse of a v-line—Snap out of it! Customers are supposed to be perverted and desperate, not the courtesan!

“Are you not coming?” 

Such poor choice of words! Phainon yells. 

“I’d rather not, your highness,” He coughs awkwardly, fanning himself. Was it just him or was it getting hotter in here by the second? 

“Is the sweat and grime not uncomfortable?” Mydeimos scoffs, and before Phainon can retort a response, he feels a damp hand on his wrist and suddenly he’s pulled into the bath with a yelp — the skirt of his garments quickly becoming damp, and his face flushes with a deep hue of crimson red, but he won’t lie and say the fresh and fragrant water against his filthy skin wasn’t a good feeling. 

He shyly glances at the prince, who has his eyes closed while laying back against the edge of the bath, and the steam alongside the petals are enough to cover his… manhood. 

Phainon gulps, deciding that it was fine. The prince was a good person from the past hour they spent together, and was more interested in duels than him. Besides, Aglaea would kill him and Cipher if she saw the state of the chiton he was wearing. So, he slowly strips himself and places the garments aside, raising his leg up a bit from the water to remove the anklet. 

He hears a startled choke beside him as he places the anklet beside his garments, and he turns in alarm to find Mydeimos facing the other way with a hand hovering his flushed face. 

“Your highness,” Phainon calls. “Are you alright?” 

“Perfectly fine,” Mydeimos responds, albeit a little shaky. 

(As soon as Mydei opens his eyes, his eyes dart to the other side of the room as soon as his sight lands on exposed, wet, and pale skin.)

Phainon is about to interject when his gaze suddenly drifts to the prince’s strong back, adorned with tattoos, marked with fresh cuts and grazes from their little duel just a few minutes ago. Likely from the many attempts of hitting his lower back with the sharp tip of his branch. 

“Huh,” Phainon mumbles. “I did quite a number on you, didn’t I?” 

Instinctively, he traces his fingers over the wounds, hearing the hitch in Mydeimos’ breath. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Mydei says. “I have gone through worse.” 

Phainon hums in amusement, looking around to find— ah, there it is. He shifts a bit to lean forward towards a plant, picking off a thick leaf, then making quick work using his nails. While not ideal, it would have to work. 

Mydei raises a brow when he hears small shuffling behind him, but before he can turn to satiate his curiosity, he feels a cool gel-like texture against his back and wounds — he hisses quietly at the small burning sensation, but it settles when he realises the Deliverer is applying ointment. He turns to glance at the man, who’s completely focused, dabbing a slimy, clear gel with his fingers, in another hand he has a leaf from what seems to be the plant from the corner. 

“It’s aloe vera,” Phainon answers his unspoken questions. “It’s slimy but good to prevent infections, I plant some around here just in case.” 

“You seem well versed in this practise,” Mydei says, noticing the clean cuts off the leaf. “Do you do this often?” 

Phainon stiffens for a split second, it’s fast enough for him to believe he was imagining it, but the prince was no fool. 

“I have a younger sibling and a sick mother,” Phainon explains, softly. “I naturally picked it up.” 

Mydeimos blinks, turning away. “I see.” 

He cannot help but feel something is amiss. However, he has no time to linger on the idea before the Deliverer swiftly changes the topic. 

“So,” Phainon coughs, awkwardly. His eyes glance around the room to find anything to talk about, “Has our pass time satiated you, your highness? Surely, you’re less stressed now.” 

Mydei chuckles. “It was mediocre at best, Deliverer.” 

“Mediocre,” Phainon scoffs. “As if your back isn’t in a dire state right now. I practically demolished you.” 

“As if,” Mydei retorts, much like a kid, childishly. 

“Oh?” Phainon laughs in disbelief, “is that a promise for a next round then?” 

“There is no word for cowardice in the Kremnoan language,” Mydeimos huffs, amused. “Come find me when you can land a hit down here.” He points to his ‘weakness’ — his tenth thoracic vertebrae, at least, that’s what Phainon could remember. 

“You’re on, prince.” 

—

To say Mydeimos was pleasantly surprised would be an understatement. 

He hasn’t felt so alive in months. The scars, blood, and numerous roars of victory had never built up like this; fast, exciting, fun. The Deliverer, was not any lesser than a beauty, while his jeweled aquatic eyes were as radiant as Kephale themself, as if he wore a golden halo, he was so much more ethereal bathed in sweat, with a gleam of mischief in his eyes, and his hands wrapped around a weapon — laughing carefree, glowing underneath the moonlight, with every intent to kill him.

Alright, a little intense. 

But it was mere admiration for a fellow warrior, wasn’t it? 

Unfortunately, their little post-battle conversation in the baths was interrupted by one of the brothel workers; politely knocking and stepping inside to inform them their time together had exceeded the limit he had paid for, but she had flushed a dark red once her eyes landed on them, in the baths with bruises and scratches all over. 

She apologised profusely, leaving hurriedly with one last reminder, and slamming the door on them — much to their confusion, meeting each other’s unsure gazes with raised brows. 

“What was that about?” Mydeimos asks, slicking his hair back, before abruptly standing from the water and turning to find a towel. 

“I—I’m not too sure,” Phainon chuckles awkwardly, swerving his head to the opposite direction, thanking whichever deity was willing to listen to him that the steam was far too helpful in keeping the prince’s dignity to himself. 

“Hm,” Mydeimos hums, taking his garments and shaking his head to dry most of it. Phainon laughs to himself, the prince’s mannerisms were so much like a lion's. “You can stay longer, I presume. I will be taking my leave now.” 

Phainon blinks. 

“Oh—oh! Of course, your highness.” Phainon turns, facing the entrance as the man dresses himself as he walks. “I hope your stay was enjoyable?” 

Mydeimos pause in front of the door, before turning around with a smug smirk.

“The service was mediocre.” 

Phainon blinks again, before his jaw slackens and the prince has already left, leaving him by himself in the huge room. He scoffs in disbelief, but the light-heartedness behind it gives away his amusement. 

“Oh?” Phainon laughs in disbelief, “is that a promise for a next round then?” 

“There is no word for cowardice in the Kremnoan language,” Mydeimos huffs, amused. “Come find me when you can land a hit down here.”

“You’d best come and find me,” Phainon huffs, sinking down into the hot waters, and humming. 

He hadn’t been so relaxed in months. 

—

Murmurs and whispers roamed the brothel house’s halls as Mydeimos makes his way down to the extravagant lounge his people were relaxing in, likely drunk off their asses, drinking from the boredom of waiting for him. 

(“That’s the prince, isn’t it?” Someone murmurs, luckily out of the said-prince’s earshot. “The rumors must be true, then.” 

“Do you see his back and biceps? Kephale, someone ate him good.”)

As soon as Mydeimos enters the room, he is indeed met with the sight of a good half of his friends drunk off their asses. 

“Mydeimos!” Hephaestion cheerily greets, waving his hand. While his best friend was not one to easily fall for wine’s temptation, he seemed at least half as wasted as Peucesta — who started singing the national hymn of Kremnos backwards. “Finally, you’re here, did you enjoy your—”

“Holy mother of Kephale!” Leonnius screams, dropping his goblet down onto the table. He shakily points to the bruises and scratches on the prince, while still quite red, the ointment the Deliverer had quickly made helped the sting. 

“Oh, I don’t even have to ask,” Hephaestion laughs. “You really enjoyed yourself!” 

“No way,” Peucesta hiccups, halting his horrendous singing, wobbling on his feet and getting a good grip on an exasperated Perdikkas’ shoulders. “The little prince actually got laid.”

“Please, do not call me that,” Mydeimos deadpans. “And no, I did not lay with anybody.” 

“That’s what they all say,” Perdikkas rolls his eyes. Ptolemy snickers in the back, murmuring a soft “he’s right.”

“We were just talking,” Mydeimos argues. “Conversing like mature adults.” 

“What kind of conversation gets you scratches like that?” Leonnius scoffs. “In a brothel house, no less!” 

“We talked about hobbies,” Mydei answers easily. “We ended up jumping down the window and sparring for an hour.” 

“Yeah, sure, cause any person would ask a pretty courtesan to spar,” Hephaestion laughs, waving a dismissive hand, but he pauses after a split second when a thought occurs to him — Mydeimos is no ordinary person. He’s not just anybody. He’s a virgin prince who just recently turned of age, who’s only heard screams of terror across battlefields, and has never spoken to a woman other than his mother. He could barely flirt to save his life, and has zero knowledge on aspects of romance, let alone executing it. Besides the literal essence of it. 

“Oh my god,” Hephaestion whispers, mortified. “You asked a hot courtesan to spar.” 

“We conversed,” Mydeimos adds, exasperated. “And we bathed together.” As if that would help. 

“Laid and bathed!” Peucesta howls, because apparently drunken Peucesta had selective hearing —  not like he could hear the majority of the conversation.

—

After a good fifteen minutes of sinking himself into the baths, Phainon makes quick work of drying and making himself presentable, taking the garments and new ones given in the closet as a freebie. It probably had a use beyond that. Anyhow, he manages to fix up most of the room before leaving, heading down to the main lobby and into his apothecary corner. 

As he’s walking past a few lingering customers, he catches a few murmurs and gazes on him, and flushes a little, assuming it was because he was barefoot. 

(“That’s the courtesan, right? The Deliverer?” A man whispers to his entourage. “I thought he was a serving boy. Turns out, he’s a secret item menu.” 

“Prince Mydeimos must have been wild if he’s coming out like that.”) 

Phainon sighs in relief when he makes it to the apothecary corner, sitting down onto his most trusted comrade — his wooden stool. He shoves the garments somewhere, he doesn’t know, but his shoulders sag and he relaxes against the wall. 

Holy shit.

He just sparred with Prince Mydeimos. And it was incredible. 

He can’t remember the last time he picked up a sword, or swung something like he meant to, but he just did — and he felt so alive doing it, watching the prince pant and struggle, like he was a worthy opponent. 

The crown prince of Castrum Kremnos, wild blonde mane against the howling wind, a smug smirk carved onto the edge of his lips, his eyes glittering underneath the glow of the moon — sweating, carrying him, slicking his wet hair back… 

Okay, Phainon slaps his hands across his reddening face. That’s enough! 

If having a crush on the man wasn’t enough, now he was really deep in it. 

“What the fuck,” Phainon breathes, getting up from his initial position, then leaning against the table with a weak arm supporting the side of his head. He’s feeling a little dizzy, all of a sudden. “What the fuck,” Phainon repeats. 

How was he going to go home tonight and tell Cyrene that the prince of Kremnos mistook him for a courtesan, and he did actually become a fake courtesan for Cipher’s sake, but also not? Because he sparred with the prince instead of seducing him and feeding him cheese with pomegranate juice? Or, maybe he was flirting with the guy by fighting him? Then bathed with him? Almost got flashed? 

What the fuck? 

“Snowy,” Castorice enters the apothecary’s corner, looking around for the white-haired man, until she manages to catch sight of him from the corner of her eye. “Oh, there you—” She greets, but then something flickers in her eyes, and they drift down to his disheveled form; tussled hair that was barely maintained, bruises and handprints of a sharp gauntlet all over bare skin, and a hazy, almost sensual atmosphere surrounding him. Especially the lovesick-ness in his eyes. 

“Oh my Kephale,” Castorice mutters. 

“Hey, Cassie, did you find him ye—” Caelus walks in not long after, before screaming bloody murder as soon as his sight lands on the apothecary. 

“Holy shit, you got laid!” 

—

“Well? How did it go, Mydeimos?” Gorgo asks over dinner after a few days, looking across to her son expectedly. 

“Good,” Mydeimos responds. “He has accepted my courting.” 

And so begins, the most chaotic misunderstanding of Amphoreus.