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Chapter Text

It's a rainy day , he thinks uncharacteristically, glancing out the large arched windows. Watching dark grey skies cloud over, the trickle of persistent rain with distant strikes of lightning and roars of thunder, a chilly wind to accompany it. He quite liked the rain, finding it much more pleasant than the blazing sun. It gave him a reason to stay shut in his lab or his library, drowning in experiments and calculations with the sound of water hitting the roof, his only symphony. In the rare moments he finds peaceful sleep, the rain helped cool down his body, and kept his bed and pillows cold.

He can't find it in himself to like it now, and he hates that out of all the times it could coincide, it chose this.

His eye strays away from the window towards the floor-length mirror before him, observing what he has become with a tight unreadable expression.

Adorned like a doll to be admired, decorated like an ornament. More opulent than he has ever been in the past years he's lived. 

Anaxa has always been a beautiful man, even he knew that himself. A slender frame with graceful features that had men salivating at his beck and call. Women envy him, and even Aglaea had balked at the number of besotted suitors begging for even the touch of his hand or the stomp of his feet.

He just never imagined anyone would be crazy enough to try and successfully bait him into marriage. Nor could he swallow the fact that a perverted monster scammed him into a dress as well.

A beautiful mermaid gown dyed in a velvety smooth teal green with a deep v-neck covered in detailed lace woven in with crystals that were the same material as his detachable sleeves. In place of a traditional long veil was a long train attached to his shoulders to feature his back, free from obstruction. It is an absolute delight to the eyes that brought focus to his minty hair and two toned eye and eyepatch.

The maids - whose faces were covered by thick black veils - were meticulous when applying makeup to his face. Highlight his features in a gentle, almost doll-like light while hiding the accumulated eye bag over the years. Flushed cheeks and glossy lips, with just the slightest shadow for his eye to give off this feeling of vulnerability befitting his position and to soften his natural scowl.

When the Flame Reaver, who terrorized all of Amphoreus by bringing down city after city with relentless pursuit, sent his messengers, everyone braced themselves for a threat. Prepared to face the possible foray that may come their way. Instead, two shaky, clearly frightened masked individuals presented them a bargain . 

"Give me Anaxagoras of the Grove, and I'll leave your precious city alone." The letter stated plainly, blunt and straightforward it could mean nothing else. Everyone present slowly turned to look at him in horror, sick to their stomachs in anxiousness. Only Aglaea, who met his determined expression - her golden threads gently prodding at the skin of his face - had a look of understanding and acquiesced silently.

He'd thought he'd be dead by now, with his head offered in a silver platter for the Flame Reaver to gloat with. Spilling his blood on whatever throne that monster had, ripping his body limb by limb just like every other victim of his. Terrorizing his corpse with the vengeance of someone that has wronged him - he wonders if he did, because why would that one personally ask for him in exchange for peace? It was baffling how much he weighed in this exchange.

What he did not expect to be whisked away and adorned like a precious treasure, a doll. Only then he realized he may have underestimated the situation.

The doors of the room open, and another pair of maids - which he realizes, despite their veils, were different from the ones earlier - enter. "It is time, my lord." They say in unison, voices a blank slate like puppets than humans.

An ugly feeling of anxiousness bubbles in his still heart, churning his stomach uncomfortably. The feeling doubled when they knelt before him, reminding him of the state of his feet; no shoes, rid off his person as hastily as they did his clothes. One of them presented him with a nice set of high heels, decorated with an almost glass-like look that reflected light like rainbows against the walls. Two gems settled on each of them, square middle, shaped like a bird.

It was obvious that, more than aesthetic, the shoes were made so he'd be unable to run. Hell, even walking would be a pain in them. 

The other hands him a bouquet of fresh white and blue flowers; white lisianthus and chrysanthemums, blue forget-me-nots and hyacinth - his heart clenches as he remembered the cries of his young assistant, bright doe eyes glassy like cathedrals from the tears that flowed endless down her cheeks when he departed. 

Perhaps he should've been kinder and allowed himself to leave a few words of comfort and affection, but he had been worried each second that passed and didn't want to waste anymore time.

He wobbles on his first step when he stands, feeling pain on his ankles one second in. It is worse with the train, his shoulders bearing additional weight it forces him upright. The maids, expecting this, rush to support him by his arms - essentially trapping him further, feeling their fingers dig into his skin like shackles. Helping him, not because they cared, but to rush his steps. Dragging him - as gently as they could, at least - out of the room.

When he was first brought here, his one eye had been covered. Only now could he marvel at the large palace they were in. Large walls decorated with frames of gold and artifacts displayed like trophies. Paintings of history and fantasy alike the size of his room back in the Grove. It would've been fascinating, and he would've loved to have a good time to look at each of them if it weren't for the sense of impending doom that loomed over him like a guillotine.

He's led outside, passing through the garden of various healthy flowers and trees, while a fountain with the carving of the Titans stood in the middle. Passing be multiple gazebos and even a lake before he's brought in front of a chapel. By the entrance stood two heavy metal doors, tempered by time with subtle marks, and two carved wolves with ring door handles held by their fangs. 

Anaxa stumbles slightly as the maids abruptly let go of him to open the doors, catching himself last second with a pained wince as his ankle scratches on his shoes. The maids pay no mind, focusing on using their whole body weights to drag the doors open.

It's a slow process, the maids were unfortunately rather small in build to be put to this task. But he is grateful for it. In no world would he admit that he felt fear at this very moment, understanding those tales where brides ran away fleeing from their arranged marriages back in the day - he laughs at the fact that, indeed, most of them forgone shoes for better mobility. 

Yet he can't do that now. The fate of the Grove was in his hands. If he played his cards right, maybe he can come out unscathed of this confusing play the Flame Reaver was orchestrating. Running away when he already agreed would be irresponsible.

So, with a shuddering huff of pride, he steels himself. Gripping his bouquet tight and allowing the light from the inside to illuminate him.

The Flame Reaver stood at the very front besides a well dressed servant, patiently waiting. Still with that stupid looking hood on, but with more lavish robes, layered with gold, as well as the golden ridges that spread from his neck and towards his chest like some armor. A smug aura exuding him even with his face covered, back straight with his hands behind him casually. Anaxa has the urge to punch him, strangle him, kick him all at once out of spite. 

Patience, patience . He repeats to himself in a mantra just as the sound of a heavy bell rang the place - sounding eerily like an end, rather than a beginning. 

The maids assist him again, slower this time. Matching the tempo of the wedding march that began to play as he walked the long way down the long, blue carpet. What was supposed to be an exciting mendelssohn march sounding like an eerie funeral instead. Each of his steps heavier than the last, the sound of his heels clicking echoing his brain - even if he's sure that he's the only one who could hear it. Each speed up of the tempo catching up to his pounding heart, mixing the melody with his dilemma.

… at the very least, the chapel is beautiful, he bemused. For a palace belonging to a rather dark and brooding man, his home said otherwise. Bright, actually, is how he'll describe this place. Multi-colored stained glass depicting famous nature tourists spots in Amphoreus - his heart clenches when he spots his own ruined hometown at the very front, right beside the imagery of the Flame Reaver with his crown and sword, watching down on them.

When he's ¾'s down the aisle, the Flame Reaver suddenly begins to walk, probably losing his patience. Imposing figure stretching up, up, never ending; so very tall. The maids tremble in fear, halting so obviously even Anaxa had to grimace at the awkwardness. Their grip tightens on his arms, almost hiding behind him as the Flame Reaver comes closer and closer. As if Anaxa would be able to protect him, a twig compared to that massive bulk.

When the Flame Reaver stands before him, Anaxa curses the need to tilt his head high up - almost tilting even his back just to get a good view of the other man. He's about a mere half of him, his head aligning with the Flame Reaver's hip. Like this, it grotesquely seems that he was but a mere, inanimate doll rather than a living - ironic - being getting married off.

Those dark, clawed hands reached for him, palm open. His eyes narrowed. Was he… escorting him? Then again - haah - it is a wedding, and it is probably a custom he hasn't heard of. The maids are already taking the bouquet from him, allowing him to free his hands. Their eyes burn even if he can't see them, compelling him for the greater good to reach his left hand out slowly, placing it on top of the Flame Reaver's outstretched ones. 

Those hands can close around his face with no problem at all.

The moment he's balanced with the help of the Flame Reaver, the maids scurry away. Scampering to the side, where - Anaxa only notices now - a few more servants stood. They all wore veils over their heads, their uniforms the only way to know their position - some maids, a chef, a gardener, a head maid and a butler. 

By the time they reach the front, Anaxa's stomach protests tenfold with each breath he takes. Standing before the podium - made of gold, ridiculous - where a priest stood behind.

The priest, whose face was also covered by a veil, coughed into his fist before he began. Voice shaky, unsteady, a little too pitchy, indicating his nervousness. 

Just how many people did this man scare? Was this priest dragged here by force? Highly likely. Anaxa scoffs internally, unconsciously tightening his hold on the Flame Reaver's hand. Not even realizing that the other has strategically placed Anaxa a few inches to his front, only snapping back into it when a large hand drifts to his waist. Fingers already covering half his stomach, holding him there while his thumb traces the skin of his back.

The nerve of the man–

"We are gathered here today, on this joyous occasion, to witness the union between his Majesty and Lord Anaxagoras ." The priest says, gesturing to Anaxa and the Flame Reaver for the audience of a mere ten. A thick book with him, opening it to a certain page with the dexterity of a toddler. "It is an honor of mine to officiate this royal wedding before the eyes of the Titans. Long ago, when Amphoreus first came to be, forged land from the strong seas, the Goddess Cerces and–"

–and it goes on, and on, and on.

Were weddings always this long? Anaxa isn't sure. He's been to a few of his students' in the past but only for the reception to drop off his gifts and blessings,  not the actual ceremony. Even as a child, when his sister was alive, weddings rarely happened to anyone they knew. In Okhema, last he heard, weddings were simply signed papers handed to the officials who stood as witnesses.

"–and when the Black Tide–"

A shiver runs through his spine before it even happens: " Hurry it up ." The Flame Reaver says, voice low. Not a growl, not a snap, but an eerie calm threat. It is enough, and the priest outright swipes that huge book out of the podium and onto the floor, as if that was the cause for the Flame Reaver's ire.

"B-by the blessing of the Titans, these two are formally joined together by oath." The priest rushed, bowing and looking at them with uncertainty. "You may k-kiss Lord Anaxa, your Majesty."

To that Anaxa is rendered into fuming silence.

A kiss? A kiss?! Are they seriously proposing that now? There's not even a mouth to kiss in that mask! 

"That won't be necessary." He says, swatting the air dismissively. Only to feel a cold hand tilt his head up by the chin. Tearing out a sharp gasp as he instinctively swiped his arm, only for the Flame Reaver to skillfully block it, holding him by the wrist and gently - but firmly - putting it down. He thinks he hears the servants begin to panic, a small flurry of movement in the corner of his good eye. But he's unable to question it as he feels another tug on his chin.

As if he expected it, Anaxa wonders, narrowing his eyes. His earlier presumptions was right, the Flame Reaver's fingers alone were enough to cradle his face, daunting to keep close. Tilting his head up until his nape strained slightly, the tip of his claws grazing his cheek almost absent minded.

If he didn't know any better, he'd think the Flame Reaver was committing the sight of him to memory. 

He takes his turn to get a good look at the Flame Reaver. Golden ridges on his mask, crawling up towards his skull. Even this close he couldn't see where the mask started and ended, almost as if that was his permanent face. Truly an outer-worldly being, one that has transcended beyond mortality and morality.

From these clues, against the theories the others had, he'd guess that the Flame Reaver was a handsome man.

Those ridges begin to move, turning into liquid as it defies gravity and crawl upwards, the mask beneath rippling until a space is formed, revealing a glimpse of a mouth. 

Human.

How odd.

To his horror, that human mouth reveals a serpentine tongue. Long, thin at the tip and thicker at the base and in a dark shade of blue. Anaxa's whole body jolts, the hair on his skin rising. Because– no, there's no way that thing is …

But it is, when the Flame Reaver leans in, that monstrous tongue tracing at Anaxa's bottom lip. Not for permission, no, but as a warning. The scholar takes that warning seriously, trying to twist his face away and run anywhere else. Trying to fight off the firm grip on his face that lifts him off the ground, legs flailing like fish out of water. 

It is a useless fight, he knows. There's no way to fight a man twice his height with his scholarly strength, but by the heavens won't he go down without making it harder for the other man. He might as well irritate him enough for a quick death rather than this humiliation.

The Flame Reaver doesn't seem to care for his defiance, slicing Anaxa's lip with his fangs precisely. The sharp pain causes him to cry out, and that was all the beast needed to dive in. Wrapping his longer tongue around Anaxa's before plunging deeper, skipping any sort of formality and going past his uvula to slide down his esophagus. Causing him to choke, eye watering as his chest tightens.

Anaxa punches his fists frantically, leaning back as far as he could go, only for the Flame Reaver to follow and grasp his whole head with one hand. So unfair - this isn't a kiss, you filthy beast! This was ravenous, basically feasting on his mouth and stealing the air in his lungs. Every desperate inhale, every pained exhale, all taken by him.

Dots fill his vision, and there's white noise in his ears the longer it continues. Rolling his tongue over the roof of Anaxa's mouth, curling in before plunging again. He's certain the Flame Reaver is doing this just for fun, some sort of sick, twisted joy of his. Feeling Anaxa squirm feebly, reduced to something far weaker, reveling in his defeat to boost his ego.

When Anaxa surrenders, body too weak from lack of oxygen to do more than twitch, the Flame Reaver finally pulls back slowly. Dragging his tongue out, letting Anaxa feel it sliding out of his throat as he gurgles messily with drool spilling from his mouth. Trickling down the smooth column of his neck as he gasped, dazed and hazy, their tongues still connected by a long string of spit.

He's sure his face is no less humiliating. Feeling his consciousness waver just as the Flame Reaver's mask ripples again.

The last thing Anaxa sees are glowing sapphire eyes before he succumbs to dizziness and passes out.

Chapter Text

Anaxa rarely dreams.

But when he does it's the painful memories of his sister, Hypatia[1], happy and alive.

Back in their humble home, just enough for two, when things were so much easier and brighter in his eyes. The fields smelled fresh of wheat, with a subtle fruity scent from the nearby orchard belonging to a family friend. He remembers his sister would sometimes come home with a basket of grapes for them to turn into refreshing juice. Days where she'd drag a cart filled with fresh fruit, beaming with pride as she watched him devour them, making a mess on his face. She'd pinch his cheeks and gush, feeding him even more.

He dreams of the first time his sister helped him ride their dromas at age three, a beautiful blue variant with a scar over its left eye. Unafraid and trusting, Anaxa had been so increasingly restless in happiness she had to hold him still in her warm embrace. Wrapping him with her arms and kissing the crown of his head. Hypatia never scolded him, not really, couldn't find it in herself to raise her voice at her adorable brother whose eyes shined brighter than the sun in the sky or the stars at night.

He reminisces the first mecha he made, the first successful experiment, that flower she treasured–

–even in death, when he found her corpse by the foot of their ruined house curled over that useless flower like it's her life. Her expression, her eyes wide open in fear but dead. Even their dromases, each he could name and call to heart, all their corpses laid like flies around the fields he once ran around in. He never hated his blood, golden, when he saw his sister's red–

–he remembers their patched clothes, making sure to incorporate dromases designs onto his clothes even if it made her expression twitch at the clash of colors.

And then that day, when she accumulated enough money to send him to the Grove. Hypatia had wept happily, so relieved, when she first saw him in his uniform - one she sewed herself, because silk was expensive. He remembers her parting words: "Keep your head up high, Anaxa." She whispered, blessing him with a kiss to his forehead. "May the Titans look down upon you with favor."

Like clockwork they filter in, memories he treasured and kept locked behind a mask of insanity. Building up his squared shoulders and keeping his head held high. Her death, among many others - the few children that accepted his weird whims, the neighbors that spoiled him, the farmers that fed him into gluttony - was what built him  and made him what he is today. So he keeps them locked in his heart, allowing their beautiful memories to play out.

But this dream is different.

For one, he didn't wake up in his hay bed from childhood. 

Instead, when his eyes slowly opened, it was his reflection that greeted himself. The glowing sun outside - spring - shining inside the room and brightening his image. Dressed in a wedding gown so familiar, yet he couldn't place where, soft to the touch and beautiful. While his sister, bright and alive, stood behind him. Her hands over his shoulder, smiling so softly with teary eyes that she gracefully wiped away.

"Look at you, Anaxa." Hypatia praised gently, braiding his hair. Her face is flushed in a healthy way, and she doesn't look as thin and gaunt as he remembered her to be. The same smile, same soft-spoken voice, same scent; it is his sister, everything he's imagined her to be, had she survived the plagues. "I never imagined the day I'd watch you get married."

"I'd never imagined I'd get married." He responds honestly, meeting his own eyes in the mirror again. Rich and vibrant pink, not a hint of green, the same way they looked before he committed to dark practices and sacrificed his left eye.

His sister chuckles, decorating his hair with a dromas hair pin - at least, it was made of gold and could be mistaken as a common brooch from afar. "I've always known." She bemused, her hands finding purchase on his shoulders again as she looked at him. Her hold was warm and reassuring despite the internal dilemma he's facing, softening his tight expression. "You're far too captivating, Anaxa. Anyone would kill to have you."

A snort makes it way from the back of his throat, shaking his head. "I doubt it. There's no beauty worth killing, sister."

"But they would." Her eyes sparkle in mischief, blessing the crown of his head with a kiss. "He already has."

What?

The bells of the chapel ring, and his sister excitedly claps her hands. Followed by the sound of startled chirps and the frantic flutter of small wings. They bat quickly, granting him a simple glimpse before they're off and away from his windowsill as his sister gushes from beside him. "Oh, oh it's beginning!" 

She offers her hand. "Shall we go?"

He stares.

The hands presented before him lacked the callouses and scars she had from her humble job as a tamer. Years of persistent hard work roughing up her skin like sandpaper. What he sees before him are soft, nimble hands almost like his. Down to the similar shade of glossy, pale pink polish to give the illusion of healthy nails. It's as if she's never worked physical labor in her life, or at least had access to those expensive hand care and treatments provided in the main cities that cost a fortune a session.

Her hands, what he once loved for their warmth, now did nothing but pain him.

A dream. He repeats to himself, feeling it stab cruelly into his heart. This is just a dream.

Still he welcomes her melodic voice that calls to him: "Anaxa?" and he has to force the muscles of his face to contract a smile when he meets her face properly, not through the mirror. 

She's gorgeous. He wished she lived long for others to realize.

Anaxa's smile wavers as he takes her hand, trembling slightly. Deciding then that, no matter how bizarre this dream was, he will treasure it. "... let's go." He mutters, his voice equally weak as his will and heart. Whether or not she noticed, she didn't say a word. Simply escorting him out of the room and down the opulent halls of a vibrant and festive palace. Blinding him with the sun.

Even the halls were decorated with large tapestries spread out, hanging heavily on the walls with thick cord tassels. Flowers put into these large vases, taller than himself, and petals laying on the long red carpet. So extravagant, Anaxa is sure he isn't one to spend so carelessly even if his salary was above average. 

It is probably the idea of whoever it is he's getting married to, then. Throwing the shades of blues and greens tossed into the mix. 

A bubbly head of pastel pink and blue greets him, as well as a floating fat summon, his teaching assistant, waiting by the corridor with her body vibrating in place. "Ah, Professors!" Hyacine greets when she spots them in the corner of her eyes, skipping over to him, dressed in a periwinkle blue dress while Little Ica wore a similar colored tie. Her usual pigtails styled into a curled bun, with stray hairs framing her round face. "Just in time, the entourage will enter soon."

"Entourage?" He asks, tilting his head. "Of who?"

Both Hypatia and Hyacine laugh, as if the answer was the most obvious thing in the world. "My, Anaxa, you were so strict when planning, and now you forget?" His sister teased, pinching his cheeks. "Perhaps it's the wedding jitters. Hyacinthia, be a dear and remind him."

"Just two bridesmaids and groomsmen; Me and Castorice, Mydei and ■■■■■■■. Then the three flower girls; the Tribios. Little Ica here is the ring bearer. And of course, the maid of honor—" Hyacine gestures dramatically to his sister, wrists shaking to release energy. "—Professor Hypatia!"

His eyes widened, snapping his gaze towards Hypatia who was playing with Little Ica. Professor. He never imagined she'd be one, knowing she preferred animals to humans, with her hands and body busy at all times. 

Professor. Unwillingly warmth invades his heart with emotion, feeling a strong connection between them grow - even if he knew, subconsciously, that it was a just figment of his imagination. Conjured by his brain at his weakest moment when seeking comfort. He admires the mind's vast ability to procure the most bizarre things at random times, yet he can't help but wish he was incapable of it at this moment.

He sees Castorice wave her hand a few feet away, near the chapel's entrance. Taking note of her gloveless hands, one held by Trianne. Flesh to flesh, without the fear of her power disintegrating the little one. "Get over here!" She screams, smile so wide it reached her ears. He's never seen her smile so freely, so widely, always so demure and shy; and yet now it's as if she's experiencing the greatest joy in the world.. "The ceremony is about to begin!"

Hyacine claps her hands, squaring her shoulders with a determined nod of her head. "That's our cue. See you all at the altar." 

Hypatia is equally excited, guiding his gloved hand to her arm. "Let's go." She says softly, leading him behind the three little red-heads who praise his beauty. Dressed in adorable shades of pink, with a green sprout hair clip on top of their heads. Contrasting the pastel looking theme to look like little berries.

"Looking funny there." He smirks down at them.

Trianne huffs, held back by the other two while Tribbie whines. "Be grateful we complied because it's your wedding!"

"You made us look like berries." Trianne grunts, gesturing dramatically at the rhinestones sprinkled to look like seeds on her skirt. "Look at me, out of all things, strawberry?"

Trinnon mutters sulkily: "At least you're a strawberry… I don't even know what fruit I am."

Tribbie laughs: "I'm a cranberry."

"You all look sweet." Hypatia chuckles, inadvertently covering Anaxa from the sulking Tribios before they could pounce. "Anaxa just wants everyone to know that."

Anaxa, in fact, wasn't sure if he wanted that to happen. Probably, since his fanciful mind created this image. Then again, the vibrant shade of their hair did remind him of fruit. He just never connected the dots together consciously until now.

The band starts to play the march, and everyone takes their position. The three red heads immediately facing forward, clutching their baskets with resolution. Smiles return to their little faces as they excitedly prepare the petals.

And, as if he were hit by an alarm, he remembers.

Like a cord snapped into two, memories come rushing back in. The messengers, the looks his comrades gave him, the wedding…

He remembers the Flame Reaver, with all his impatience and dominance. Lacking any sort of humane care for his feeble body when he devoured his mouth with the same savageness one would do in a carnage. There's still the taste of him in his mouth, that odd bitter blend like medicine lingering, and he gags. The feeling of it in his throat, too, spurs an instinctive flutter to his throat as it closes up.

The realization of why he was dreaming this kind of scenario washes over and drowns him all at once.

Everyone begins their part, entering one by one while he suffers the tortures of his mind. Hearing the heavy doors open and close for each entrance from the entourage. The three little ones are the only ones close enough to notice besides his sister, but they shrug it off and enter the cathedral at their que. 

When it is his turn - he curses how fast the pacing is - his sister holds him steady. Acting as the great support she is as the doors re-open to let them in. He couldn't even marvel at the large number of guests left in awe, too focused on trying to get air back in his lungs with each subconscious step of his foot. Dragging it like a heavy led, his shoulders rising into a defensive position.

Nobody seems to notice, at least, as far as he's seen they're all drowning in the ambiance of the occasion rather than him himself. Only his sister who was close enough feels and hears his uneven breathing, and she frowns in worry.

"If you're nervous, just look up ahead." Hypatia advised kindly, guiding him by the chin to face forward. Letting his cold, pale face warm up on the tip of her hand. "I'm sure you'll relax once he meets your eyes." But Anaxa doesn't want to, because he doesn't think he'd survive seeing the Flame Reaver by the altar again. Yet he's lost complete control over himself, and his eyes unwilling move to stare up ahead. 

The first thing he noticed by the altar was Aglaea, who stood dead center behind the podium with two garment makers beside her. Nodding to him once, a rare and faint smile on her face before she glanced at the person nearest to her.

His heart feels as if it would stop then and there.

Because at the altar stood Phainon, his former student.

Phainon, with all that white, bright hair like the fresh layer of snow. With his eyes so bright it could blind.

Phainon, who died during the Black Tide; the Flame Reaver's invasion, fighting the front lines of a weaker town on the outskirts of Janusopolis. He remembers it clearly, the day soldiers from Okhema requested him to identify Phainon amongst the sea of corpses as his confidence, since Phainon had long lost his family. It had been hard, painfully so, the cries of despair and grief ringing in his ears as he scanned every single one of them. There were children, fathers, wives, dear friends, favored neighbors; all of the survivors were wailing as they clutched what remained of the dead's body, a part of them dying with them.

Anaxa wasn't granted the same treatment.

Not a sight of white hair, not a sight of that puppy face. Only his fractured sword that was pierced onto the blood stained ground was left behind. No body to bury.

Anaxa had mourned then, just as much as he mourned his sister. Kneeling and praying to the unknown with the blade in his hands, gripping so tightly golden blood spilled. Later, he would keep the same sword in his lab, safe to this day. Taking it out daily to clean it, making sure it stays in meticulous condition for something broken. The closest thing to a burial tomb they had.

He never felt so helpless, watching one of the brightest stars of his world fade to nothingness.

Sometimes he'd stare and speak to it, as if it was Phainon himself who'd reply back with that familiar cheeky yet genuine tone. Whispering softly, echoing his name over and over hopelessly. Wondering if he's alive somewhere, if he'll just come barging into Anaxa's office and surprise him as always, uncaring of the hinges and office hours. He'd show up because he felt like it or because he was bored. Perhaps Anaxa will make Phainon repeat another year for scaring him and to make sure he stays somewhere within his life of sight safe . Have him write thousands of essays regarding self-preservation and care, all while making sure he isn't out there being a self-sacrificing hero. He'd flick Phainon's forehead at least a hundred times a day, until a mark of promise scars over the skin as a reminder.

Castorice and Hyacine dropped by when they could, silent as they stared beyond the glass, imagining their friend holding the weapon instead of it being encased for eternity. Imagining that one day they'd come and be greeted by his loud laugh and wide smile, with his arms thrown around their shoulders. Only to be disappointed every single time. There were no words needed to console themselves after losing a dear friend.

So, he supposed it's only natural for his brain to concoct some crazy fantasy. Some sort of coping mechanism. He just can't wrap his head around the fact that it's this kind of setting. An ugly feeling of guilt begins to churn in his stomach, and he can't help but feel faint.

"There must be some kind of mistake." He laughs awkwardly, trying to step back. But Hypatia holds firm, her hand to his back as she guides him as she always does whenever he falters as a child. The others notice too, those by the front row - his closest. Castorice is fidgeting with worry, supported by Mydei and Cipher. The tribios were whispering frantically amongst each other, trying to ask Hyacine who was just as lost.

"You're alright. I told you, deep breaths." Hypatia whispers, rubbing her hand on his back in an attempt to comfort him. 

No, no breathing exercise would save me from this.

His heart races, and he can feel the stone lodged in his throat settle painfully in his lungs as it becomes a challenge to breathe. Focusing all his attention to his feet, wanting to run away from this nightmare.

Unlike any of his other dreams, however, it seems he has no control over this one. A familiar feeling of helplessness crawls up his spine as he finds himself facing his groom, involuntarily lifting his head up to meet those gorgeous blue eyes that sparkled with so much genuine emotion. How he wishes to tear his own head off his body to wretch his eyes away, to stop this nightmare or turn it into something, anything else.

When he speaks, a wave of unwanted nostalgia whisks his crumbling composure away. That same face he wore whenever he caught Anaxa without sleep, or whenever he caused another explosion in his lab and exited with burnt ends in his air and smudged dirt on his cheeks. A crease between his brows, biting the inside of his right cheek, two slow synchronized blinks of his eyes. The same, trembling exhale of his breath when he carefully chooses what to say, mindful and conscious of everyone's feelings. Too familiar, too real.

They all rush in, unwanted and unprompted, burning like hot iron in his brain. It's so painfully intimate, something he'd grown to actually love to have until it was forcefully ripped away from him; like many things he had, anything and anyone he loved beyond himself, gone by a mere wisp of the wind without him by their sides. Taken from his grasp even as he dug his nails and teeth deep, not even if he begged and debased himself. No amount of mourning or preparation would ever mold his heart into stone to face this. No amount of face or mask–he just can't.

"Professor—"

He shakes his head, desperate, choking, begging, even. Anything to get it out of his mind. "No–no–you can't do this to me." The harsh hiss he lets out scratches behind his teeth, taking deep, raw huffs of air that rattle his organs. Quaking from within, threatening to bowl over and implode everywhere like the fractures of his heart.

Phainon's concerned countenance turns troubled, anxious. Adorning that familiar droopy face reminiscent of a kicked puppy that he always fell for, the face that got him away from any sort of serious trouble because Anaxa was just that weak to his whims. Again, again, again - everything reminding him of what's turned to ashes. 

From his peripheral vision, he sees Phainon reach his hand out; scarred and filled with callouses, free of gloves. Reaching to cup his face with what's supposed to be gentle affection. "Are you alright?" 

His touch burns.

Anaxa screams, a terrifying cry, clutching his head and ducking down to curl in on himself. Ignoring the growing panic in the crowd as the murmurs begin to grow louder. And yet, despite all that clamor, his ears detect Phainon's instantly. Feeling his bulk cover Anaxa's trembling form on the floor, arms around his shoulders and hiding him from prying eyes. Distantly, he can hear his sister and Hyacine, trying to get to him with the subtle pulse of her healing power. Chaos descends the ceremony, watching as he breaks apart like never before. Crumbling at their feet pathetically, sobbing uncontrollably. A sight no one ever imagined, incapable of thinking he'd fall so low in grief.

But Phainon is still surrounding him, his arms, his body, his touch. He's been burned once, crucified with chaines for the people to mock and laugh about. He's torn his chest apart for experiments, has stabbed his own eye without any sort of anesthetic, has carved ancient runes into his skin and engraved infused gem into his limbs. He's gone beyond what is moral to his own body, has done what others would never even dare to think.

Even so, it is Phainon's touch - not even the real him, but a fabrication of him - that felt like the most raw and painful thing he's ever experienced.

"Anaxa." Phainon coos, taking him into his arms and resting his chin on top of Anaxa's head. Doin his best to comfort and shield him. "You're alright, we're here. It's ok.

But it's not. He seethed, biting his lips until it bled. Not even the pain could wake him up. 

Please wake him up.

Phainon murmurs softly, pressing a kiss against his crown. "Anaxa, anaxa, anaxa, ana–...a– "

"–a…"

"–axa.."

"–Anaxagoras."

Anaxa jolts awake, eye snapping open and an almost pained gasp tearing from his throat. The lingering panic sends him reeling, clutching his chest in agony as that dreadful memory refuses to leave his mind, stubbornly engraved like some sick joke. Phainon's searing touch, that still lingered on his body, began to ebb away slowly. Replaced, however, by the immense feeling of dread.

The first thing he sees is that horrible mask that caused his nightmares in the first place, peering so close to him from above. The same voice that roused him awake.

"... you've awakened."

That was all he needed as a reminder, and his body sprung up instantly to crawl back and away until his back hit the headboard, his breath hitching at the blunt pain. The Flame Reaver doesn't follow, instead, he calmly sits on the edge of the bed, keeping a close… eye…s? He isn't sure what counts as eyes when he perpetually wore such a cover. But its gaze is locked on him, that's for sure, with an eerily still and precise focus.

A gaze so heavy and burdening, Anaxa just has to look away. Only to freeze when he realizes his situation.

He's been moved to a bedroom, obviously the Flame Reaver's from how luxurious it was. The bed alone, not just a simple canopy, but covered with thick jacquard with silk threads. The sheets layered cotton and velvet, with feather soft pillows the size of his body. Cool to the touch, compatible with sensitive skin. Don't get him started with his surroundings, almost every piece of furniture - even something as simple as a lamp, of all things - gaudy in gold. Not even Aglaea, richest amongst the Chrysos heirs, was this spendthrift with her trademark color.

His heart pricks, and he clutches it for support– why did his hands just meet bare skin?

Quickly, he drags his sight downward, taking a second to even realize that he's not just top less, but outright naked with nothing covering him. Every inch of his skin out in the open, from his shoulders to his toes, being stared at shamelessly by the Flame Reaver who hasn't moved his head a inch. Now that he realizes just how utterly defenseless he is, how shameful he looks when he's used to wearing layer after layer, his pale body turns a bright red. 

"Tsk!" He grabs at the blanket, pulling it upward and wrapping it around his shoulders. Glaring harshly at the Flame Reaver, shaking. 

"I've not touched you, if that is what you fear." The pervert says, shrugging nonchalantly. For a second, it seems like he wants to move closer, leaning forward an inch, before thinking twice about it and leaning back to rest on a hand instead. "You may check on your person, but I hadn't gone beyond carrying you to our chambers."

He does as told, peeking under the blanket. There were no foreign marks on his body, nor were there any traces of unsavory business. Beyond his aching ankles, which were the result of his heels, he would say he feels physically fine. 

That doesn't change the fact that he's butt naked though.

He clutches the blanket tighter, wanting to speak and demand only to end up coughing at the end and hunching over to heave, his voice still dry and raw. It feels like any sort of moisture has evaporated from his body, and his throat feels like sandpaper everytime he tries to talk. As if he'd been screaming - but he was sure he wasn't, only in his dreams, he was never one to sleep talk or anything.

The bed dips closer to him, and soon, he can feel someone closing in. He doesn't argue when the Flame Reaver encloses his large hand around his waist to pull, forcing him to sit upright and lean Anaxa's back against his chest as a glass is placed against his mouth. Tilting it upwards, allowing it to flow in naturally as he takes steady gulps of cool refreshing liquid. Gulping each mouthful gently, yet desperately, only slowing down when he feels the hand on his waist tighten warningly.

It helps, albeit slightly, because there's still this pressure in his chest that throbs rhythmically. And he's getting increasingly irritated by the fact that his body - still naked here! - was leaning against the Flame Reaver's clothed one. Like this, the size difference becomes so obvious it's painful - large, almost hulking muscles versus his own scrawny one with ribs threatening to poke out.

With his bearings finally returning, so does that mortification. "Where are my clothes?" 

The Flame Reaver hums deeply, a rough sound, before he hands something to Anaxa by his foot. 

"These are your clothes." He hears the man reply, a humorous hint to his words. It fills Anaxa with thus dreadful premonition, proven correct when he hastily grabs at the article of clothing only to see his hand through the fabric. Gawking, alarmed and frantic, he checks out the other options he was given. All of them were smooth and nice to the touch and would be heavenly to wear, that was for sure, but they were all also sheer . 

His face turns into fuming red flames.

Those flimsy things would barely pass for scrap fabric! Not even the most shameless back in the baths of Okhema would wear such things!

He grabs them, gripping it so tight it could break, and throwing it at the Flame Reaver's face as an act of defiance and rebellion. Not bothering to think about the consequences of angering a powerful being, not when his pride is at stake. Anaxa would rather die with dignity than this form of harassment. "I can't wear these, it isn't enough." 

The Flame Reaver doesn't even dodge, letting the clothes fall onto his lap before folding them back up again with the patience of a saint, how ironic. "Summer is upon us. You needn't have so many layers." 

"These aren't layers." Anaxa scoffs, avoiding them when it's returned to his side like a pest. Moving to the other side of the headboard.  "These are barely anything . Thinner than undergarments."

"Do not fret." That calmness was starting to grate his nerves, increasing by the second as the Flame Reaver hovers like an owner chasing its disobedient pet that refuses to wear its shoes. "These are your indoor clothes, for our room alone. All your outdoor clothes are already in your closet next door. You can check on them tomorrow if you wish."

"What about my old clothes?"

"I've had those tailored to fit you anew. Though beautiful, I believe it could be better."

His old clothes were something he wouldn't let go of. The very first set he had tailored to fit his preferences - at the time, from Aglaea, when they hadn't started their immature feud against each other - after he got his first paycheck as a scholar. It held such sentimental value, a proof that he was going on the right track to independence. His eyes lowered in agony. "I want those back."

A hand grabs his shoulders, eliciting a surprised shriek before skillful hands force a relatively decent - compared to the other choices at least -  but short sleeveless sundress onto him. Securing the zipper and only letting go once he's certain Anaxa won't take it off. He still doesn't have the freedom of underwear, but the length of the skirt covers it… barely.

Pervert²

The Flame Reaver leans back. "They will not be different , I assure you. It will simply look as if you had just bought it when returned to you."

Before Anaxa can rven rebutt, a scathing remark already on the tip of his tongue, comes a timorous knock on from the door. He turns while the Flame Reaver heads towards it, opening it only slightly so that Anaxa wouldn't see the hallways and could only get a glimpse of the nearby flickering lamps.

A terrified voice of a girl responds to the Flame Reaver. "■■■■ ■■■■■■■, ■'■■ ■■■■■■■ ■■■■■■[2]." She squeaks in a foreign language, to which the Flame Reaver responds to wordlessly.

A language he recognized… Aedes … 

Phainon spoke his mother tongue often, afraid that he would forget with no one else to talk to. Muttering under his breath when he studied or practiced for debates, when he sang lullabies to the children of the Grove, obvious curses when he stubbed his toe or hit his knee at a corner. It was such a pleasant thing to hear, for the language was of a slower pace with a slightly higher tone used to emphasize vowels.

Although he never actually taught anyone else to speak the language - for reasons Anaxa never asked, allowing Phainon a choice. 

To think it still existed… He had completely believed Phainon when he said he was the last to know the language, and that it died along with him.

He snaps out of his trance when the bed dips as the Flame Reaver approaches, sitting beside him, in his hand a charcuterie board filled to the brim that threatens to topple over. Anaxa frowns when a hand shoots towards his face, pressed against his lips and backed against the bed frame. His lips press firm, more of a pavlovian response than a conscious thought. 

The other man doesn't relent, simply humming and sitting closer until Anaxa's feet are propped on his lap.

"You must eat. Your body is weak; vulnerable. You would not survive the snow season once it comes." The Flame Reaver gruffs, thumbing Anaxa's bottom lip until it obediently falls open. With his other hand he places a piece of grape, cool to the touch, and rolls it inside. Keeping his hand firm on Anaxa's lip until he begins to chew hesitantly.

It has such a sweet taste, as if freshly plucked from the source. The thin skin was soft, without that tough texture that was hard to chew and swallow. He can't help but eat a little faster, savoring the taste reminiscent of home. 

When he is done, swallowing it all down, he's met with another directly pressed against his mouth. "Again." The Flame Reaver replies to his quirked brow, simply pressing the fruit inside until Anaxa complies and accepts that, too. This one is a bit sour, but has more juice when he bites down on its flesh, with a tangy aftertaste. Mixing quite nicely with the remaining flavor of the first grape until he swallows it down.

The uncomfortable silence continues like this, with only the sounds of his chewing heard - by him mostly. Each time he tries to speak, opening his mouth after swallowing, the Flame Reaver would simply plop another piece from the charcuterie into his mouth and press his thumb against his lips to silence him, waiting until he chewed slowly and swallowed it down. Each piece of cheese, fruit, slice of ham, and chip hand fed to him with earnest effort. 

From time to time, that large thumb would graze his lips under the pretense for wiping something off. But Anaxa isn't stupid, and he knows what those lingering touches meant. If not for the grazing touched against his lips, then the hand on his waist that perpetually squeezed at his hips were another sign.

Anaxa tried reaching for one himself, embarrassed at being babied, only for claws to graze his arms and guide it back down to his sides. Looking up to meet the Flame Reaver shaking his head wordlessly before feeding him another piece, waving it as you would towards a stubborn child.

Indeed.

Fucking pervert³

Anaxa snarls under his breath as a mocking smile takes over his face. "Aren't you going to eat?" It was meant as an insult in ways he didn't understand either. All he knew is that he wanted to get a rise out of the man and - hopefully - get killed in the crossfire he's created.

But lo and behold, against all odds, the Flame Reaver remains patient. 

"I've eaten earlier while you were asleep."

Voice not rising, no sign of aggression from his actions - beyond what was latent - or snapping at Anaxa. The gruffness of his voice that was more akin to growling had mellowed out into a deep octave instead. Showing just how much calm he is internally, as one would do when secure. He's far surpassed the people back in Okhema, those whose anger delighted Anaxa like some narcotic. Their hatred fueled him, pushed him to do better and prove every single one of them wrong to revel in their fuming, ugly faces amidst his laughs of victory. He'd done it many times, and truly, he'd do it all again in a heartbeat.

The fact that the Flame Reaver is far more tolerant was so absurd, and Anaxa feels flighty insulted.

If he won't get mad at scathing remarks and double meanings, then perhaps he'd get mad at stuff that are straightforward. "... why did you marry me?" Anaxa challenged more than asked, a feeling of satisfaction blooming when the Flame Reaver freezes slightly, the board faltering slightly.

He's had time to compile his theories. Ranked first, the likelihood that the Flame Reaver wanted to humiliate him. Such things weren't uncommon, since Amphoreus actually held high regard for marriage being made of two love requited individuals - thus, arranged marriages or marriages for convenience were frowned upon and could even be brought to court for. The parents of the Prince of Castrum Kremnos was proof of that, no matter how bloody their courtship may look like to other cities. 

But of course, this tradition was borne from the Titan of reason; Cerces, and the Titan of Love and Beauty. A fellow non-believer like the Flame Reaver won't adhere to such standards if it only meant imitating the Titans.

Ranked second, control over the Grove through ransom. Although he doubts he amounts to anything in the eyes of the population, the fact that he is closest to those in higher position - Hyacine and Castorice, whose powers triumph - could be a factor the Flame Reaver considered when choosing his scapegoat.

Ranked third… The Flame Reaver could just be bored out of his wits after too many successes and wanted a challenge. Who else than the heretic, who viewed the gods in an almost dissimilar way the Flame Reaver did? It wouldn't be the first time someone wanted to strip him bare of his persona and reduce him to fragments of himself.

But Anaxa will make sure, that like all others that have tried, the Flame Reaver will not win.

Slowly, he watches as the other man sighs heavily. Like a burden has been lifted off his shoulders, but not in a relieving way. As if it's a truth that would set him free, but forced out of his mouth. The Flame Reaver places down the board, tracing the curved edge slightly as he spoke in a tone used for meaningless iddles. "I've heard the rumors, Anaxa. They speak of the recluse and abhorrent sage that questioned the gods. They say your name with poison, and drip it with mal-intent."  

… so you married me for pity? That doesn't sound like the Flame Reaver at all. Would a man that went on killing sprees for fun do pity ? Doubt. It's not like Anaxa hasn't heard those words spat into his face directly or sent through anonymous mail. And although he wouldn't say he wasn't affected, he would boldly declare it had not dented a fraction of his ego and mental state. Whatever was wrong with him long existed before anyone pointed it out.

"And yet, in the same breath, they praise your beauty, your intellect, your cunning mind. Never have I heard such flowery sweet words from the mouths of the fools." The board he held was suddenly crushed under his grip, the wood creaking pitifully before breaking into splinters under his grasp. Anaxa watches on, unflinching and unmoving.

Yeah, because people are always weak towards pretty faces .

There was no secret to his beauty, it didn't escape him, despite how many of his students had believed otherwise. There have been times he's used it to his advantage when hoarding precious materials, so to say he blind to his own visage would be a lie. The so called flowery sweet words the Flame reaver referred to were most likely slut shaming from countless people he rejected since studying up until working. 

"They hate that they desire you, they hate that they'll never amount anything to you…" The Flame Reaver lifts his gaze to stare out the window across like some sort of woeful protagonist Anaxa has read as a pastime. His  voice lowers, a reverberating timber. "... but I can." 

Anaxa's eyebrows scrunch up, feeling a bitter taste in his tongue at the audacity. 

"So I am a glorified pet ?" Anaxa spats, a hint of self depreciation lacing his words. Because truthfully, it stung. From one of the most famous - for all the bad reasons - of the scholars to a mutt–

Everything happened too fast.

The thought hadn't even been properly processed before he felt his back hit the bed harshly with a spontaneous grunt forced out of his chest from the sudden pressure. Before he could even open his eye or sit up, something held his wrists down firmly, pushing them down above his head while his hips were straddled as his legs flailed. His eye snaps open when he feels warmth near his face, the close proximity sending him reeling. 

One moment the Flame Reaver was across him, a good few feet away, and the next second he's towered over again .

Then comes the wave of anger radiating like poison from the Flame Reaver crashing down like debris. Not just any sort; pure loathing that stemmed from deep rooted hatred, a seed that had grown, not one that had emerged recently, no. Anaxa is all too familiar with this kind of hostility. 

The telltale signs, however, do not gravitate towards him like knives raining down from the sky. Instead, it envelops. Wrapping him in a repressive state, cocooning him inside a warped version of a shield.

"Make no mistake, you are my spouse. By title, my wife . You are not a hostage, much less a pet . We have married with the mass as our witness and a legal binding contract." His free hands wraps Anaxa's entire torso, the claw of his pointer finger dangerously close to his neck, pressing just slightly to feel the prickling piercing pain. Shivers rush through his body, trying to free himself only for his claws to sink into the skin of his back, just shy of making him bleed, simply making sure he stays put . Should he move even a fraction, his clothes - thin and delicate - would tear and he'd end up with bleeding scratches. There is no question that the Flame Reaver can kill him then and there, crushing his skull without much effort. 

Anax doesn't like the idea of dying in a dress without undergarments. 

The Flame Reaver continues, leaning closer until all Amaxa could see is his feeble, pathetic expression reflecting the moist collecting on the Flame Reaver's mask from his breath. "If anyone disrespects you under my own house, under my own authority, I shall have their heads rolling the floors of the throne room for you to watch. The only head above yours is mine, and so, the only one who can defy your rules is me; others would have to grovel the ground you stand on for being in your presence. Because that is my law."

Anaxa's eye narrows, watching his own face contort into insolence. "And if I dare defy you ?" 

The Flame Reaver, his husband , snorts. Shaking his head almost fondly as he lets go of Anaxa's body to flick his forehead. There was no pain, only a slight sting that disappeared as quick as it went. The pressure from earlier oppression went as if it never existed in the first place. "You won't." 

There's certainty in his voice that Anaxa hates. "You have so much you wish to protect to do so."

Anaxa bites his lips shut, trying to stop the whirlwind of curses that wanted to boil and froth over. Whatever it was his husband did, his body found itself frozen and unable to move even after being freed from his grip. Like some sleep paralysis that trapped him.

His husband disappears from his line of sight as lights dim, and it takes Anaxa a good few minutes to realize that he'd taken the couch. 

He lifts himself up slowly, pushing himself with his arms to see the astonishing sight of a hulking figure trying to make himself small on the couch that could only fit four - normal - sized people in width and length. For a tyrant killer seen as a beast, he's certainly looking more like a golem trying to fit in with human society with no desire to cause harm.

Like Anaxa would believe that.

Hah! How unfunny …

Anaxa scoffs, defiance returning to his blood in strong currents as he rolled himself up with the blanket and tucked himself between two human sized pillows. Clutching onto it tight in case his husband changes his mind and tries to touch him. The fact that they haven't consummated the marriage is a glaring reminder in his head.

At any moment's notice, it could happen. Given the state of his clothes and the obvious preference for his body, Anaxa just finds himself grateful it didn't happen now even if his clothes and lack of underwear made him an easy and free access for the taking.

He could've instead covered Anaxa with the entirety of himself and make him bleed raw and unprepared, uncaring of what happens to his body.

At least, for a monster, he didn't cross that line.

With a soft sigh, he digs himself deeper into the bed, closing his eye and trying to get some sleep.

He'd need energy to defy his husband again tomorrow, after all.

Failed.

Again.

His eyebrows twitches, feeling years of his life being snipped off. 

This was the 5th year in a row that Phainon's grades slipped by the strand of a hair, brought down by yet another disastrous paper submitted a month late. To think Anaxa had gone above and beyond to get that brat's grades up, arranging extra curricular activities, considering his debate championships into the criteria, and sending him doing errands. Manipulating the grading system just to get at least 1 point above the passing grade.

It's not as if Phainon wasn't smart at all, Anaxa is certain that he's far skilled and intellectually gifted compared to most of the scholar's own coworkers. 

Yet he somehow always finds a way to fail.

Like this excerpt from the graduation essay that was supposed to help him pass.

A very simple critique for a romance novel dated centuries back, around the time of the Titans, a lesser known story of a traitor - a poet turned criminal for killing a royal -  and a priest, and what he'd do had he been in the priest's situation; made to choose between agreeing with the people and punishing the criminal, or dying alongside his beloved with his name smeared against mud.

Two simple choices clearly listed in the rubric. All Phainon needed to do was to choose and explain.

I will simply burn the kingdom to the ground and keep the poet by my side, sin and all.

Anaxa suppresses the urge to collapse in his seat, feeling his blood pressure sky-rocket and his nape throb in pain as he forces himself to continue reading this ridiculous paper.

If I were the priest, I wouldn't care what others think. I will love the poet, with their hands bloodied and their crimes behind their back. I will take all of them for myself, and mine alone.

I shall create a world for only us to exist.

Any sort of patience snaps, crumbling the edge of the paper as he cruelly grades the offending essay. Almost scratching his pen through the paper with each swish. There's more to it, becoming more and more possessive as it progresses. Bordering obsession rather than love, painting the romantic novel in a darker light. Anaxa can't help but worry at the clear conviction in Phainon's words, repeating " I will, I shall, I will—" at every beginning of the sentence like some checkmark to do.

He places it back on the desk before heading to his office balcony for fresh air, feeling the subtle heavy pressure from Phainon's essay getting into him. Letting the wind blow and comb through his hair, grazing his cheeks as he stared deadpanned into space.

I'll have Hyacine conduct a psychiatric test on that one.

"Professor Anaxa!"

Speak of the devil.

His eye moves downward towards the courtyard where he first spots a bobbing white ahoge before anything else. Then it is Phainon's face, ever bright and doe eyed, as if Anaxa didn't just read his concerning perspective of love. To think such a puppy would possess such thoughts and cultivate such beliefs, he wonders if it was the result of his home being lost to the plague and the need to keep everything he cared for in arm's reach and sight.

He just couldn't phantom a day Phainon would actually go through with his words, if Anaxa was being honest. Looking at him now, waving his hands stupidly and eagerly waiting for Anaxa to reply to his call, he's more akin to a puppy than a wolf. In the end, he probably just read such behavior somewhere and thought it was cool as most of his peers would.

Just a little more. He tells himself, allowing a ghost of a smile to appear on his face as he waved back, watching that face sparkle further in delight.

I'll watch you on for a little more.

Chapter Text

To his surprise, the Fla–his husband isn't in the room when he wakes up.

It's still dawn when his body clock stirs him up awake, a groan rumbling his tired body as the comfort of the plush bed tries to lure him back in. Only to lose the battle against force of habit encoded into his routine after years of teaching, conditioned to suffer numbness the longer he remains listless. Slowly, he detangles himself from the safety of his cocoon and adjusts his ruffled clothes, sitting up with a stretch of his limbs to shoo away the static in his skin and the heaviness of his body.

Darkness surrounds him, barely a speck of light to warrant silhouettes, vision rendered useless until his eye adapts, but the lack of a second presence is palpable. A still silence replacing the heavy and all-consuming existence that is his husband. 

For what it's worth, Anaxa is grateful for the space away from the man, his mood improving marginally. A bride would usually scorn their new husband if they left the bed cold and without warning, but his marriage wasn't one based on any sort of affection. More like a cattle sold against his will, shipped off like spare goods to the highest bidder. So this loneliness, this silence, is golden.

He'd never been fond of the company of others so near his sacred home - the home that took painstaking years to make his own, to abandon yearning ashes and to finally settle anew. 

He is bitter again, reminded of what he's lost; again .

An involuntary shiver rushes through him the moment he stood up from the bed and his bare feet met the cold tiles. Goosebumps crawling across his skin and a curse slipping past dry-bit lips. The morning frostbite was never a problem when he'd been dressed warmly with cotton and wool of the dromas onesies he spent a fortune to have tailored. Taking its warmth for granted as a menial normal part of his life - now his past.

He was in the process of pulling his skirt down when he heard a quiet knock.

"My lord?" They call, the voice belonging to the maid from the wedding, and he whips his head towards the source for the sound with the same alertness of a bovidae faced with a wild feline. Vigilant and skeptical, still doubting the words said - vowed - to his face the night prior. A lord could never be too conscious of their servants' true thoughts, even after exceeding mortality. To be human is to have your own opinions and your free will. As long as they are not puppets, their mind will begin to ponder - either for the good or bad.

After some consideration and anxiousness for letting the silence stretch too long, he asks:"... what is it?"

"I've brought breakfast, my lord." She replies with the same timidness, but he recognizes the signs of relief. Possibly from his tone, wary but uncharacteristically softer than his husband's will ever be. That alone a sign he's not as severe as the head of the house - he's astonished they would even think him anything remotely like the Flame Reaver when he has twigs for arms. "Permission to come in?"

Anaxa cranes his neck forward, indecisive whether or not to permit it. He's uncertain what they've surmised of him with the scrap of time he had with them and the traumatizing kiss he and the Flame Reaver shared at the altar. They'd look fearful of the royal, but the same couldn't be said for the one married to him, right? He is in no way as bulky or large as his husband, and without his gun and alchemy with him, even with his nimble quick legs, they could very easily snap him like a twig should the Flame Reaver command it.

"Make no mistake, you are my spouse. By title, my wife… If anyone disrespects you… I shall have their heads rolling… others would have to grovel the ground you stand on for being in your presence."

The Flame Reaver's promise sears his mind like a branded tattoo, and he has to quell down the tremble in his spine. 

Food is important to survive .

"... you may."

Today she wears not a veil but a mask similar to the Flame Reaver's. Framed with bronze instead of gold and a curious symbol on the forehead. Her uniform has changed too - simpler in design and shorter for movement - so what she wore at the wedding was likely ceremonial. Rolling in a trolley with two cloches and three fruit punches. There's a distinct smell of meat and spices; roast most likely, a fan favorite of the sages but not quite his preference.

Often they'd serve pork in those tedious meetings to save money for other expenditures, but Anaxa would really rather have–

The cloches are removed.

–it's beef.

Tender, soft and juicy looking beef.

And as a weak human, Anaxa finds his mouth watering.

"Today's breakfast, my lord; braised beef short ribs sautéed in honey with a red wine sauce with a side of mashed potatoes, buttered corn and carrots, and a side of mushroom soup. " She places a tray in front of him and a napkin on his lap with swift, clean reflexes. Almost artistically so, it's fun to watch. "Please enjoy."

There's not much convincing needed.

Don't mind if I do.

He reasons it's to regain strength and to toughen up his bones and muscles, but the way he went ahead and noshed it all up was more akin to a starved beast than a respected sage turned wife of a royal. It is in no way a slop, his mouth is relatively clean, but he's devoured it off the plate like a hound than a man. The only saving grace was that he didn't lick off the sauce from the plate, but he somehow managed to shine it to white still. Then again, the last time he ate felt more like torture without any sort of fulfillment - more shame than anything else really.

She seems to want to say something, freezing as the food disappears off the face of Amphoreus before she could even blink. 

"Do… do you wish for more, my lord?" She sounds genuinely worried and concerned, and she radiates pity from her pores like she's found a malnourished stray. "I can have more be prepared, and should you wish for a different meal we can do that too."

Anaxa has enough sense of shame for his face to heat up in embarrassment for acting so crass. Finding it unlike him. He's usually more… refined, so to speak, at anything else beyond his works and beliefs. To reduce himself to this–he has no words for himself. "No, thank you. This… this is more than what I need."

Now that he's had his fill, his mind finds itself sewing about ideas with the recent course of events. When the Flame Reaver demanded him from the Grove, he had expected imminent death. Back then, there was no need to plan beyond the worrisome torture methods or execution the tyrant had in store for him. Had he known that was not the case, truly, he would've brought on an entourage to sneak in and a dowry prepared from the Grove's funds - rather than his - for better security. Hyacine was battle weak but clever, and a few of his students-turned-staff were humble with good working hands. Castorice wouldn't have been allowed because of her power, but he could've insisted on staying in correspondence with her. He could've snuck in one of the Tribios and enjoyed their witty company guising planning. Then, he would also have brought appropriate cloth –! As it is, he is alone with no social connection or status amongst strangers in his new home.

As it is , he wants to form a revolt against his husband through anarchy. Infiltrating from within the base, by far, is the most effective way to weaken defense forces through the foundation; the help, who knows and controls everything under order. Since it's possible to contribute to the table, and it suits him best. A couple d'état wasn't, he'd rather not involve what seemed to be youthful staff with putsch. There had been so much carnage in the span of just eight years, he has no wish to add more to it. Should there be any, when it comes to it, it should be his and his involvement alone. Even if he isn't sure how he could when the Flame Reaver's anatomy far differed that of a human's - it will be a challenge to locate weak spots, much less any vital organs he could aim at should they not actually be there. 

… and what a joy it would be to watch those horrid sages who despised him seethe in contempt as they gnash their teeth to force out their bogus gratitude for his assistance in wiping out a huge threat. How much pleasure he'd receive returning alive to greet the twisted looks on the council's faces. Just the thought of watching their precious donations pile up onto his stash all while their faces twist into ugly countenance of barely concealed loathing fills him with glee. With that money he could employ fine craftsmen to fashion statues with his liking and stick it up their asses. What a gratifying experience it would be!

To do so, however, he'll need allies.

A singular fuchsia eye flickers towards her, brow raised in an elegant curve as his tactical mind begins to work its sinister gears. Leaning into her space with a shadow over his eye, and she freezes up. "What's your name?"

The girl bows, hand to her chest. "I am called Xenia, my lord." Called . She says, concealing many layers with one sentence alone, much thicker than the mask she wore. In the old Okheman language, it meant hospitality . A befitting name, he must say. But it also hides many layers when she acts like it's not her real name.

Layers he doesn't pry, ready to proceed with the next set of standard questions in his mind. Nothing too complex, but enough to satiate curiosity.

"Must you cover your face?"

"It is protocol, my lord."

"For what purpose?"

Even with her face covered, it is clear she's nibbling her own lips. Head bobbing in an awkward way of concentration. Finding it hard to answer what he deems is but a simple question, acting more like an interrogated criminal suffering relentless prodding.

One thing he's clarified for himself is that the Flame Reaver hadn't lied. The servants don't hold any animosity towards him, and Anaxa himself holds a semblance of authority to command them as he pleased. As the Flame Reaver is seen as a royal, the title now extends to Anaxa after their marriage. Theoretically, he could pry the answer out of her mouth by force. But he isn't going to do that… he'll use that oppression for something else later down the line. Kindness and softness , he knows, even if fake but acted well enough, was the best way to approach unassuming targets.

"... personally I have a hard time maintaining eye contact, my lord. While others experience the exact opposite but to an almost intrusively so." Xenia relents, the skin of her fingers rubbed raw. "Wearing masks solves both problems; is what his Majesty said."

A hum of approval - for the answer, rather than in agreement - leaves him, leaning back and allowing the poor soul air to breathe and space to recollect herself. 

Masks to hide oneself . The occurrence reminded him of his sister's death; that damned plague that annihilated half the planet with its grotesque parasitism. A sickness that eats away at you internally and is contagious through touch, and affected mammals. He had been severely lucky to avoid infection when he had forced his way from the Grove en route home and was held back by the kind carriage driver that prevented him from touching his sister's corpse no matter how much he had fought back with his teeth. 

Unfortunately, the symptoms were much like rabies during its early years. Nausea, lack of appetite, fever, redness in the eyes. Then the slow descent into madness as it begins to eat away your brain, then the breakdown of your body - organs, bones, muscles, skin and all. Once it started to show, there was no cure at all. Prevention was much harder before he himself had created a vaccine three years into his studies, and a cure once he graduated. Those who survived still had scarring from the manifestation and were given the choice to have it surgically changed.

Most of the older cured patients chose to wear masks instead, either afraid or uncaring enough to take the surgery - and he provided it for free, so their reactions truly amused him.

He remembers, because it was his town and Aedes Elysiae that was most affected by the virus. Wiping out all but two individuals.

Now wasn't the time to think of that . Anaxa bitterly curses, willing himself to focus on other matters. But now that he does think about it… wasn't the Flame similar to the prototype mask he designed for the patients who wanted a cooler look? He shook his head. Just a coincidence. I threw out that design when those patients indecisively changed to another design.

He stands up, grimacing at the reminder of his indecent attire when he hears Xenia cough and turn her head sideways to give him some semblance of privacy. It was so easy to ignore it when he sat with his legs crossed and all he had to show was his chest and the starry realm he had within. Standing provides an all too different view of his figure, showing the curving silhouette of his lower lips from the gap between his thighs. 

"... bring me a new set of clothing please–ah, actually." He turns to her, turning the tables with pity coming off his pores at her clear shyness. "I've been told that the clothes I arrived in yesterday have been tailored. Do you know when they'll arrive?"

Poor thing is resolutely staring at the wall with much needed fascination. "That I am uncertain, but I did hear from my seniors that the seamstress is to work for half a month." 

"Half a month…" He mutters. "... does it usually take that long to reforge clothes?" Not even Aglaea's weakest assistant back in Okhema took so long… although his clothes were complicated, that much he'd admit. The design was balanced, but the layering was all too excessive in Aglaea's threads. When he first drafted the sketch, the dressmaker's golden threads paused comically before shooting up to grab at his rattail hair and had flung him across the room. They had only come to a compromise when the Tribios intervened and had inputs of their own.

"Not that I'm aware of. The seamstress expertise is spotless, so I too expected it to be quicker but…" Her voice takes on a bashful note, sounding scandalized. Anaxa doesn't have a good feeling about that. "It was a personal request of his Majesty… for her to take as long as she must. So they decided on half a month."

The NERVE!

First he deluded Anaxa with a surprise wedding, then assaulted his throat with his inhumane tongue, then made him wear a vulgar outfit as he handled him like a pet–now this ?! How arrogant could he get to withhold something as simple as clothes?! His neck stiffens in pain and his heart soars angrily, blood rising to his head and causing waves of dizziness to hit with a deafening spell of ringing.

He waves his hand, feeling faint from the burst of anger. "Please bring me something to change into… something appropriate, if you could. If there's none…" A sinister look returns to his face, grinning darkly as he slowly turns his head towards her. 

"... if there's none, then I'd like to insist on wearing one of the staff's clothes instead."

Fortunately, for all the staff's sake, the Flame Reaver had prepared appropriate clothing.

So it was truly a fetish when he made me wear that dress last night. Anaxa chuckle is humorless, staring at the choices laid on his bed. In fact, his husband has prepared some sensible attire in accordance with the sage's own fashion. Androgynously elegant with a touch of darker colors. Laid before him were blouses, sleek pants, and his favored corsets in an array of colors and style. There were also a few dresses that were up to his taste, beautifully sewn to such galant designs that fit his slender body. It wouldn't be the first time he'd wear a dress - besides the skimpy sundress he currently has on - but there's other times for such finery. 

Why he didn't have the privilege to wear them the night before in the first place escapes him.

"Who chose this?" He asked Xenia, curious at the impeccable details.

She in turn replied: "It was the head maid and butler, my lord… his Majesty doesn't have taste when it comes to fashion."

That explains the atrocious hood . He'd wondered what implored him to choose that to conceal his face, of all the things. Porcelain looking masks were popular around the time the Flame Reaver emerged, and there were even ominous but fashionable veils and scarves that could be styled in numerous ways. He's heard younger ones also prefer different colored wigs… if the man had hair to speak of. Instead, he chose a hood with the cap fraying at the edges, the only redeeming feature the golden ridges that crawled around his body.

He picks up a white blouse with bishop sleeves, a night blue side-laced corset, and black flared pants. Seems fairly suitable, not overbearing to the eyes but still a charm. "This will do, thank–"

Anaxa regrets having not fully considered the fact that these blouses were backless and the pants had high slits covered by lace or mesh. Undoubtedly better, but nonetheless embarrassing still. The fact that he only realizes it after the fact, once it's already on his person and changing out of it would be too tiring makes him feel stupid. His mouth paises, hanging open as his brow twitches to make sense of it.

"... those were requests by his Majesty."

"I figured." Of course that pervert will find a way to sneak in his sick fantasies. The backless blouses he can forgive, he's worn them frequently back as a professor conducting seminars and symposiums. But the high slits were baffling, because he didn't understand the appeal. A skirt would've been more acceptable. "Do I have a coat?"

"Well…" Instead of a coat he expects to be made of leather or cashmere,  Xenia brings out two cloaks made of fur. Pristine white like fresh snow and softer than cotton. "These were the latest commissions. His Majesty hunted and gathered the fur himself."

Better than nothing . He supposed, resting the fur on his arms so that the hem would reach the slits. When he turns to the mirror, he shamelessly ogles and internally approves of his get-up. 

"It is much too warm for this." A rueful sigh leaves him heavy and burdened, already feeling the skin of his back warm up red. "But it will have to do. I'll commission my own clothes soon."

Hopefully his husband won't order against it. Ah–

"... and the Flame Reaver?" He inquires.

Xenia slowly cocks her head, confused - more so on why he chose to use that title, rather than not knowing what it meant.

"... his Majesty." 

"I heard he's to visit the northern outskirts. There was an avalanche, they said. It may have buried the town's reserves."

"An avalanche?" Snow ; the last city the Flame Reaver invaded was a region that never saw grass turn green. Serves him right.

"Yes. Although I couldn't be so sure, I've no relatives or friends from the region. Nor does anyone working here. It's too far to employ. So his Majesty would be gone for about a month."

A month.

Newly wedded and he's off away for a month leaving his bride alone?

… YES !

Feeling more rejuvenated, he abruptly stands up, startling Xenia as he saunters towards the window. Looking over the wide horizon with hope. Suddenly, everything feels brighter and the birds are singing. He'll be able to move more freely without the oppression from his husband's presence, and he could begin planning. 

Anaxa is still looking out the window when he addresses Xenia once more, his tone revived with a joyful, cheeky lilt. "Please bring me the head of the staff - if they're available that is."

Xenia brings the butler to him in under ten minutes. An older man with a hunched back and a half-veil covering his face, revealing his wrinkled eyes. He leans into his can for support with his hand subtle shaking. Even three feet away he could feel the creaking of his spine. Anaxa wishes he had his equipment with him to create medicine for that, or at least help elevate the obvious pain.

"Good morning."Anaxa replies, voice deceptively soft, malleable, vulnerable even, masking a gentler exterior. "You must be the butler. I apologize, but I've not got to know your name?"

The butler lowers his head, leaning harder on the crane and it shakes more. Anaxa shakes his head. "No need to bow for me. Just a nod is fine."

He is met then with gentle chuckles, and those eyes soften into crinkles. Xenia assisted him to stand back up to his best, supporting his back and his arm. "I am Stylianos, my lord. Indeed, his Majesty's stories do you injustice, now seeing you in person."

This turns the gears in his head, feeling a twitch in his fingers as he stores this information for later. The Flame Reaver knew of me even before marriage . Anaxa thought quietly, the focus of his eye intensifying subconsciously, disturbed. I don't remember meeting him personally. So likely he'd had heard me from rumors… or, and Anaxa wishes it wasn't the case, the Flame Reaver has been keeping tabs on him. There's a high chance he's been watched without his knowledge, but he trusts that the golden threads Mynestia's granted Aglaea would've alerted the garment maker, or at least prevented any form of stalking. Cipher would've noticed too, and Little Ica had a keen sense - it wouldn't have known who it was exactly that lulled in the shadows, but would've sensed something wrong within the vicinity and come crying up to Hyacine or himself.

He finds no sense, however, for that to happen. If - and this is a large if - he had infiltrated Okhema's security and found himself within the city's territory, then stalking Anaxa should be the last thing he should do. The root of the Amphoreus would've basically been in the palm of his hands for his control. Sage he was, a Chrysos heir too, but he had no control over the people on large compared to the others heirs - he instead had a mob of fanatics eagerly wishing for his long, painful death.

I will ponder this later . He sighs internally, crossing his arms as if to protect himself. 

"I would like to meet the entirety of our staff. So that I may get to know each one individually and thank them for their great service, especially during the wedding - short as it may have been." The butler raises his head slightly, amused and surprised but receiving. "It must have been taxing to prepare."

"Nonsense." Stylianos gruffs, playfully swatting at the air, accidentally hitting Xenia in the mask. "It was our delight to do so. My, I'd thought his Majesty will remain without a partner. We never imagined he'd have such a wonderful person in mind."

Alright, he really couldn't leave that topic for later. It's bothering him too much.

"He's talked about me?"

"A whole lot." Stylianos laughs, shaking his head in exasperation. Both he and Xenia seem happy about that, somehow none the wiser to the real state of the couple's relationship, built on sand. "Not a day passes he doesn't praise you, my lord. Now I understand why."

Anaxa smiles thinly, polite enough. "I am glad it seems he's spoken about me in a good light."

"Such a splendid person as you, of course his Majesty will. He'd be a fool not to."

Anaxa almost broke his gentle smile into a smirk … Did Stylianos just call the Flame Reaver a fool? This man had such courage, it's astonishing.

"Do you handle the staff?"

Stylianos hums, shaking his head slightly after a thought or two. "I would say I am in charge of keeping things in order. But if I may, the one closest to them and knows our staff better than anyone would be our head maid. She's been here far longer than I."

"Is she busy as of now? I would like to talk to her too."

"Most certainly. Xenia, child, she should be in the kitchen assisting the chef."

"Yes, sir."

The woman brought was middle aged and genteel, covering her eyes with a sheer black blindfold. Fading elegant grey hair framing her circular face, the smile lines prominent and beautiful. She is in every way motherly, with a proper balance of soft but firm nature and presence, with no sense of aggressive nature. Xenia escorted her in, supporting her lower back. 

"Your name?" He asks, and she bows with a smile, softened with a melodic tune.

"I am Sophie, my lord."

" Wisdom in Kremnos." He smiled too in return. "How fitting indeed. You hold your name with pride?"

"Yes, my lord." There's motherly warmth in her voice Anaxa's rarely ever seen. "It is one of my greatest honors."

"I realize all of you bear names derived from historical records. Was that intentional? I sense from Xenia and a few others that their names were titles given, not borne with?"

"That is true, my lord. Most of us… we wished to start anew. So his Majesty granted us new names, ones he believed best fit us as people."

A tragic sense of style in clothes, but definitely an eloquent sense when it came to names. He could guess that the Flame Reaver was relatively academically gifted in a way from his vocabulary and… cleverness of sorts. It would make sense, because he had his own strategies in battle despite how bloody it could get. He doesn't just barge into and slash his greatsword wherever, he methodically targets the strongest ones first, then filters the weaker ones for his followers to eliminate themselves. When it comes to ambushes, he hides behind shadows, and only pounces aggressively after cornering the opponent with no way of escape.

However, they wished to start anew . Anaxa wonders just how deep these people are tied to the Flame Reaver. The first cities the Flame reaver claimed were of small, traditional groups. Anaxa feels that most of the staff were from those places instead of the latter cities he took over.

"Stylianos told me you're the one who knows our staff the most?" He starts. "Do tell, on a scale, how well do they perceive me? I do believe my arrival isn't as sudden as I believed, but this is still the first time they've physically met me."

Sophie hums, a smooth melody like a lullaby sung by a siren; deceptively soothing. "Our staff receives anyone accepted by his Majesty, since his judgement is precise. As for their personal insights, I admit even I couldn't pry into the minds of the younger ones. I only know what they want me to."

Typical teenagers, Anaxa won't quarrel with that he's had his fair share of hushed talks and little huddling heads gossiping about. A norm in a school, really, separating groups based on interests and chemistry. Although, he himself didn't have a group when he was a student. Preferring formulas and calculations over basic human interactions. Then again - he almost clicks his tongue - everyone around him at the time were idiots–no, they were lower than that. Their brains were non-existent, dumber than dromases that spent their days eating and drinking and playing. Those fools wasted so many years in the Grove and learned nothing.

The three poor servants mistake his deep contemplation for worry, oblivious to the haughtiness brewing inside his mind. "Should I call them all to the hall, my lord? I'm certain they'd be all enthusiastic to meet you."

The switch is flicked again, and Anaxa sparkles brightly at the offer. "Would that be alright?"

"Of course, I shall bring them all to the hall. Xenia dear, help Lord Anaxa prepare."

"Understood." The girl pushes the tray away from Anaxa's path, urging him towards the golden gilded vanity to fix his hair.

The walk to the throne room was much more relaxing than his experience walking towards the altar. Indeed, it felt similar to walking the Grove where everyone turned their eyes to him - for whatever reasons the rumors the water mill brought. By the time he reached the dais, the staff - minus the ones the Flame Reaver brought with him to his travels - were all obediently formed into six lines; separated by a fraction of age groups, he realizes, staring at their miniscule mannerisms and height differences. There were lots of them, far more than he's ever seen for a noble house. Those present could easily make up for three whole schools in the Grove with an excess to be reassigned elsewhere. The Flame Reaver had a full staff and more, allowing others to easily take vacations should they wish. 

They filled the hall and the entrance, exceeding the door and pouring outside. 

He addresses the group, his eye unknowingly glinting mischievously under the chandelier light. Highlighting the red of his pupils, shining the green.

All of them reeked of nervousness. 

Even the older ones - save for those he already met - were cowering under his stare, mild as it is - he's used much stronger intensity back as a professor to assert control, and cornered students who dared to skip class - once, even chasing them down by jumping from three stories, landing on their backs when they tried to run. They're reacting as if he's a copy of the Flame Reaver.

He heaves a heavy sigh, already knowing how much social work he'd have to do for a long, long time.

__________

Here's what he learned in his first week:

First, which came to be a surprise to him, was the fact that the servants were deathly loyal as they were frightened by the Flame Reaver.

For one, based on rumors he's heard from the maids, the Flame Reaver was a just and fair master. Granting all of them proper salary with benefits that could be extended to close family members. In particular, after Xenia's hometown was occupied by the man, the Healthcare system and relief support vastly improved in only under a month of his rulership. Roads have been repaired, houses too, and he had green infrastructure built for natural disaster prevention.

There was a case of another girl too, Kleio, barely in her mid-teens, who was saved by the bell that is the Flame Reaver's invasion when she was to be sacrificed to appease the gods. Her town, she said, was riddled with old beliefs and apostates thrown out from Okhema. They believed the titans would fashion children as their meal, the younger the better, for their youthful taste and plump meat. When it was her turn, she had fought and begged, and believed herself to be a lost cause until the Flame Reaver arrived and cleanly sliced off the head of the one that dragged her up the altar.

Anaxa is appeased, but also felt appalled by the fact that she had to see such a grotesque scene in favor of her salvation.

Then there was the chef, Nektarios; cast out by his family for not pursuing a similar career to his forefathers. Then the gardener, Triantafyllia, blinded in battle with the Flame Reaver. Stylianos, old but wise, was taken in after he had nowhere else to go - abandoned by his daughter's widowed husband in pursuit of a new marriage. Disabled yet wholly trusted with his insight. The bookkeeper Glykeria, a runaway with her son and daughter, Diamanto and Diamantis.

There were so many similar stories that boiled down to one fact: they were saved by the Flame Reaver.

Anaxa is incredulously stunned by this, stupefied every time he's met with their subtle idolization, baffled anyone would even think to admire the Flame Reaver. How could they look up to the person that invaded their lands and massacred the innocent? He had seen the devastation, and the man fought and killed without finesse to leave a trail of messy blood and gore in his wake. Unless there is more to his invasion than mere sadism, as everyone and himself theorized. It is a plausible explanation with the reports he's gotten prior to the invasion.

His plans of forming a rebellion are wasted, and he'll have to seek other options.

There he reaches an impasse. 

Prior to his husband's departure, he'd apparently been banned from writing beyond the Flame Reaver's territories. Which meant he has no access to the Grove of Epiphany, or any of the two surviving cities for that matter. Nor did any of the servants indulge him with any sort of news, not when they too were blind to the subject, knowing no one from Castrum Kremnos either.

Barred from within with little to no resources, he's decidedly a little fucked.

If not anarchy . He pondered at night, pacing around the room with a hand supporting his back. Then .. he glances out towards the gardens.

After he discarded his first plan, he settled for the next one, which is far easier to conquer; building his influence. A common tactic he's both seen and read works flawlessly if you act with confidence. Going about the same route as his first goal, the only change being a more peaceful political strategy. Hoping that soon, through good word, he'd be able to move around more freely and be able to send letters outside to formulate a new plan with the others.

That said, he swears it was just an accident when he first saw Xenia's face.

The young lady had accidentally tripped in the gardens and unfortunately face-planted into fresh wet soil, as courtesy by the gardener Triantafyllia, who just finished watering a few minutes ago. Concerned she'd end up swollen with a nasty bruise from the severity of the fall, he had followed her with some simple remedies only to spot her washing her face with an ewer, her mask lying quietly on the ground beside her.

He doesn't clearly remember how he acted, but he knows he dropped the glass of salve and alerted her of his presence. The poor thing, startled beyond wits' end, snapping her head towards his direction and panicking with a flurry of apologies. 

"Oh, my lord, your hands!" She gasped, rushing to check the wound he unknowingly created - no, he hadn't dropped the salve, he crushed it with his bare hands . 

Anaxa continues to stare, however, at the head fussing up and about in a flurry. Two sprouts of hair waving in his face; White hair…

White hair, blue eyes.

Bile threatens to rise to his throat as he sees someone else in Xenia's place.

"I'm fine." He cuts in, as sharp as the broken shards forcefully pushing the salve into Xenia's hand. "I just wanted to hand this to you. Unfortunately I have something coming up with Sophie. I trust you can handle your wound properly."

Aedes Elysiae died with Phainon, the sole survivor. Records proved that no one else was able to survive the plague. Only Phainon, who had narrowly escaped when he spent running around the face forest. When his mischievous nature became his salvation. There wasn't much Phainon had said about his town beyond its overall character and vibe, as well as his parents. Anaxa had once overheard his student say he inherited his father's eyes, endless blue, and his mother's hair, pure snowy white. They weren't exactly rare traits, but the combination was. Not when he hasn't seen anyone with white hair all the years he's lived before Phainon enrolled.

In all his years Anaxa had faced his problems head on. A barreling bull determined to bash down anything dyed in red like blood.

But he knows now…

He can't face it, not yet. Too raw, too fresh. 

He has to run. Or it will end him before he could avenge Ph–

His rushed steps are forced into a halt, standing inside the library with a racing heart and sweaty, cold palms. His throat feels acidic, and his tongue feels heavy. Behind his eye a prickling sensation threatening to ball over.

How he hated this .

Second thing he's learned was that the majority of the staff hadn't had proper education, not even able to write or read. 

While he got to know every servant, he's admittedly more drawn to the younger ones - the youngest Glykeria's children, 12 this year. All with unique and charming quirks he can't help but fall in love with, reminding him of his students back in the Grove. Rowdy, chaotic, eager little things that sparkled at the barest of praise. 

Two servants in particular, two of whom he spends the most time with because of their roles, were Xenia and the girl Kleio - the former a mirror of Castorice. 

Xenia was mousy and reserved but loyal and unyielding; not one to violate rules and order even at the expense of her own mental toll. Oftentimes she finds herself agreeable with the head maid and butler, who look to her with favor in mind for her social cleverness and sharpness. As the eldest of the group of unmarried lady servants, many draw to her for sound advice and company. A silent but strong pillar for them to rely on.

Kleio, however, still a child in both mind and body, had loose lips and an imaginative mind not bound to societal norms. Fond of daydreaming, she procures ideas not even the most ambitious authors could create. With her talent, should she learn to read and write, she would no doubt blossom into a fully fledged writer with such rare ingenuity. And Anaxa finds delight in that, so he promptly arranges to tutor her himself.

"Why should I strive to work when I can work to get married?" She complains when taught to read and write, sniffling through the browbeating eidolon behind her. "A story would not bring me a husband of good breeding. They do not like ladies with hands rough from labor, and now my hands will have calluses from writing too!"

"It will." Anaxa swiftly counterattacks, keeping an eye on her progress. There's much he wished to say regarding her complaints, and he has plans to address it publicly soon with her fellow girls. Though he worries it'd be for naught with his current predicament - wedded not for love. He realizes he's not the best example they should look up to for courting - he'll likely just end up reading the legend of Cerces and Mynestia. "Good men seek good wives; but foolish scums have skills to turn even woven silk into barn scraps to their liking. On with your task now; write this–"

He guides her hand with each stiff swish and drag of the pencil, conducting her movement and doing his best to ease the deathly grip she had on the poor pencil. When she finishes, he allows her a moment to look at it with indifference, knowing he'd just as easily wipe that off her face.

"What does it mean?"

"That, child, is your name." Anaxa grins, snickering at her sudden jubilant mien. He'd look similar back as a child when he first got to write his name by dragging a stick on the sand. A simple but changing feeling, a start of something so powerful. "And this–" He continued, helping her write another one. "–is Xenia."

The kid is obviously stunned, and it is an expression Anaxa will never get tired of - the oozing amazement and disbelief of something so simple yet intimately theirs. He's spent enough time as a professor to know that. "... woah…" She breathes out heavily, tracing the letters with her fingers over and over. Capturing it into her mind, engraving it in her soul repetitively as if she could never get tired of it. The fascination is infectious, and he couldn't help but smile fondly.

"C-can I give it to her? She'll love this!" Then she grabs more paper, trying to grab his hand to teach her more. "Oh! I want to write more. Can I write more? I want to write: Sophie, next!"

"Of course you can." His eye glints mischievously, unnoticed by the girl. "But don't you think they'd want to write their name themselves? You'd all have more fun writing together. You can even exchange letters if you're far away from each other."

He only needed to convince her with such few prods, and she's off her way with fanciful words and exaggerated praises to spread. 

Rumors spread quickly as he had intended, watching from dark corners and higher ground as words were passed around in what they had attempted to keep secret. Naturally, they are all drawn to his promise , eager to receive the same education as the students of the famous Grove of Epiphany that's home to the sages and best scholars of Amphoreus. The fact is exhilarating and intimidating at the same time. It takes time and patience to lure them in. A few at first, the closest to Kleio and Xenia. Primarily girls with a singular footman called Evangelos, who was 17. 

"Can we really learn these?" He asks once he's gotten a moment with Anaxa, mindful of the girls who huddle close around the scrolls the sage prepared. Evangelos seemed to be a bright child with a sharper mind than most, although not as creative as Kleio. He knew well how and when to act or speak, and judging by his mannerisms even with the mask, he's also keenly aware of his presentation. Much like how a noble would act than a servant, with every nerve conscious of its surroundings. A vital soft skill, in Anaxa's opinion. Yet he frets too much. "Would it not get in the way of our work?"

"I'd rather believe it would better you." Anaxa replies smoothly, handing the boy a more complex and technical literature. A few Anaxagoras had cited himself back as a student, and some he wrote - Alchemy related. "To learn is to surpass yourself. By doing so you'd grow superior in skill and in turn provide better service. Besides, with your cleverness–" He pauses, allowing the boy to absorb it all in. "–you'd make good ears for myself and my husband, don't you think?"

Evangelos, easily catching on the meaning, squares his shoulders with a decided nod. Face set as the beginning of his sense of duty began to fester.

Clever, clever indeed. Anaxa has never ever failed spotting diamonds in the rough. Knowing Evangelos's influence among the boys, they'd soon willingly attend classes too. Not all as gifted, but bookish. They have much potential in so many aspects, and Anaxa is excited to help cultivate it no matter how rowdy it may become.

By the 4th day, all the younger servants gathered in the greenhouse to listen to his teachings. Some even bought their own materials even if Anaxa had provided some. Sat around in various circles with their closest friends once Anaxa delegated writing and reading tasks. Watching over them, letting them come to him with their endless questions.

"You read this as fas-ti-di-yus ; fastidious." 

"Your name has two n 's. Yannis, not Yanys ."

"That dot is a period. It's used to close a sentence, and you pause whenever you see it… no, I didn't mean you pause for a whole minute."

"No, Kleio, you can't marry someone just because they stole your clothes. It's a metaphoric myth not a historical fact." He flicks her forehead, sometimes wondering if it would be best to limit her creativity to avoid such nonsense. "And he died in the story anyways."

"Isn't that good?" She whines, rubbing her forehead. "Then I can inherit his everything to retire."

"You do know however if your husband dies you will become the first suspect and will be investigated thoroughly ." Anaxa sighs heavily again, wondering why he's even entertaining this. "Where on Amphoreus did you even learn these?"

The girl sheepishly shrugs. "... book?"

He whacks her head, and some of them snicker under their breaths.

It is so reminiscent of his time as a professor, of the career he's cherished under exasperation.

Anaxa misses it dearly. The late nights grading papers and handling their curriculum, creating activities and assignments. Conducting classes with obnoxious intensity that the students admired, trying to imitate his ardor only to have their heads whacked. He missed it, no matter if it was at the cost of his sleep and sanity. Mountains of papers piled on his old desk and endless questions never bothered him. Because watching those kids grow was worth it. And now, he has the chance to do it again.

Truthfully their lessons were just fundamentals. It is what fits them best, despite their ages. To reach the same standards of the Grove, they'd have to spend a few more years - five at best. Their progress was quick, but Anaxa worries that forcing them through such levels in a short span of time would drain them academically and mentally, and would soon water the once fiery burning passion for learning.

These students are hungry with knowledge, he can see it in their eyes. A perseverance rarely seen. He wants to kindle it carefully until it burns like blazing suns.

He pats Diamantis' head with a tiny smile. 

They're all like Phainon.

Talented. He pats Xenia's head.

Generous. He pats Evangelos'.

Talkative. He pinches Kleio's cheek. "Ack!"

Determined . He pinches Diamanto's nose. "Eh?!"

Blank sheets . That is what they were. Moldable to any foreseeable future they wish to acquire. Capable of endless possibilities that only lead to success.

Anaxa's smile dims, invisible to the eyes of others, but so keenly felt by him alone. Phainon would've loved these kids too . Warm and sunny, with a disposition of hope filled traits. Even after he graduated, that fool - affectionately - hadn't allowed the cruelty of their world to ruin the spark of optimism. That child's infectious smile knew no bounds, no matter where he went. Anaxa himself got sickenly soft with him, growing fonder and fonder each day, blooming into content pride and joy by the 10th year of his studies. Somehow, as long as Phainon was present, it felt like anything was possible and that nothing could go wrong.

And then of course, the world just had to take the only person that trusted it with his whole being. The very person that wouldn't mind to lay his life down and sacrifice himself for the home he loved and cared for so dearly.

The smile on his face vanishes, and he dismisses all of them quietly, letting Xenia and Evangelos lead them out of the greenhouse.

A heavy sigh rattles his lungs the moment they're out, allowing his composure to crumble the slightest and a headache to fester. His hand cradles his temples, pressing onto it with a small hiss.

Sometimes, he admits with the heaviest heart, that he does regret teaching these kids. Not because it was a challenge, not because they were a handful and they were - to put it - illiterate. But because they reminded him too much of things he desperately wished to forget. Unable to bury it in the past, instead dragging it with him to his present. The fact that Xenia bore such frightening features worsened the blow.

He couldn't face the chance of losing someone again.

Knock knock .

Anaxa turns towards the sound, and is met with Sophie's concerned mien by the open door of the green house. "Are you alright, my lord? I brought some refreshments since you finished their class early." In her hands was a tray with a pitcher and sandwiches; a lighter snack compared to the ones he's gotten before. 

He softens, clearing his throat to school his tired expression. "That is appreciated, thank you." He picks up one half of the sandwich, nibbling on the ends in deep thought. When he reaches for a glass, looking elsewhere, he feels warmth envelop his nimble fingers. It was Sophie, ever so understanding and leaving it unsaid.

"You have brought great joy to this house, my lord." The head maid tells him, holding onto his hands firmly with her wrinkled ones. It reminded him of his sister's. Frail but strong in every other way, as if the world knows nothing better. "We could never repay you for your patient care."

A twinge of guilt pricks the consciousness he forgot existed inside of him. Stirring uncomfortably in the pits of his guts. How easy, he thought, to mold them into his whims. Far easier than he believed. They fell so easily for his charms and tricks, and looked up to him as if he hung the moon just as the Flame Reaver brought down the sun. "I'm not doing much." Anaxa sighs, ridding himself off that queasiness. "I simply hate to be idle."

And I'm hoping to heal whatever brainwashing happened to you all . If it could lay back the trust they so willingly gave.

Sophie laughs, patting his hands. "Oh, that much is more than enough for us." She soothes, letting go - the warmth became sickeningly cold - to pour him a drink. Revealing a sparkling color of green and yellow, a minty sour drink with cucumber. It fit his tastes well, showing how much the staff have started to adapt to his tastes.

He takes the glass, swirling the liquid.

… perhaps he too has adapted quicker than expected.

Of course the Flame Reaver returns earlier than scheduled, when Anaxa has finally decided to settle himself and ease his nerves with his surroundings. Coming home only two and a half weeks laterz instead of a month. The news came swiftly through a familiar messenger - one of the two who had escorted him from Okhema - who came running and panting by the doorsteps at nine at night, a mix of nervous relief in their countenance. When he received the scroll in his hands, it trembled faintly with disgust and discomfort. The foreboding symbol of the Flame Reaver molded with melted wax somehow triggering all his flight or fight instincts. As opposed to everyone else's cordial joy for the return of the head of the house. 

As per protocol - at least from what he's read of history books and fiction - and because he wants to be a good role model for the younger servants, he greets his husband - it is a stretch to say that. Standing on the bullnose step of the stairs with the head maid and butler by the foyer, while the  other servants stand by the door. He hides his trembling hands under the long cape he was adorned in, focusing instead of the heaviness of his crown and embellishments. Feeling his scalp protest at the drag of each crystal braided into his long lock of hair. The only thing easing his nerves was his clothes, the ones he wore when he first arrived.

It had been a nightmare convincing the maids to let him wear his standard sage uniform instead of the dresses his husband sent prior. Wanting to dress him in a glamorous gown that had a touch of sultriness to it. They had whined and protested, acting like kicked kittens when he swiftly rebutted them and ordered him out of his room to change. Pawing and whimpering at his door, using the very same tactics Phainon had used on him when he was late passing an assignment - using his pitiful charm at Anaxa's office doors, knowing the professor frequented there so often it was basically his second bedroom. 

The accessories were the only thing that got him to stop, but Anaxa wished he'd fought more against it now that it caused his scalp to ache.

Anaxa glanced furiously at the ticking clock, tapping his finger on his arm. Nine the messenger came, with a promise that the Flame Reaver will be home in an hour. But it is already quarter to midnight, and he'd much rather sleep than wait idly for someone he doesn't even wish to welcome home. One who doesn't respect other people's time and thinks arriving late is a statement than an annoying inconvenience. His irritation is visible, and the closest to him - Xenia - squirms nervously at the acidic pour of his emotions.

How could he not be irritated? Robbed of his sleep and roused in under an hour all because someone decided he had to get home early and ruin the plans he himself put forth. Contradicting himself in such a baffling way. If it were Anaxa, he would've clawed his own skin at the lack of time management and organization. 

Finally, finally , when there was only five minutes left before midnight did the footman upfront signal the others to open the doors. Clearing his throat dramatically and pudding his chest to announce loudly with his chest voice:  "Entering, his Majesty."

Everyone gets into position, bowing. While Anaxa remains steadfast, raising an eyebrow.

Nothing's changed. When he walks in, he commands the attention of everyone in the room with a suffocating presence. Clicking his shoes against the carpeted floor while his armor rattled. The sinister still silence dominates the room, compared to its earlier lively hustles and bustles, swallowed by the towering figure that made the hall look pathetically small in his wake. He looks colossal draped in thick black fur, still speckled with snow… and blood staining his boots. 

Anaxa bites back his tongue.

Around him, the servants begin to tremble. Lowering their heads further with their hands clasped together in front. "Welcome home, your Majesty." They great in unison, a frigid choir of voices echoing loudly in proclamation. 

Anaxa instead boldly raises his head by the chin, looking down on the Flame Reaver.

"You're home." His voice was a perfect and obvious saccharine, sarcastic in every way that even a speck of fly could detect it. It causes a ripple of jolts among the staff, who begin to look back and forth with worry. Rightfully so, when Anaxa continues to speak wilfully: "Didn't enjoy your time out, I suppose? Retreating home like some–" He cuts himself off with a mocking laugh, shaking his head and crossing his arms. "– ah, never mind, my apologies. I was simply surprised." 

The staff are bewildered, lifting their heads slightly to look between Anaxa and the Flame Reaver. Confused as to why Anaxa was acting so out-of-character, at least what they knew of him. They've not seen the smile on his face, the one currently cruelly plastered and curved arrogantly. It's a new sight, though they don't look disturbed or scared at him specifically. But of their master's reaction.

They turn to the Flame Reaver, who remains still and standing by the door, and looking up towards Anaxa. It creates this picturesque sight, with the royal shadowed while his wife stood under the spotlight with boldness and confidence. They, the stand awed, paired well both in attitude and aesthetic. Powerful, through and through - one through words and intellect, the other through strength and force.

Had Anaxa heard of what they thought, he would've based his own head. Chemistry? Between them two?

"You truly are something else." The Flame Reaver chuckles darkly, the sound reverberating through the house. Only Amaxa didn't cower, standing taller in fact, narrowing his eye dangerously threatening.

In response to his obvious displeasure, hisbhusband calls over one of his knights - Anaxa isn't quite sure, for the man had a sword to his hip but lacked complete armor - who hastily followed. Then, his husband takes out something from the circular hole in his chest. Warping to reveal a box that he handed to the knight, and the knight handed to a footman. "I have brought home a gift for you, wife."

The footman, someone he hadn't met yet, brings forth a cerulean box tied with a white ribbon, with the width and height of his torso. A beautiful wrapping, if only Anaxa didn't worry about its contents–

Because it is moving.  

Quite erratically too.

He glances suspiciously towards the Flame Reaver, barely concealing his aggravation as he slowly unravels the ribbon. Letting it fall towards the floor, holding the cover tight to prevent whatever it is inside from jumping out or exploding. Was it a monster? A sentience? The man came from snowy mountains, then maybe a beast cub that was stolen from its mother? Or another animal to be skinned for its fur? 

The sage clicks his tongue, cautiously peering inside and squinting at the darkness inside to get a gist of what it was.

His eye widened. "This is…" 

A runt, a deformed chimera with soft green fur. A little dirty with melted snow stained dirt on its face. When the thing mewler, confused at the sudden light and squinting, Anaxa realized… the little thing even had his eyepatch - a carbon copy of his. One eye meeting one, baffled and sleepy. It quips quietly, sluggishly lifting its head to peak out the box and reach out towards Anaxa. Its restless movement causes the scholar to pick it up from the inside, holding it precariously on its torso as it dangled. 

Feeling the warmth of his hands, it croons, dropping its head forward to continue slumbering peacefully unlike its new owner, who remains stunned. 

"I'd thought you'd like more company, should I be away again." The Flame Reaver says, loud enough for everyone to hear. Of course, the staff perceives this as a sweet gesture - a husband leaving his wife something behind for him to remember him by, a memento with his liking. "It followed us around and got caught in the crossfire, losing its eye."

Anaxa doesn't share the same sentiments, but takes the poor chimera to his chest and cuddles it. Smoothing it's hair down as it laid comfortably in his arm. "Ah, another one harmed by your recklessness then."

… it is adorable, if not incapable. Chimeras were much smaller and weaker than dromases, and they eat so little. They could be squashed under a dromas' feet, and the larger beast would never even notice what happened - mistaken for a squashed fruit. And it's half blindness adds to it, rendered far lower, weaker, than it already is. The wild wouldn't have been kind to it, and by fortnight its mangled corpse would have either been eaten or rotted.

A wonderful and quite the thoughtful  gift if it just weren't from the Flame Reaver. "Whatever shall I do to show my gratitude for such a generous gift?" Anaxa muses sarcastically, drawing himself up to full height. What would he want? Access to Okhema? Infiltrating the council? Would he ask Anaxa to side with him in taking over the remaining cities? Or would he choose for something far selfish?

The Flame Reaver takes off his coat, handing it to Stylianos before meeting Anaxa's eye with unspoken command. "I would like to bathe." And since he was a bare-faced man that loved to abash him, he added: "Together."

Some maids gasp sharply, while the rest oggle in shock, causing a strong ripple of hushed whispers and heavy stares. A part of him even bemoans their lessons just yesterday about euphemisms and social mindedness, because what the Flame reaver just said was a balant example of lacking decorum that he had precisely suggested they avoid to keep face and in consideration of others.

To be so casually explicit with no regard for the ears of others; shameless! He scorned.

They immediately catch on to the implication, and some of them - those without masks - turn red, while those with faces covered choked on air. The older ones looked away, uncomfortably shifting and clearing their throats to stare at the ground with strong intensity. Wishing, perhaps, for it to swallow them whole and save them.

It is absolutely mortifying to be the source of it all, and his husband has the smug gal to stare at him like nothing is inherently wrong with rendering his whole staff flustered in his stead. Even the poor butler's hunched back creaks in astonishment at today's impudence, no doubt experiencing culture shock.

Why is he the only one ashamed between them two? His husband lived with them far longer!? Can he truly face them after acting with arrant nonsense?!

"Together?" Anaxa harrumphs, concealing his aggravation with a cocky smirk. But one knows when they are losing a race, and Anaxa is well aware of his shortcomings in this unprompted debate. The chimera yips as it is hugged tighter, face pressed against the star in Anaxa's chest. "We would not fit." Although it is a lie, he knew very well that they - theoretically- could.

The Flame Reaver hums, unbothered, flourishing, his skin certiably clear under the mask. "We will if we share the space together."

This sparks the group of gossipers on the side, a ruckus so obvious Anaxa reels for them.

"S-s-share? Skin to skin–!"  

"They're married so it's fine."

"But to say it outloud like that? I-is his Majesty so hungry for our lord he needs to–"

"Shhh!"

"What? You expect them to bathe fully clothed?"

"I don't know!"

"Is this what our lord said when he meant s-scandaylus ?"

"It's sandalous–"

" Scandalous ."

Looks like the next lesson will be about discretion! They're noisy!

"I have already bathed." Anaxa tries. "I was supposed to retire to bed much earlier."

The snort he receives adds to the humiliation, as if his words bear no meaning. "Another one won't hurt. Besides, if not a bath then you can simply soak while I do so."

"They'll be sharing the same water?!"

"Oh Titans, oh heavens… is this…. Is this truly how couples act nowadays?"

"I've never seen his Majesty so… forward."

"More like brazen… brazeen? Braken?"

"No, you were right the first time."

Anaxa's eye twitches, drawn into a harsh frown he couldn't hide. "Bathing so often is–" wasteful , he wished to say. Yet his husband robs him of breath as he's towered over. Engulfed in his titanic shadow, hidden from those below. A deep, rumbling chuckle and a claw grazing his arm seals his mouth shut with a snap of his teeth, his gums aching under pressure. How he wished to sucker punch that stupid, arrogant mask. "–We will not take long, I assure you."

Anaxa huffs, puffing his chest as a red panda would. "It's not about the time, but the principle."

"And my principle–" his husband smoothly interjects. "–is to spend the utmost time with my wife, and claim every space of yours."

If earlier, they had tried desperately and pathetically to keep quiet, they definitely weren't trying to hide it now. Not even the students back in the Grove ever lived to see such a mess. 

"...aa…waaaa…. AGH–!"

"Shhhut up!"

"Who says that– how does he say that ?!"

"Oh, this generation, oh, it will certainly be fruitful."

A wall. This was a wall, not a living being. A despicable wall, too, enjoying his squeamishness and defeat. A thick, indestructible wall.

Anaxa feels his composure crack, a tick of a grin to suppress an explosion staining his face. Years of skill are the only thing holding him back from pouncing and clawing while screeching like a banshee, remembering Castorice's calming melodies and Hyacine's grounding words. You can break it by force, tear it down with a sledgehammer. But it can be built back up again in the very same spot thicker and harder. Only through a tree can you fight a wall after years of growing, sneaking in its roots from the ground below before breaking the foundation of concrete. Stealing its place, forbidding it to be built there again. Even if you cut the tree down and dug it out the soil remembers. Softened, unyielding, capable of collapsing in it itself to harm what dares to stand on its path.

If that's how it's going to be then fine! He wanted to play the hard way? Sure, Anaxa can definitely give that tenfold. This marriage will never be as sweet and romantic as normal couples in the first place.

With a flurry of self-importance, he jutts his chin again. Voice venomously sweet, diabetic almost as he addressed his husband, who leveled him with an amused and deep hum. "Then… I shall meet you there, husband . Let me just finish some stuff–Sophie, please follow me."

Surprised, but quick, the head maid follows him. Leaving behind his gloating husband and stunned, embarrassed staff. The halls of the second floor, more silent than the foyer, provided him with much needed peace. Releasing a heavy, dragged out sigh that felt more like expelling his lungs than air alone. It wasn't as if he was completely free from the torture either, since Sophie couldn't even look at him. Motherly as she was, tender and understanding, he realized she drew the line at a shameless display of affection. To see her stone cold master morph into a rake of sorts no doubt spiraled her. Who even wants to hear their employer's bedroom preferences? Most certainly not them, never will, never had.

"H-how passionate your love is." Sophie stammered when she noticed him side-eyeing her, unable to bear the silence save for their uneven footsteps. And Anaxa wanted to cringe, wanted to bang his head and pluck all his stinging teeth just to get rid of the goosebumps on his skin. She probably wants to, too, because she grits her teeth when she speaks, digging her heels onto the ground like she's compelling it to swallow her whole.

Fate, of course, is unkind.

She, too, drags out a heavy sigh. Smiling thinly, still kind, but having so much trouble understanding. "We shall draw you a bath. Let's make haste."

The first time he had bathed in the adjacent bathroom was just the afternoon after his husband first departed. Tired and drained from greeting every single staff member, using 4 decades of energy to produce the same social skills he saw Hyacine possess fried every nerve in his brain. A bath was what he definitely needed; a warm, easy soak to wash the day's dirt away. Maybe he should drowning himself too while he's at–

– Even so, he finds that he will never get used to the needlessly large room, occupied mostly by a literal pool that mimicked the natural flow of a river. Who even needs such excessiveness? Waves? A human sized tub would've done the job just fine. But here he is everyday faced with a man-made river inside his home. A river that, for the life of him, adjusted to any temperature he wanted. 

… but considering the Flame Reaver's size, perhaps he has been too harsh. Anaxa doubts he actually fits properly here either. 

With that in mind, Anaxa soaks his body into the water. Stepping into the water gracefully with a pleased sigh as the warmth penetrated his skin and settled deep into tense muscles. Lowering himself until the surface reaches his neck, hiding his body with the moist steam. Flushing his face and skin a heated, cherry red. So that when the Flame Reaver finally arrives, he wouldn't be able to get a clear view of his naked body, at least more than he already has. The man had his chance already.

"Why would he even want someone to be present when he bathes?" He grumbles angrily, splashing the water around him. "I for one hate it."

The public bath houses in Okhema, no matter how popular they became, never roused his interest. He can count in one hand the times he's bathed there, and not by first choice. One, when he accidentally dropped a mineral onto his clothes and needed to clean himself asap before risk of toxic exposure. Two, when he lost a bet with Aglaea who needed him as her ears and for second opinion, having him sneak in to tail someone. Last, when his body was dropping into frightening negative temperatures and had to increase the heat in his body stat.

The last one was the deciding factor and final nail to the coffin for him to submit a forceful appeal for a private shower stationed right between his lab and office. Just the right distance and size for necessity rather than pleasure. 

Creeeeeaaaaakkkkkkk…..

The doors never sounded that horrible when Anaxa opened it even if it was terribly heavy. Either the Flame Reaver was weakened to the point of being debilitated, or he's purposely trying to deafen Anaxa's ears. Either way, it's infuriating, adding a cherry on top to the mess he's got dragged into. His headache is bad enough as it is, and that ringing did nothing to ease it.

When the Flame Reaver entered, Anaxa admits he wasn't sure what to expect, but he arrived top less… at least, as far as the sage could tell. It was hard to see through the thick layer of steam. His dark muscles were firmer, more dipped at the jaded edges were replaced by prominent abs with. And although he still had that horrible hood on - the disastrous thing - the cape was, for once, gone. 

The only decency he had on was the short, short towel wrapped around his waist. Barely, actually. The hand on his waist was keeping it up, acting like a makeshift belt of sorts. Should he let go, just one pathetic second, the flimsy thing would fall without gra–

That decency doesn't last long, because the Flame Reaver unceremoniously dumped the towel onto the floor and begins to stalk towards the water menacingly. His feet squeaked on the wet floor, his body sweating up from the steam. Anaxa has never felt so intimidated by a naked man, however …

How curious . Anaxa ponders, unconsciously stsring analytically. With the critical eye of a scholar in search for an answer to an ambiguous question. He doesn't have sexual dimorphism. It's just flat muscle. Maybe he is like the amphibians given his cold skin, but I highly doubt it since his hands were always warm. 

Like many others, based on his body and voice, Anaxa perceived the Flame Reaver to be a man. But perhaps he was the opposite? Or maybe something else, given that he isn't exactly human? If he's amphibian, would he have two too? How curious. How incorrigible. How disgusting. What would he even need for two? In the first place, no one would willingly lay down with him by choice - or, Anaxa backtracks, someone with self-preservation. He had a fair share of acquaintances with, per se, unique tastes.

Would they lay with this mass murderer though? Is the question.

"Why are you so far away?" The Flame Reaver asks, dipping himself slowly into the warm water, unable to soak himself wholly and sending the man-made river to shame with his size. Suddenly, the room felt too small and cramped to Anaxa's liking. "And so pushed up against the side. That's not comfortable."

None of this is.

"The water is much warmer here." Anaxa justifies, argues, whatever it is in between. Making a show of plunging deeper, spreading his arms forward to lean on it - quite prettily, too. "And it's too crowded there. I'll get squashed."

Water begins to slosh around in powerful waves as the Flame Reaver stands up one more, finding his way across, intent on following Anaxa. In response, Anaxa tries to move away too. Fighting against the density of the water, forcing himself through the resistance as fast as he could. Only to ultimately fail when his husband reaches him in under five seconds, grasping him by the wrist before unceremoniously lifting him up half-way out the water.

He shrieked, feeling the cold air meet his torso as he dangled like a petulant cat caught straying. "Wha–"

A large hand wraps around his arm, curiously turning it over even as Anaxa hissed in surprise. "You're frail." His husband grumbles darkly, clicking his tongue so harshly Anaxa felt it snap a cord in his body. The vibrations reached his core, triggering a pavlovian survival response. "I've specifically ordered them to fatten you up. A mere wisp wind will kill you."

Anaxa frowns as his other arms tugged too, inspected like some organism, turned over and over like fried fish. Fatten me up? He wonders. And for what? The chef's did their best, everyone did. He ate more than he did the month before he moved here, thrice of that in fact; eating three times a day with a snake during the afternoons, something he rarely did back in the Grove. There wasn't any luxury for such repose and indulgence, nor did he deign to set time for it when he had lots of experiments and discoveries to unfold. 

Does the Flame reaver intend to feast upon him in the end, truly? Was marriage just a pretense to lower his guard down? Dying by flames or being boiled alive was arguably the worst way to die; slow and ever painful, conscious every second even as you fade to ashes. In a way, it is also a humiliating way to die, in the standards of the other sages and the council at least - they'd die, preferably, with their masked dignity and countenance intact than let anyone see their wretched sides.

His worries were unfounded… for now, because their focus shifts elsewhere as the Flame Reaver begins to lather his hands with soap, foaming it into a large cluster. "From tomorrow onwards I'll have your meals doubled, with snacks in between."

"What utter nonsense." Anaxa basically barks. "I could barely finish my meals as it is."

"You will learn. There are ways to make it acceptable to your palette."

Before Anaxa could retort - or bite - the scent of the soap caught his attention, snapping him towards the approaching hand that began to rub his shoulders firmly. Spearmint and Lemongrass. Cool to the skin, but not heavy and strong to the nose. This soap… it's his. 

Anaxa rarely bought products, preferring to make them himself. Soaps, ointments, remedies; he's made it all for himself and his students. Lavender and honey for Castorice, strawberry milk for Hyacine, rich vanilla for Aglaea… a frosty yet meadow scent for Phainon - one that reminded him of his home after countless of beta testing and sleepless nights of experiments. He knows his creations by heart, and could recognize them immediately.

This was one of them.

But he hadn't brought any with him. Nor did he make any.

…

He doesn't ask, there really wasn't any need to, the conclusion was decided. Asking would be counterintuitive with nothing to gain. Zipping his lips internally as his body is washed thoroughly. With the skill of an expert masseuse, not only rubbing the soap onto his body, but massaging the tense knots he didn't know existed in his body. Circling it with his thumb and pressing down, resulting in small curses to disguise his pleased groans. Denying the obvious skill would be idiocy, even for someone with high pride as his, when the stimulus' results were clearly apparent.

For someone who demanded he bathe with him, it sure as hell is becoming one-sided, their cases reversed; he was supposed to be the one soaking.

After a few moments - in which the Flame Reaver spends an unhealthy amount of time on his arms - Anaxa finds the nerve in him to speak again. Equal parts irritated and creeped out by the decreasing distance between the mask and his covered armpits. The soap slides across his skin as he plants his elbows to his side, slippery and cold. "Tsk! You scrubbed it too hard, it hurts."

"I apologize." The attention to his arms shift, wandering hands drifting carelessly towards his ankles. "I forgot you have such sensitive skin. You used to break out at– hm , none the matter. This soap helps." The Flame Reaver gently turns towards his left leg, massaging his heel. Summoning a loofah to begin scrubbing off the dead skin cells.

Anaxa narrows his eye, the void underneath his eyepatch swirling in apparent suspicion. One that the Flame Reaver ignored casually as he continued his mundane activity of washing Anaxa's feet like it's the most satisfying thing in the world. His stare hardens, sharpens like a spear piercing through the steam and outrageous mask. This wasn't the first time the Flame Reaver acted so… familiar . Somehow not even in a stalkerish way.

He was missing something , he could feel it. A piece laid out for him in the open to complete the puzzle of a wide picture, something at the tip of his tongue and grazed by his fingers. The other pieces have all been lined up in his mind, creating the answer to a question that was buried so deep in the back of his mind he couldn't remember. The way the Flame Reaver acted was something beyond base investigation, he couldn't have possibly gauge this level of discernment from reports or observation, unless faced with the subject of interest and involved in the process itself. It was like, if Anaxa were to say, like he kn–

" Ah! "

The Flame Reaver suddenly slid one hand too far up his leg, and one of the knuckles of his fingers grazed Anaxa's cunt. Sending electric sparks zapping through his veins, any previous thought vanishing into thin air. 

His own hands shoot down to stop it, trying to stand up. "What do you think you're doing?" He hissed when the hand didn't retract immediately, instead staying there.

He traps that hand between his legs, his knees hurting on impact. Whatever it takes to stop the advance. 

The Flame Reaver finds this amusing, shrugging his shoulders. "You were drifting." He replies, like that was the most reasonable logic in the world. "I don't like seeing my wife so… tense . Allow me to assist ."

His legs are forcefully parted with a swat, his husband's large thumb pressing against his clit. Anaxa unwillingly hisses again, jerking instinctively towards the touch, seeking. He's all ways mortified and angry, turning red for all possible reasons– oh good Titans! One finger, just one covered the entirety of his slit. Snuggled between his plump lower lips, rubbing circles with calculated pressure that triggered something in him.

"S-stop–" A warm wet tongue licks his cheeks, catching the stray tear he didn't realize slid down amidst it all. 

"Relax."

How can he? How can he when every inch of his skin is being mapped with the precision of an expert, not an inch left untouched by the steering trails of his touch that stirred unwanted yet familiar reactions from him. Sensually touching him, a subtle tease when he least expects. The nerves in his brain, a chaotic mess of live wires dipped in water, lighting up sensations he didn't know existed in him.

Seeing as he had nothing left to say - couldn't - the Flame Reaver manhandled him, positioning him so that he sat in his lap and leaning against his chest sideways. It's much easier for him to do what he wants like this, easier to hold Anaxa tighter and stop him from slipping out of his grip. Like this, Anaxa isinevitsbly forced into close, skin-to-skin proximity. His arm against the Flame Reaver's chest, sliding against it with the soap each time he tries to jerk away from the insistent prod. Testing his response, watching and feeling as Anaxa begins to melt. Any tense bone in his body turning weak, his knees losing strength.

Trembling hands finds its clumsy way to grip broad shoulders, wanting to push away yet lacking the strength to do so. He simply holds on , attempting to ground himself. But when he feels that he could, that he's returning to his sanity and that he could focus once more a finger slides into him. When did he even get so wet ? He hadn't even noticed, submerged in water still, mistaking the heat he's feeling from the bath. The finger slid in so easily, carving its way inside with relentless pursuit until it's all the way to the knuckle.

Anaxa clicks his tongue, if only to stop the whimper at the back of his throat as the Flames Reaver curls his finger upwards, his eyes whitening for a second as his breath gets lodged in his throat. The man stills in contemplation and amusement, his hum vibrating against the sage's cheek, and Anaxa just knows he's smirking underneath that mask. "Right here, huh."

He knows what that means, vehemently denying it. "No, don't you dare, you insolent–wait!"

The finger was big enough to equal Anaxa's own two fingers, and that didn't include the length. Setting a slow yet unbearable pace, dragging it against his walls before pushing in far and deep as it could go. All the while circling Anaxa's clit with his thumb, uncoordinated, so that he won't be able to predict and prepare himself. Abusing his gummy insides, reminding him what exactly it is he's forgotten.

But ah– it's been so long. With everything that has happened these past eight years and the invasions he never really had time for himself, much less this. He could barely even remember what his own fingers felt like, or the worn down pillow he used. And this foreign sensation, one he never envisioned himself experiencing felt so intense he couldn't think . For such a high-ranked sage and respected professor, his thoughts jumbled and reduced to nothing by simple simulation.

It's been so long, when before he could go about edging himself a week without losing himself. Just a random stress reliever, handling classes and going about his day with his creations stuck up inside him or attached. Sometimes, when he had off-weeks he'd even lock himself up in his lab experimenting with his body sexually. Riding his mechanisms or indulging in aphrodisiacs, even downing it like alcohol as it burned not only his body but his desires. He remembers, distantly, that they felt pleasurable, but also never this intense. Has his body gotten so unused to touch, to sensations it becomes a wanton mess? He couldn't even recognize the sounds he's making, the reactions his body produces or the amount of slick secreting from his fluttering hole desperate for more.

It's too much, yet it's not enough. This traitorous body was given an inch and is now demanding a mile. Something more - a part of his brain supplies what exactly it is he wants, but he forcefully shoves it back in his pandora box, in denial and unwilling. Stronger, harder, bigger –no, stop it! 

Ah, but what if– his eye subconsciously drifts down, meeting the blurry sight of his pussy getting fingered underwater, speeding up now that Anaxa keeps twitching unstoppable. Abusing his insides, furiously rubbing his poor swollen nub. And fuck fuck fuck even just a finger alone indented his stomach, a small protrusion appearing and disappearing in tandem with its thrust. That knowledge alone doubled him over, a sharp cry torn from his throat as he hastily looked away a second to late. The image seared into his mind, clenching tightly as he felt that coil in his abdomen threaten to snap.

The Flame Reaver must've noticed it too, feeling the anxious flutter around his finger that heated up further. "How quick." He teased, leaning to nose Anaxa's neck with a deep inhale and a shaky exhale, hsi warm breath puffing against sensitive, goosebumps riddled skin. Anaxa keened, trying to stop himself from letting go then and there when the Flame Reaver whispers hotly, rapidly into his ear with a nibbl

" Let go ."

Anaxa shudders, covering his mouth before a high keen could escape as he came. Digging his own nails onto his cheeks, his ears ringing and heart racing as all blood rushed down south. It felt more than just a physical sort of release, more like he's been drained of what he's worth, squeezed dry until there's nothing left to give. And the Flame Reaver doesn't stop . Continues rubbing, keeping up the same pace even as he begins to jolt hard enough he almost slipped. The overstimulation teetered the line of pain and pleasure that swept like harsh waves.

It takes three more deep thrusts and Anaxa gurgling for the Flame Reaver to pull out his finger. Wiping the excess of his release on Anaxa's quivering thigh before bringing it up to his face to smell. Sniffing his hand deeply and shuddering, making Anaxa quake. "You're so warm and pliant. Maybe I should keep you like this inevitably."

His musings, usually met with a sharp quip go unnoticed. Unheard by the man turned into mush and still drifting. Years of stress somehow uncoiled with a sudden snap stole all his energy and capability to even think.

"I will leave again tomorrow night. Before that…" The Flame Reaver says, laying Anaxa's head on half his bountiful pec. The soft mount providing much needed cushion for the poor thing's swimming head yet to come down from the clouds. "I've heard you haven't toured our home completely. A misstep on my part. So we will look around tomorrow."

Anaxa couldn't even find it in himself to argue.

What was he supposed to ask again?

Well, it didn't matter now… did it?

Anaxa had taken the past two weeks for granted.

Now his precious personal space was being invaded every second.

From the moment he woke up, feeling sweaty and hot from being draped under a large mass of skin and breakfast where he wasn't allowed to sit anywhere else but his husband's lap.

The staff had, fortunately, got used to it quickly. Whatever nonsense they experienced last night dousing them with immunity, stone-faced with a thin sheen of pity and empathy. Even in class, where he teached, the Flame Reaver refused to be away three feet from him - a hand on his shoulder, standing right behind him, or hovering at his side.

He doesn't know how the others got to seal Kleio's big mouth, because she's been uncharacteristically silent the whole class. Pressing her lips together, all her words trapped cramped in her throat it turned slightly red from irritation. The class, usually lively and filled with questions, turned somber like a funeral. In a way, something has died indeed; their privacy. Buried deeper than six, rotted for over than hours.

He clicked his tongue, rolling a scroll close and re-sealing it with a string. There is no way they can continue normally, and he isn't keen to keep them feeling like hostages rather than students. It was a fruitless case. "... class dismissed." 

To say the students fled was an understatement. They flew out the door the moment he uttered those words with the same determination of an ostrich that seemingly is trying to fly. Disappearing along the wispy winds with a harsh swoosh of a sound, betraying Anaxa and leaving him alone.

The Flame Reaver hums, deeply amused, placing his large hand over Anaxa's whole shoulder. "You dismissed them early today. Stylianos told me you frequently exceed schedule from their enthusiastic questions." 

And whose fault was that? There was no way his husband didn't know. He was filled with bloodlust, but Anaxa's learned to realize he isn't dumb , nor is he as hasty as he makes himself to be. Yet he acts like it, and that was fuel to the kindling fire already boiling his blood pressure.

Anaxa, to save his dignity, chooses to ignore him. Roughly jerking the hand off, and speed walking towards the shelves and putting aside all learning material.

Of course, life was never that easy, was it? 

"It's a pity, I truly wanted to see how you teach. It's been long–last I heard you stopped teaching classes eight years ago?" The sound of his tools clinking together, no doubt bothered by the Flame Reaver's curious prodding. "I was curious. You were such a famed professor and you suddenly stopped, only holding seminars and symposiums at random."

His fist clenched tightly beneath his long sleeves, concealed beneath flowy fabric. Don't listen to him . He hissed to himself, a curse and retort already on the tip of his tongue. It stung like poison and burnt scalding hot, but it would never be effective for a man like the monster behind him. His words, usually so powerful and cutting as the sharpest of blades, were nothing to a man whose skin was as thick and unyielding as rubber.

Anaxa does his best to ignore him, buying himself around. Keeping his lips firmly glued together and stimming. It amuses the man behind him, who leans casually against the table filled with clutter, watching his wife hustle and bustle around the greenhouse. The feeling is akin to a mouse scurrying about, watched closely by a cat. Not quite pouncing, just watching closely with intrigue. The skin of his hair rises at the strong, focused stare branding his back. Directing him as he did the night before.

He flushes unwillingly, thankful that he's turned away, at the memory. His body tingles in reminiscence, his insides clenching pitifully at being denied. He couldn't even solve the problem himself, not when he hadn't been granted a moment's privacy. Resulting in pent up tension after their… well, rendezvous.

In the first place I never said I liked it! Anaxa huffed to himself indignantly, chin turned upward with an air of self-righteousness. It was just a natural bodily response.

 … He didn't last five minutes that night. The shortest he's ever done, even including the first time he began experimenting with his sexuality.

Anaxa clicks his tongue, glaring at a splinter on the wood like it insulted him. Like a depraved hormonal teen; how embarrassing.

"You haven't visited the gallery, I presume?" He hears the Flame Reaver ask, and when he casts his gaze sideways he sees the man checking the shelves. Scanning each section with curious air and nonchalance. After which he turns to anaxa, once he's sure his wife is actually looking at him, to offer his hand. "Come. I have much to show you. A sage as yourself would no doubt appreciate such… antiques."

Anaxa scoffs, crossing his arms, cheekily hiding both his hands. "Do I look like someone who would enjoy such frivolous things?"

"Oh? Anything for you, you enjoy, as long as you can experiment with it. And I, as your husband, allow you to do as you wish with all the treasures in that room. Put it to good use, instead of letting it collect dust."

Anaxa almost got caught slipping, a shine of interest in his eye. "Why should I even? It's a waste of time."

"Nothing should be declared a waste of time before the results come."

A quote derived from his forefathers, a quote he penned in one of the biographies he's written. This one has done more research than he believed him to, to go as far as to unearth Anaxa's first project in the Grove. Even he himself forgot to care about it when it bore no significance to his later studies. 

Oh, right. Anaxa thinks, a flicker of half an idea passing through him. He needed to find out just how much the Flames Reaver knew of the remaining cities. Whether it be per individual or as a whole. Given his scarily precise findings of Anaxa, it would be a safe bet to think he has gathered information of at least all the Chrysos heirs and those in high-ranked position. If so, he had to find out just how he did it; how he passed through the tight security, not including Aglaea's threads that worked diligently overtime.

So, with a heavy and reluctant sigh, he finally caves. Placing his hand on his husband's and allowing him to lead him out of his safe space. 

Naturally, once everyone sees them strolling about with hands held together, they are astonished. The staff pass by either trip and fall flat to their faces or hit the wall they walked straight into. Some do double takes, comically turning slow once, then whipping their head almost 180° from the sight before them. It didn't help that Xenia planned too well , pairing his current attire with the Flame Reaver's; a gothic purple blouse with a golden gilded corset. They would've been the spotlight, had they attended a ball for sure. Not that he wanted to, appalled by the idea. 

They finally reach large doors after experiencing the longest five minute walk of his life, staring dazed into space as he planned how to humiliate the man beside him. It was the opposite of the cathedral doors where their wedding was held, held up by some plain wood and knobs, reminding him of a tavern's entrance rather than a gallery. That should've been a sign for mediocre, but his quick eye spots the excess of velvet rugs that cost more than all his equipment. 

It was a ruse. Anaxa concludes, half-impressed and half-uninterested. He knows better ways to hide such treasures than this farce.

The gallery was massive, catered to the Flame Reaver's dark taste. Walls painted dark with gold, gems embedded into the pillars glinting against the light. The moment he entered, he could feel warmth from a seemingly never ending hearth that stationed itself in the middle of the room, burning hotly and illuminating every relic. 

He allows himself to take it all in. Observing every painting, every ancient relic that decorated the halls; every detail, no matter how obscure or bland in his eyes,  on the carved walls; the faint scent of incense and therapeutic oils stuck to the objects surrounding them. Each piece is a testament of history, placed strategically in lieu of the timeline. Just like a museum, lacking only the friendly tour guides and giveaway pamphlets per aisle. 

All the while, like any proud man, the Flame Reaver gloats. Not with words, he is far smarter than that,but with actions. Leading Anaxa around, bringing him to trophies - ruined weapons, tattered armors, broken antiques - to show off his steals. Meticulously spending more time on the larger scaled spoils of war, like a silver crown folded, and a scepter with its source torn to be displayed separately.

There are notable ones, of course, some that even anaxa is familiar with through history texts.

"These are the crowns of the princesses from the Northern Empire. Finely made, naturally, fit for nobility, and could even be turned into a choker necklace. Alas impractical, much heavier. They had run with it, and it slowed them down. Had they been smart enough, really, with enough wit to survive they'd have dropped it instead."

Those useless crowns were their mother's heirlooms, last Anaxa heard. Mementos left after her untimely death, a carriage incident no one could've predicted. Leaving behind four children, three princesses and a prince that died before his first year. Their father was a madman, who cared not for his blood but wealth alone. For him his wife's death was an escape rather than a tragic loss, a decrease in space. Surely one could already expect what he thinks of the children they shared; nothing, he thought nothing of them, left as afterthoughts in his intoxicated mind. 

Those crowns were their lifelines.

"These ones were gifts–" The Flame Reaver gestured to a pair of vases; one of jade and one of porcelain. "–from Ladon. They were famous for their poetry skills. How unfortunate they break so easily."

One after the other, the same story; robbing Amphoreus of its history for himself and storing it in a place for only him to see. Swords, armors, tapestries, currencies, portraits, thrones; he took them all. Truly, a despicable, selfish act meant to satisfy his growing ego.

"Do tell–" Anaxa crooned, rolling his eyes while he did so to cut off the Flame Reaver's rambling. "–what is your greatest achievement?"

"Hmm." The Flame Reaver thinks deeply, looking amused and rather excited too. Like he waited for this question to be brought up, clutching Anaxa tighter with a languid stroke to his lower back. "I was granted a worthwhile fight with a comment soldier. He put up a good fight enough for me to tire."

There was another room, tucked deeper and sealed. The charm placed signified its importance, even if it was but a simple spell easily decoded. He's seen his students create far more complex patterns invented, although clumsy - Anaxa, with all his knowledge could easily snipe them all open without even blinking or looking.

"After I defeated him, I took his weapon - or at least what remained of it - and mounted it up as a reminder. He made the fight enjoyable, which is rare."

He's gestured inside, and he steps in with trepidation. The room is colder, far more rigid than any place he's ever been to in the palace. The hair on his skin rises instantly, and his heart begins to beat an unsteady feeling. Anaxa feels anxious, his hands suddenly clammy and cold, yet he couldn't understand why. It's just a darker room, with probably just one artifact or two that the Flame Reaver reaver valued above others, even if just slightly. There's not much significance in his eyes, not when he can't discern what it is the man wants to show him.

With a flick of the Flame Reaver's wrist, the torches - that he didn't even realize were there - lit up with a blinding light, whitening his vision for a solid five seconds. He hisses instinctively, rubbing his good eye as his husband laughs in amusement and pats his head. "I apologize, it's been so long since I've been here the torches were unstable."

They stop. "Here. I think you'll like it."

Anaxa curses internally, still feeling the warmth of embarrassment on his face when he lifts his head up cautiously.

A familiar hilt from a greatsword mounted to the wall, carved with gold, the symbol of the sun.

Phainon's weapon.

Just like that, Anaxa felt cold again. Doused with cold, ice memories. Of smiles and light, the star and its glory; of happiness, of pride, of joy–of everything that was stolen from him. Ripped from his hands the treasure he wished he had kept hidden from the cruelty of this world. The physical feeling of warmth robbed from his body to throw him into deep waters. Now it stands before him, again, the reminder of his failures and grief. Before him his unanswered, echoing call. The other half of his misery, the half that he wished he never saw for the sake of his sanity.

In the past, he always hoped, inadvertently, to find the other half of the greatsword. With the fevered hope to complete Phainon's tomb, even without the body. He wished he had a proper way to commemorate his student, even if they never found his corpse - and really, he doesn't know if he could actually bear to see his body, lifeless and bloodied, drenched in sickening thick golden blood with the light of his eyes done, embraced by Thanatos's untouchable realm. Reality is always far from imagination. 

"Do you like it?" His husband had asked when he noticed him staring, tightening his hold on his hand like a warning. "I can give it to you if you want. I have no use for it besides decoration."

It takes everything in him not to tremble, to control his breathing as those cruel and horrible words sinked in. A dispensable; when Phainon had worked hard until calluses and scars formed on his skin just to be granted such a mighty greatsword. Treasuring it, valuing it with his being. One of the things he was most proud of and was honored to receive in his life, third to his graduation diplomas and valedictorian title. For Phainon this sword was his trophy, his responsibility and honor - even if it was trying, with the burden of the weight of their world on his shoulders. This sword was half of Phainon's everything, and he loved it as his own.

To the Flame reaver it was nothing more than clutter.

His mouth is parched like sand, and his tongue tastes like ash. He tries to speak, determined to sound harsh as he always did. Yet it falters, instead sounding distant. A monotonous airy sound more like a wheeze of air. "... isn't this… important to you?" 

His husband shakes his head, chuckling. "Not at all. I was thinking of throwing it away soon anyways."

Oh did he have a knot constricting his throat, robbing him of air. 

The monster couldn't even remember Phainon's name. Labeled him a soldier boy amongst many others.

Anaxa could only imagine how careless he was while Phainon was fighting with everything in line, with everything to bet for and to fight for. But his student was only a pitiful, discarded rook cast aside without second thought. A replaceable fun toy he tossed away without second thought.

The doors to the gallery opened, but Anaxa barely registered it. Nor did he realize the Flame Reaver has finally let go of him to address the person, their words static. He just continues to stare at his reflection on the greatsword, never realizing just how sick he looked, almost a white sheet. They say when you see a wraith, it is either yourself in the mirror or a person that haunts you. For Anaxa it was both, and it tortured his mind and body. 

The Flame reaver returns to his side, grumpy with a dark sigh. "I have to leave now. Plans have shifted earlier. I'll be back in a fortnight."

His chin is tilted upwards, his blank gaze meeting that hideous mask. "Won't you greet your husband goodbye?"

Anaxa feels sick. This monster, he knew what he was doing. Conscious of Anaxa's feelings, knows who Phainon is to him. He knew from the beginning what would happen when he brought him here. This sick, twisted beast.

Wordlessly, unresponsive, he lets the Flame Reaver lean in. His tongue tracing his lips, prying it open to wrap around his tongue. Languidly rolling it over, sucking in Anaxa's breath and saliva as the sage remained motionless, detached from reality. He felt numb, disgusted, and dirty all the same. Kissing, being intimate with the source of Phainon's demise.

Perhaps… He thinks distantly with a harrowing realization, that this was the Flame Reaver's plan all along. That his aim from the very beginning was Anaxa, and Phainon was mere collateral damage that got dragged into this mess, a trivial pest in the Flame Reaver's plans. The idea bubbles and fizzles, poisoning his mind. Horrible, horrible thoughts stewing within him, believing that he's possibly the reason for Phainon's death.

His husband pulls back, tracing Anaxa's lips one last time with his tongue before retreating it back under the mask. He seems to hesitate hovering by Anaxa's side with increasing tension, but decides against it. Sighing heavily and turning his back to leave. "... I'll come back."

As the royal walks ahead, leaving him behind, his composure breaks. 

Dark and horrible bloodshot eye, glaring with the intent of murder. Every muscle in his face was tense, and the shadow covering his face could rival the starless nights of the Grove. Even his breathing was erratic in spite of calculated silence, heavy and tight with pure and unadulterated rage and hatred that burned. The blood in him begins to boil, the fire of his emotions fueling the dormant thirst for blood - for revenge. Stronger than ever before, ever bitter and burning like poison. 

He shakily traces the scratches on the blade, his breath stuttering as he cuts the thinnest layer of his skin - no blood, no pain, nothing. Cold.

He refuses to acknowledge the tear that slipped down, staining his pale, sickly tinted cheek. 

That afternoon he orders the servants to bring him to a storage room. Ignoring their frightened concerned faces when they take one look at his face, cowering in fear, rushing to lead him to the vacant west side of the palace and fleeing for their lives when he dismissed them.

Alone he begins to stim. A twitch to his fingers, a jerk of his shoulders. Small things that are excusable to the naked eye - but not for long.

He snaps.

Something fragile, something delicate, was the first thing to break to unleash all he has kept locked in. Screaming bloody murder as he starts tearing around at everything. Grabbing vases and finery, hurling them across the room. There was no aim, no goal; just destruction, just devastation. The undying urge to break everything in sight. Wrecking the place the same way the world has ruined him. Tearing apart at the paint like how his soul got torn. Clawing away at the statues and the abandoned miscellaneous like the putrid nails that sunk into lungs. Ripping the tapestries and curtains with his whole body weight, the same heaviness his heart was made to suffer all these years after it got ripped.

He cares not for the blisters and scratches that form around his hands and arms as he grabs at shards and splinters. Didn't bother to check as his feet cut and stepped on fragments.

All he wanted was ruin. Anything to get his mind off Phainon.

So he did.

By nightfall, the room was a torrent of a mess. Giving a whole new definition to a renovation - not that it was much, aesthetically speaking. Not a single piece survived the tornado of his emotions, broken down beyond salvation. In the middle stands Anaxa, panting with remnants of his grief and suffering. Filthy blood stained each fracture, dripping a puddle onto the shattered tiles beneath his wounded feet, enough of it gathering for his reflection. 

Not even this could absolve the emptiness of his heart.

He breaks anew, gripping his hair so tight he can hear his scalp protest and collapsing onto the ground. Tugging on his Hari, desperately grounding himself with the pain if only to avoid drifting deeper into himself. Deeper, somewhere unreachable, where he'd keep on breaking on countless cycles with no end.  There would be no salvation, he would never survive something like that.

Sophia finds him curled almost lifeless later, laying in the ruin. She doesn't speak, doesn't even make a sound when she approaches him. Wordlessly helping him up to retire to his room, covering his head with her veil. He ignores the horrified looks he gets as they pass, looking like he's a corpse being guided back to Thanatos rather than a living being. If it weren't for Sophia, who'd rejected the concerned advances of the staff, Anaxa felt that he probably would've gone mad again.

"It's going to be alright." She assures as much as she could, stitching his wounds and bandaging his feet. Whispering sweet words and gentle coddling in hopes to snap him out of the trance he was in. When she leaves, she whispers faintly. Letting her soothing voice trickle in the dark room. "The sun always rises."

How could he tell her the sun will never rise for him, because his sun died?

The sun is set to die.

Anaxa stares ahead, dead eyed and numb. Somehow that is far worse than the unbearable pain, somehow it was colder. He didn't feel quite alive, but he also felt too alive. Conscious of every sensation yet unable to process it fully, as if drifting into space, stuck in a third person's point of view. 

It's going to be alright . 

He drags himself out of the bed to walk towards the window, peering out the night sky. Phainon… he always said that nights were much lovelier than the days, because it was peaceful, and no one expected you to do anything at night. For him, nighttime was to rest, to let go of every burden and lay back to watch the countless stars and envision worlds beyond reach. 

On the night of his graduation, Phainon had called Anaxa his moon.

… it's going to be alright.

His eye drift downwards, to the almost endless garden that housed every single plant in Amphoreus. 

His eye locks onto the group of oleanders, and the colors around him begin to dim into muted shades.

Because I'll be killing him soon.

"Have you all reviewed the notes I gave you all?" Anaxa announced to the class, enjoying the quiet curses and surprised jolts that rippled across the unprepared. "Don't be so frightened, you fools. It is but a painting, and I assure you all have well-enough comprehension to comprehend it at a glance." With a flick of his wrists the painting appears through green mist. Revealing it cased into silver frames and placed atop an easel.

"First tell me the title, just to make sure you're all on the same page."

A hesitant hand rises, clad in purple, and he nods. "Yes, Castorice."

"Isabella and the Pot of Basil."

He allowed a moment for them to stare at the painting, watching closely as they each began to realize the oddity in the art. When a familiar, restless hand raises itself, horrible purple and yellow sleeves, Anaxa grins. "Yes, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae."

"The pot has hair?" He answered confidently, and snickers broke out everywhere. "Basil doesn't have hair." 

"Way to state the obvious." Anaxa chuckles with dark mirth, nodding his head. "Now with that information on hand, what can you conclude?"

"... seeing as she's weeping and the hair, someone she loves is in that pot…?"

"You are correct. Ten points to you, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae." Anaxa praised, voice dripping as he turned back towards the painting.

"Isabella and the Pot of Basil depicts a woman mourning her lover Lorenzo, after he met his untimely death in the hands of her own brother." He points the gun towards the painting, specifically towards Isabella. "Her grief is abundant, and even quoted that she's hung over her sweet Basil evermore and that she moistened it with tears unto the core ."

Anaxa turns back to the class with a dramatic flourish of his cape. "Isabella, in her grief, dug up Lorenzo's corpse and planted his skull in a pot of basil, watering it with her tears."

Some of the students, the more sensitive and emphatic ones, tear up. The rest blink in astonishment, glancing back at the painting. He knows what they're thinking: why would she do that? Why did it have to happen to him? He too, once as a student, had the same questions. The passage was vague, and although the brother's specific intentions were never brought to light, the main point was that he didn't approve of Lorenzo and Isabella's relationship. But he had been naive, and had insulted Isabella's broken state, calling her weak. She was young, barely in her twenties, and she definitely had time to move on. Anaxa found it selfish that she'd choose to wallow up in grief, even feeding into it instead of finding ways to heal, when she had so much years ahead of her

Anaxa had years to reassess his choice back then.

Castorice shyly raised her hand again, and he jutted his chin in response. "What would you have done if you were Isabella, professor?" She asked, voice almost inaudible if it weren't for how silent it was. Everyone was immediately alert, focused and ready to listen to his answer. How he wished they had the same fervor with their actual lessons instead of random trivia.

"Me?" Anaxa hummed, tapping the nuzzle against his chin and drifting his eyes upwards. After a minute or so, his smile form's a devious smirk. "Well…" He chuckles darkly, the sound thrilling everyone's hair. Sinister, dark, and promising; twirling his gun carelessly with its fuel still intact, the front row students dodging fruitlessly.

"I'd be more than happy to kill my lover's killer."

Phainon beams, uniquely satisfied with Anaxa's answer. "How fun!"

Chapter Text

The cure was ready.

After long years of trial and error, of hopeless days and sleepless nights that bore no fruit; it has blossomed.

With it came the tiring, draining relief that collapsed his body where he stood, staring at it in disbelief and joy. His hand ached from the burden in his hands, safely stored in a beaker. The weight of his actions chained to his wrists. It looked so simple, so clear like water. Unassuming and normal.

But for Anaxa it was everything.

The cure to the plague that halved Amphoreus.

The plague that had taken his sister and everything away from him.

He chuckled weakly, finding strength to stand up again. The taste of success always tastes so raw and sweet. "Finally."  He breathes, a sigh of relief shaking his bones as he tilts it towards the light, letting it reflect beautifully. "With this, no one will need to fear the plague again."

Like this, the greatest source of his nightmares have come to an end… supposedly.

Tired eyes wander sideways, towards a terrarium housing an artificial pathogenic plant blooming a sickly, poisonous synthetic red. The surrounding weeds around it got infected, sporting leaf spots and powdery mildew. Some eaten alive from within, its stems standing carcasses of what it once was. It mists over the glass, a moist fog of sickness he could sense beyond its glass barrier.

The path to success always met failure, one way or another, before ever seeing light. But he hadn't calculated the possibility of this coming into fruition.

He places the vaccine safely inside a storage unit before heading towards the transparent globe. The calculations and graphs were still hastily scribbled from the paper and spilling on top of oak, ink and graphite smearing the desks and his hands from the countless equations and formulas he had to invent just for this very moment. One of them, on the brink of failure, had procured this monstrosity.

"Maneater." He called to the plant, watching as it sucked up another plant's nutrients and left it to waste away. At the sound of his voice it freezes, then slowly reaches a withered leaf out to press flat against the glass. "You really just won't die, would you?"

He tried, vehemently, to discard this creation. But he couldn't burn it - for the ashes could still infect - nor could he bury it - for it would simply grow out of his control. Even if he tried acid, its molten remains contain the needed components to jumpstart the plague again. Anaxa wasn't quite sure what would happen if he did try, but he didn't want to risk another plague be born from its subsidiary, much less it be under his name. There's enough of a mob already formed, and although pleasing to his eyes alone, he'd rather not deal with additional haters clamoring at his doorsteps and business.

Anaxa sighs again, feels it scratch his lungs from how many times he's done it, and opens the terrarium. The plant freezes, cautious, before letting a singular vine reach out. He finds that adorable, in his own twisted way, how something so lethal could be so… obedient, in a sense, once domesticated. Like the mighty chimeras reduced in size to the gentle giants that are dromases. Although he is certain no one else would share the same sentiments as he did once they realize the power this singular plant truly holds. 

"... how about this?" He says, speaking softly like a parent would a child. Letting it climb onto his hand and out of its cage to bring closer to him. Like a child it latches on close, gripping at him with something akin to… trust? It's hard to discern. "I will let you live… but only within me."

The plant tilts slightly. 

"My body is capable of hosting you. The blood of a Chrysos heir should sustain you enough to live. But you can't come out and try to feed off others, only me."

It was a tricky decision, one of the largest gambles he's had to date. To keep within his body the most lethal plague Amphoreus has ever had, a bullet forever lodged in his heart. One wrong move, one wrong miscalculation, and everything can snap back to ground zero. But Anaxa, unlike others, had such tremendous faith in himself. He knew and trusted himself to play his cards right, because he was not an idiot like the rest of the sages. This was a huge risk, but it was also guaranteed as long as no outsider messed him up.

The Maneater seems to realize this too. It begins shifting, showing signs of heightened cognitive abilities. Truly smarter than a lot of them outside.

It nods, and that's all Anaxa needed.

With his powers he fashioned it within his body, molding it with his soul. His lungs protest, thumbing painfully with his heart, but he continues - it's not as painful as everything else. Maneater glows, a vibrant yet soft green, before it disappears. Gone as quickly as it happened, and so did the pain. But its presence remains near, within Anaxa, wrapping a warm hug around his soul. And he could see it when he closed his eyes, when he focused hard enough; a large beautiful tree in the abysmal realm of his chest that glowed.

For something so deathly, it was the brightest thing his soul ever possessed.

"Maneater." He calls again, and the tree flickers from within.

They are one.

So this is it. Anaxa thinks, mentally preparing himself for the aftermath as he begins to pen the council and the other Chrysos heirs. The aftermath is a full fledged prophecy without peace in sight, he knows, and he could technically hide it to prevent it. But Anaxa was not a liar.

The news arrived somber and quiet, on an unassuming, small column in the newspaper, cleverly placed between comedy and drama as if to soften the blow. But it erupts at one's notice and spreads like a wild fire; from the mouth of indignant gossipers. Its loudness takes over the cities, to the desolate towns in the outskirts, to the isolated homes by the mountains. Petitions for his head are held no longer than a day, and death threats fill his mail every morning. He meets his own face smeared with pig's blood plastered almost everywhere, vandalizing neat walls and innocent trees with poor imitations of him. The Nousporists did their best at damage control, with Phainon and Castorice at the helm of things. While Hyacine worked tirelessly with Agalea to draft restraining orders after one-too-many incidents of rotten eggs and tomatoes were thrown at him in passing.

But the damage was done, and word spread beyond the main cities to the desolate conservative towns.

Towns that believed in sacrifices, places that believed him to be a curse from the heavens brought down to punish the living.

The power he held over them was massive, and it threatened everyone to their very core. 

Anaxa held both the cure and the cause.

And nobody liked that.

Of course the path to murder is never an easy one. Anaxa knew this from experience.

Foul play wasn't uncommon for the Chrysos heirs, even for those like Castorice and the Tribios despite their seemingly amicable and soft demeanor. Aglaea even more so, with literal strings pulled behind the scenes that mercilessly cut down opposers. Neither Hyacine, who was perceived to be the kindest and most agreeable of the bunch had a spit-fire tongue she cleverly hid with cryptic phrases hiding her true intentions.

Anaxa, as a sage, heavily relied on his alchemy, forbidden or not. Taking the downward spiral from the moment he stabbed his own eye to attempt a dubious ritual in hopes to see his sister's ghost. Then it was carving into his own skin, then harvesting his own organs, chipping off flesh and hair. The deeper he went, the more unsalvageable his situation came to be. Because soon it was animals and carcasses he dug from unnamed tombs, to the limbs of criminals sentenced to life imprisonment under Mydeimos or Aglaea's ascent.

Even the prince hid his dirt well under rules and royal bearings, guising his methods under ancient rites and privileges.

All the Chrysos' heirs had their darker sides, but only Anaxa wore it on his sleeves and paraded his insanity around as a trophy.

But he lacked experience when it came to killing, leaving most of the body work to Aglaea who skillfully kept her records clean and flawless. Sure he's had his fair share of ingenious ideas, but the manual work always fell into the hands of others. Without his teaching tool, his only possible form of murder could be through more subtle means.

Like poison, or aiming at a specific nerve. 

It takes careful planning to kill something as powerful as the Flame Reaver. Now that he's incapacitated from his greatest strengths, it would take so much longer to cleanly execute his plans. Stabbing him or gutting him won't work when that monstrous body had skin as tough as rubber and durable as leather, but poison could work if timed perfectly. All he had to do was to test that the poison was indeed incompatible with the host body, and if not, tamper with the  variables.

He wonders if the Flame Reaver knows just how brave he is to plant oleanders and foxgloves so out in the open when their toxins were so severe to the human body. Once he tampered with these plants, creating a weak mist spray in an attempt to create a self-defense mechanism simple enough even a child could use. Yet he ended up convulsing half an hour, hallucinating while doing so, suffering in his own vomit on the floor. Naturally, this project was instead incorporated with another project meant for interrogation instead - courtesy of Cerydra.

How he can't wait for something far worse for the Flame Reaver.

His plan is slow but methodical, like weak rain that soaks your entire being without your consciousness. It is careful, patient, even if he needs to feel foreign in his own skin. He will swallow down the bile in his throat and quell down his nausea if it means that he'll succeed - he has to. Jump into the lava if it means dragging the monster with him to burn eternally.

For this was no longer a means to justice, just revenge. And he shall find ways, even if it is to forsake himself and everyone around him, to bring glory to Phainon's name.

Anaxa changes how he treats the Flame Reaver. His eye is dark when greeting his husband with a smile to welcome his return. It takes time and practice, sneaking off to the bathroom at night to prepare his smile, his body language, force himself not to shy away and instinctively face another direction, away from the Flame Reaver. Sometimes he envisions the man in place of the servants just to mentally get himself used to it, reassuring the staff that every flinch and shiver elicited from his body was from the cold and not the idea of being close to the royal.

"Husband." He would say, sweetly, as opposed to his previous scathing tone. Or at least as much as he could, because it still tastes like bile in his mouth and feels like ash spat out. Trailing after the man, trying to keep as close as possible for the act, but far enough for his sanity to remain intact. Today's another such day when the early mornings demand his practice when his husband slowly rouses from sleep to sluggishly slip off the bed. Off to training, he supposed, or to torment the minds of his council.

When he sheds his robe off, revealing prominent tinted muscles, he knows it's to spar with whomever pitiful soldier it is at duty. One such man was named Alexis , who migrated from Janusopolis. Young, brave, and eager, if not a bit reckless. Alas not as much as his husband, who struck once and rendered his own men ill of fatigue. "It's far too early. The morning frostbite bite is not good for your body."

The Flame Reaver doesn't voice out the change, although he's noticed, and simply couldn't pinpoint the reason. The man would rather face visible problems than unearth them from its hidden dwellings. "Exercise is great for the body, dear. In fact I'd best believe the sweat would fend off the cold."

"An ice bath is good, yes. But I'd rather you train under the afternoon glow. You'd be better off then, and we could bathe together after."

"Ah. Devious one." The Flame Reaver chuckles, his knuckles grazing Anaxa's cheek. "But I must, for I have made a promise with my men."

"Very well." He stands not to follow, but to hand the man wool to cover with. A patchy work with snipped seams invisible to the naked eye. "But then make sure to clothe yourself appropriately."

"Do you not wish to watch?"

"I'm not good with the cold."

"Hm. Then I'll have our seamstress prepare your winter wear while I hunt for fur."

"You don't need to." Anaxa complained with his hands itching to wrap the shawl tight around the man's neck. Tied the knot securely with not even air can get in between the fabric. Ah, if only this was your neck. That would've been a much more luxurious, gratifying gift than fur. Nimble hands trailed up the plain of muscle, just a second shy of trying to rip off the skin, prevented - but barely - by restraint. "I'd rather warm up beside you near the hearth."

So stop exercising and become a wrinkly senile thing!

"But you like my body?" The Flame Reaver pointed out, capturing one of his hands to bring close to his face. Tracing fingers over the grooves of his mask, feeling the pulse of molten gold.

Anaxa, for the sake of image, laughed along with him. What's there to like about his body? Inhumanely large in trifle areas and dyed an inhumane shade. "I would like for you to stay healthy, so that I may not be left a widow too soon."

In fact I want to be a widow now.

Just before the Flame Reaver leaves, he coyly goes for a hug. Barely, that is, his arms are only ever capable of wrapping fully around the arm than the wide expanse of his torso. It gives him enough time to rub the pad of his thumb over a thick inner arm with light lotion mixed with a concoction he stirred up hastily the night prior when his husband leans down. A split second swiped, barely felt through thick skin.

Anaxa pulls back satisfied, his smile reaching his eyes, curled at the edges. "I'll see you at lunch."

Let me find out if you're allergic to anything.

The perfectly curated mask falls as the doors close, and Anaxa finds himself launched back into the realm that is his mind, sorting through every web of thought.

So far he thinks it's working. No one is none the wiser, and everyone chalked up his affection to missing his husband whose work drove him far. He even found a way to balance his acting out and allow himself leeway to recharge his energy after bombarding the man with all flirting tactics he knew. Spending a reasonable amount of time to avoid suspicion and continue teaching the kids while juggling his secret experiments.

The close proximity, beyond increasing his blood pressure and stress levels, did also help with the experiments he's secretly conducting. Little taps here, little scents there; he's already gone ahead and tested five different poisons, but so far none of them caused a reaction. Quite intriguingly, the oleanders did nothing but caused frequent sneezing that he concluded were allergies - of all things.

This time he tried the foxgloves, both in the air - mixed into incense with hallucinogens - and in the lotion. 

If that doesn't work, he'll try some poison ivy next… and maybe he'll dabble with inducing diarrhea or leprosy. Yes, yes, such pleasing ideas—

Knock knock.

He almost swerved in his happiness, thrilling with a slight hum as he responded enthusiastically. "Come in, Xenia."

The young miss, having gotten used to the routine of greeting him in the mornings, entered smoothly with practiced precision and a gracious flushed smile from the morning cold. "Good morning, my lord." She greets, dragging a tray with subtle playfulness. "Soup for breakfast. Nektarios and Kleio got a good deal at the markers and decided to make Bisque. There's enough seafood to last for dinner."

"Seafood?" Anaxa laughs a bit at her enthusiasm. "I do hope there was enough to feed the entirety of staff."

"Well, admittedly, the majority do not like seafood."

"How rare."

"Yes. I think it's because of the smell during preparation that's gotten them sick of it. Most of them prefer beef." Xenia smiles sheepishly. "I do like seafood more, since my family used to live up mountains far from the sea."

He mirrors her smile, deep in thought while she sets up his breakfast. Up the mountains, just like him. Far from the sea breeze's reach and where the scent of salt could no longer be discerned. There's a saying in his hometown, something his sister would say whenever he wanted to spit out bitter guards: "What you throw away, another begs to have. What you detest, another loves."  There are cases where those by the sea grew to hate seafood, those who lived in farms couldn't find it in themselves to consume the meat of their animals, and those surrounded by plantation yearned to be able to buy either. 

But there's also the case of those who can consume anything even if it was barely edible, like a certain student of his who scarfed down snacks like an athlete racing to an end goal no one could see.

Because those who experienced loss and got the taste of starvation never became picky again.

Phainon, who was found eating the scraps of old bread and withering vegetation, learned to never take anything for granted, and had a hard time restraining himself from overeating in fear of going through it again. He had admitted to Anaxa once, in a random passing when there was no one else around, that it was a shameful fear of his to go hungry again, to never get to eat warm, fresh food and to return to the stale, bitter and cold leftovers that still reeked of death. 

Hyacine's therapy helped ease his disorder, and Castorice and Aglaea assisted in enforcing a healthier eating schedule that matched his daily routine and exercise after his graduation. But…

All that progress went down the drain after his death, and Anaxa himself hadn't got the privilege to see him succeed in overcoming his fear.

"—and later, the seamstress will be taking my lord's measurements for the upcoming–my lord?"

He shakes his head, lifting the spoonful of warm soup absent-mindedly. Phainon, dear Phainon, has been on his mind more often after seeing half of his sword. It's gotten worse, he admits, because he can feel his presence nearby like a phantom. If he thinks hard enough, if he allows himself weakness, he can imagine Phainon alive and well within the palace walls near him. That familiar sunny presence, ever warm and bright enveloping his being.

Of course that's impossible. It was all conjured by his weak mental state.

"Continue. Have you called for the jeweler as well?"

Xenia nods. "His majesty insisted the goldsmith use the stones he mined himself. I've heard from Evangelos that it was tourmaline and jade."

His eye twitches, swallowing down a scathing remark with the soup.

Those gems were not exclusive to a singular place, but they were definitely most common in the south the way emeralds and rubies were popular in the Grove.

But Anaxa wasn't quite popular in the South because someone else took their ire.

The Southern dwellers, the older lands that refused to cave under Aglaea's requests and harbored misplaced ill-will towards the heirs were now crawling on mud in hopes to shelter themselves under the Flame Reaver's favor like mice hiding under a falcon's wing - their greatest predator. Foolish, the lot of them, chasing after their own tails and running in endless circles.

The gathering was a bi-monthly event the Flame Reaver allows to host to listen to scrambling persuasion and sickly sweet flattering words that dripped like honey. A superficial appeal hearing, a hopeless case. Anaxa knows it is fruitless with his husband's habit of pseudolistening.

Much like how his students floundered whenever they missed their deadlines and tried to sweet talk their way into leniency, or when they're failing their classes and scrambling to catch up on some extra points. They try again and again even if they know well Anaxa never made exceptions beyond emergencies with proof and alibis - even then he was stingy, he admits, and made sure to investigate the cases himself to ensure none of them used their brains for something as useless as fabrication.

Honestly these adults should've long abandoned such petty, pathetic ways of theirs. Just the idea of hearing their nonsense sours his mood, and it did not do well with such a delicious meal.

"When do they arrive?" 

"Next week, my lord."

Too soon. He wishes to complain, mourning the rare peace he scraps by. Their presence would be an eyesore, and the sight of him would give them aneurysms. Perhaps they would've been more amicable to face someone familiar like their detested Aglaea, who would at least donned a mask of indifference and acted cordially within civil grounds.

Too soon. Anaxa has so much he wishes to do, and their appearance does nothing but hinder his peace, rare as it is.

Xenia speaks with diffident air, a humble suggestion from a concerned noble heart. "Would you like to take a walk later, my lord?" 

A walk does sound good. It'll help cool his head off. 

Which was a great idea.

He realized later, when lunch arrived and he's reminded of his scheduled shared lunch.

Why did a simple meal turn into a splendor of theatrics?

Anaxa curses himself, smiling painfully through gritted teeth as he spoon fed his husband. Because I decided it. He mourned, taking a spoonful of prawn.

For Phainon's sake.

The preparations for the meeting weren't as chaotic as Anaxa expected. But there's not much a pet would do in this scenario.

Instead of handling the internal affairs and overseeing the arrangements, Anaxa found himself dolled up with his schedule packed for any sort of fitting. 

First, of course, was the dressmaker who personally sewed his previous lingerie - ones the Flame Reaver approved of, sheer and soft to the touch. She was precise and quiet, speaking only when needed to and avoiding mindless chatter. His measurements and preferences jotted down onto paper, the majority of them fit dresses and corsets.

Next was the jeweler, who was found to be with a frail heart and trembled continuously under Anaxa's critical eye. It's the man's natural character, anxious and skittish, folding at the slightest pressure. The sage almost pities him, almost. But he finds himself too drained to do so. The process of selection doesn't even register much beyond the discontent of excessive flamboyance with certain sizes - large gems that were heavy and without class, to the point that he wondered what child designed them.

He turns to Kleio once the jeweler leaves. The younger maid who switched with Xenia midway. "Who else am I meeting today?"

Kleio checks the clipboard. "Uhm–there's only the shoemaker left."

So that meant everything was settled. It's a good thing he canceled classes for the sake of conserving their energy and sending them off with a handful of pre-written notes to study.

He'd like to have some semblance of free time to remain idle before returning to his tasks, but considering the flow of events, the Flame Reaver would invade yet another couple of lands. If he does nothing…

But those people aren't innocent either.

Their crimes were written down on scrolls, and Anaxa had the privilege of reading them years back. Although they were outside of the main cities' jurisdiction, and therefore not under Okheman law. Aglaea had done the least, allowing them to lead their lands on their own. Not out of kindness, because without a Chrysos heirs' influence, the matter of trade, safety, and freedom in itself was out of their hands. 

The plague did a number of them since they vehemently refused Anaxa's cure, citing the Maneater he hosted. They didn't trust them, and Aglaea used that to her advantage. Cornering her prey until they had no choice but to plead.

Only when they dwindled by size, when there was barely any of them left did they relent with their noses still upturned. That was a stretch too, he remembered. Because they refused to see him, the creator of their cure, much less allow them within their territories and demanded Hyacine alone represent him instead. Not that Anaxa was complaining, the long travel never did sit well with his feeble body, and socialization was a dire chore for him rather than an opportunity that others found useful.

Their pride took them nowhere. It only left a wake of bodies that were piled and buried together. Children, he remembered, bodies weak, took most of the brunt of it.

Anaxa shook his head to get rid of the negative thoughts that began to swirl and feed into the darkness in his heart. He knew well how pride worked. For the matter, he would like not to involve himself with them and focus on the Grove's safety instead - one that has yet to be guaranteed despite marrying.

"I'll be trying on some of the ready-made corsets." He gestured to Kleio, who began helping him strip off his outer layers. He took one of the satin ones, a prick of interest weighing his chest at the material. "These look well, let's start with the blue one—" 

Knock knock.

They both turned towards the door, a question in their faces. No one had any prior engagement with him, and they were sure if it were the butler or maid then they would've knocked. The maid diligently hopped over, humming a random tune under her breath while Anaxa turned back to his clothes.

That's when he heard her small squeak: "Your Majesty!"

He should've known.

There's no way his precious peace wouldn't be interrupted.

"Your Majesty." Anaxa greeted, voice turning saccharine once more to contain his irritation. How good was his day to the point he was starting to enjoy the trifle things, only for it to be hindered once more. The smile he wore was as fake as counterfeit goods, plastered with cheap glue and held together by fraying seams. "You're home early. I thought you'd spend a day out?"

The Flame Reaver approached him, shoulders light as he chuckled. "Yes, precisely. A day, not night."

Don't get cocky with me. "My mistake then." 

His eye catches Kleio hovering behind, unsure but visibly flustered.

With a discreet hand he dismisses her, watching the grateful expression on her face before she scurried out the door. 

Once they were alone, Anaxa addressed his husband, letting just enough malice slip in that could be mistaken as fond disappointment. "Don't lie to me. You don't usually rush home when it comes to important matters."

"Is it a crime to want to see my wife?"

Anaxa wants to strangle him… or himself… or anyone. Who does he think he's fooling?

"I have something for you." The Flame Reaver purrs, sounding entirely pleased with himself. Like a frenzied child, unable to contain his excitement. It does sound familiar - a pattern he couldn't discern, but felt weirdly nostalgic with. And that is… odd, and uncomfortable. Especially the way the man tilted his head, Anaxa could envision a closed-eyed smile behind that mask. Crinkled into these crescents as his eyelids squeeze. "I could not wait to return to give it."

Anaxa's eye locks onto the arm hidden behind, suddenly noticing the weird posture. "And that is?"

The Flame Reaver then reveals what he has hidden, and Anaxa can't help but squint in confusion.

It was a straight piece of hard material, carved flat with small engravings. Similar to the mark on his hand, with its own red gem sitting neat and prettily in the middle. Behind it is written: Appearances are a glimpse of the obscure.

Huh?

"What is this?" 

"A busk for your corset stay. Made of whalebone. I carved it myself." 

A busk. And whatever for? He had no chest to speak of, flat as a board, nor was his back that weak. "You didn't need to. I have no need for support like this." 

"Then it can be simply for design." The hard material is then placed in his hands, smooth to touch, a bit cool. "Your hometown used these as courting gifts, did they not?"

A chilling sensation washes over him, catching him off guard. My hometown? Anaxa does not remember much of their traditions beyond matters he cared for - his sister and dromases. Hypatia herself, although had a fair share of suitors, pushed them aside in favor of raising him. Up until her untimely death she had not taken a lover for herself, nor fancied another. So he doubts she was aware of the practices around them either, and was probably blind to it as well. Because if she were, she would've most likely taught him, or brought it up in a passing.

He simply knew she used busks, but all those she owned were her own creation - cut, carved, and decorated with her own fluid skills. 

"It was. Although they would usually use wood. Whale bone is too expensive." 

Even until now, in fact. Whalebone could still easily send noble houses gasping for air to recover from the financial loss since Hysilens upped the stakes after the plague killed off a good portion of the whales - at least, the ones personally cared for and verified by Styxia dwellers - and demands began to rise from its rarity. Baleen extraction became a professional's responsibility, and an overnight turned the once average job into a high paid one. 

Last he heard a single piece could go up to a billion in bidding. Which is ridiculous because wood just so happens to do the same thing, and it's not like anyone would see what's inside your corsets - besides the maids and the lover, of course, but that wasn't the point.

"And durable. Nothing but the best for my wife."

Anaxa tries his best not to narrow his eye.

How do you know more than me?

He does frown.

Who are you really?

Based on how much he knows about Anaxa… was he someone from the Grove? He had an ancient air around him - his pose, his attitude - so he could be well older than Anaxa. Could he have been a professor of his? Another sage during his time as a student?

The theory evaporated as quickly as it is formed, waved off by a careless hand. 

No sage nor professor were fond of his extremities and found his character to be tiresome, if not deplorable. The presence of a child with a mind brighter than theirs was a threat than a privilege, and Anaxa's daring, blasphemous words incited fear for their positions, their glory, their fame. A growing prodigy, a dim star to be lit ready to introduce everyone to a new era and get rid of old dated practices they were so hell bent on keeping. His golden blood proved to be a hindrance 

Anaxa wonders just how grateful they were when he decided to take the moniker of a performer rather than a prophet or a genius, saving them from losing their reputation amongst the common folk.

How long will it last, though? The sage wonders, stewing in thought. Now that I'm gone, they'd likely have gotten bolder.

"I would like to see you wear it." The Flame Reaver's voice cuts through his train of thought, a hand wrapped around his waist while the tip of his claws precariously plays with the hem of his blouse. Snagging the fabric with a teasing tug. "Before I head to work again."

Speaking of bold.

Anaxa stares, processing what he just heard. "Now?"

"Yes." Replies the shameless man. "Just to make sure I carved it to the right size, my love."

Impossible. Anaxa scorns, eyeing the large hand around him with a firm clutch. The movement was certain; practiced. With how many times you've touched me, you're most likely certain.

But alas, the performance must go on.

The smile slips on as easy as his lectures. "Very well." He chuckled in reply, moving to wear one of the corsets to test.

Only for the Flame Reaver to stop him, cradling his nimble hands and pulling it away. "Allow me." He proposes, taking the corset himself and turning Anaxa around slowly. Faced with the body length mirror accented with gold, Anaxa finds himself to be a doll meant to entertain. Stripped off his outer layers, allowing his blouse to remain as the corset is wrapped around him. 

In fairness its structure is unyielding and texture soft, utterly pleasant to the body, and surprisingly cool rather than hot to the skin separated by cloth. He finds himself astounded by the craftsmanship, tracing his hands over each rough patch of decoration - mindful, delicate and simple designs seen under certain light - with a thoughtful hum.

Any sort of admiration that strayed were abruptly cut short to give way to a forced grunt from his ribs, a sudden pressure tightening around his torso in succession. His eye sparks, suddenly meeting his reflection on the body length mirror and he gasps.

"What are you doing?" He whispers in haste, meeting the mask through reflection, feeling the gentle nudge against his cheek. Greedy, greedy hands tighten at the ribbons, enjoying the sensation of his rapid heartbeat and winces.

"Dressing you." The man replied arrogantly, lying with perfect timbre. "Even if I rather do the opposite." And, just as an afterthought - a low hum, a slip of the tongue - he adds: "Blue suits you wonderfully."

The ribbon is freed to tug at the edge of the stay, dipping his fingers beneath the fabric to trace at the skin. His hands were much colder this time after being out so long, and it riddled Anaxa's skin with goosebumps as he shivered. Faint thin red lines began to decorate his body through the blouse, one without pain but thrill.

And Anaxa feels as if he's being unraveled, a present stripped off its ribbons, covers folded open piece by piece. It burns a pleasant haze, chest tight, his ribs throbbing. There is no question–his face burns, his breathing short and legs weak. "Hng–you're doing too much."

Instead of a reprieve, he receives but another tug, eliciting a sharper gasp as his back leans against a large - despicably large, needlessly. The tip of his toes balancing precariously.

All he got was a contented hum. "Am I?" Was whispered into his ear, followed by a heavy hot air that tickled the flushed skin. 

It is teasing–his touch, that is. Knowing, daunting, testing. His limits, knows his deprivation. It shows with every flinch and every stuttered breath, every gasp and wince. Anaxa can feel it bubbling below, beneath his skin. Suddenly the room feels all too hot despite the cold weather and lack of hearth. Sweating through his thin blouse, feeling it cling onto the fabric and seep onto the corset. 

This is different, and yet all too much compared to last time - in the baths, despite how straightforward the Flame Reaver was with his authority over Anaxa's body. Because this teasing, lingering touch tests his limits and his self control. 

For how long can he hold on?

He doesn't even remember who crossed that daring line, when lips met and when that familiar serpentine tongue invaded his mouth. All he knows is that he must act - was it still an act or a pretense - grabbing behind him, clutching onto the Flame Reaver as he parted his lips. So small in comparison, so soft and red. Couldn't even hold their shared passion, dripping sinfully down the sides of his mouth, cascading down the slope of his slender neck to his chest. 

The Flam Reaver pulls back first, a ghost of a smirk in his tone. "Needy." He laughs, thumbing Anaxa's reddened lip before swooping him up and pressing him against the mirror, twisting his body in a way that should be painful - a chest against his back, pushing him forward while his neck is craned upwards - and yet it isn't. There was no way to register any pain, only pleasure - wrong, wrong, wrong.

Anaxa can feel a hardened press on his lower back, insistent and heavy, a burning rod that causes him to shiver and moan.

When he pulls back, it is to smirk - underneath this he feels rejuvenated with misplaced pride and satisfaction, knowing the monster is as weak as any mortal man to carnal desires only he could provide at will. "You're the one to speak." He snorts, pressing back just as hands begin to wander from his waist to his behind to squeeze. "Haah, I'm not the one burning like a furnace with the urge to mount."

His cockiness is wiped off as a hard thrust against his back forces his face to press against the mirror. "All for you, my dear." It is said as a dark, foreboding promise. Heavy like his manhood and threatening; compared to his small body. “Only for you.”

Their lips meet once more with fevered passion that seeks desperately as if they were depraved - in a way they were, in more ways than one. With this relentless hunger and pursuit, this dangerous warmth. Anaxa loses himself, little sounds he would never acknowledge himself do slipping past swollen wet lips. Parting, allowing that familiar sinful tongue to invade his cavern and take over without care. It slides down, gentler this time, tickling the back of his throat just shy of choking. Languidly testing the waters, allowing Anaxa to feel and overwhelm before it goes down as deep as it did before. Supposedly it’s impossible, his logical, clever mind scrambles. Yet here he was, a thick tongue shoved down his throat to take his breath away.

Anaxa chases that warmth, poison as it is. Doesn't matter if his shoulder digs into the mirror and as stuff begins to fall, if someone outside hears or knows. There's nothing beyond a mess, be it his mind, his body, or his surroundings. Not even when his clothes start to unravel under their rough-housing, sliding down pale skin, revealing its rosiness inch by inch to the predator that openly salivates in hunger.

When was the last time he felt this? When was the last time he felt alive as he committed sin? Was it supposed to taste so fresh and sweet? Like the finest of fruit borne from a forbidden tree offered by a slithering, conniving lie. So hot and passionate, so wrong.

He could only try and imagine someone else in his place, someone else holding him so previously with so much primal need. There, buried deep in his mind a shameful truth, a shameful past he refused to acknowledge even as it bit him. White hair like the purest form of snow, and such dazzling bejeweled eyes with hints of gold that held endless wonder and love, of warmth and care that overwhelmed his entire being and drowned him.

Oh. He thinks to himself, delusions slipping unwillingly through clumsy hands.

Phai—

Suddenly, as if burned, he pulls back. Retracting his hands far from him and taking several steps back. Anaxa almost falls, if it weren't for his hands immediately gripping the sides of the mirror, back still arched as his legs trembled to reclaim balance. Confusion coats his face as he checks over his shoulder, watching the Flame Reaver stare at his own clawed hands with this unreadable expression and aura. He looked to be contemplating with discomfort, pondering with this sudden hyper-awareness. 

Clarity? The sharp eyed sage wonders as his gut churns uncomfortably.

"Forgive me." The man says, turning, cape fluttering with haste. Anaxa furrows his eye at his words, clipped and unsteady, unlike how he presented himself from the beginning. His hulk stature stumbles back, but Anaxa makes no move to support him - both from the weakness from his legs and, well, his disdain that’s starting to return. "I remember I've had to attend something. Time has escaped me."

And then he leaves, the flurry of his cape the last thing Anaxa sees as he turns from the door.

Leaving Anaxa in his own sin, his own shame. The proof of his debauchery, the proof of his downfalls soaking the carpet below when he sinks to the floor. A used toy discarded for more important responsibilities. 

He stares long and distant, panting through exertion as the bone-chilling realization and consciousness set once more. 

Passion and lust turned to disgust, dousing his senses and gutting his stomach. Acid clings onto his throat, burning hotly behind his eye. Had he not had dignity or control, he swears he would've vomited then and there. Instead he swallows that bile, sets it back where it's supposed to be - hidden and stored away, like everything of his. 

But, in this weakness, he allows himself to break before he has to face it all again. Curled up in a tight ball as if he were freezing, his nails digging into the flesh of his arms to ground himself. He could feel the wetness spread in his legs, an aching and incomplete feeling.

How beautiful it'd be for this to have been blood instead.

Like any other plot, it grows, it strays…

Soon Anaxa finds himself increasingly desperate to get into the council meetings after realizing that's probably the quickest way to get news beyond the palace.

It has been a few months already, and his progress hasn't moved an inch. As frustrated as he is with himself, he realizes he would need a bit of a breather to gather himself once more. A hazy, uncoordinated mind will bear no fruit.

His focus then had drifted to those he left behind, and newfound worry seeded itself from within. Because everyone has been oddly silent, and silence is the worst thing to expect in dire times like this. But he was still prohibited from contacting others beyond the palace walls, and from what he understands, prohibited from even asking. The Flame Reaver had his way of twisting his words and diverting topics at hand, frequently using the weakness of his body against him.

Any sort of concrete conversation was rinsed down the drain.

That didn't come with its own adversaries, for these meetings usually ended up with the screams of begging and pleading followed by a sickening suffering silence that could only indicate one thing. 

Anaxa glanced at his clothes, sighing. I don't want to get this dirty. Filth blood has no place in satin.

Still, it has been a few days since they arrived, and he hasn't heard the unknown terrors and horrors from the rooms. It should be fine. 

Even if his husband has been acting very suspicious and uncharacteristically distant, clumsy, and - harrowingly - small in presence when around Anaxa. He isn’t sure what to make of that, but he also doesn’t want to waste precious time and energy acting as an impromptu therapist - that has always been Hyacine’s forte, for his words lacked the gentle caution and care she specialized in.

He makes his move on the second last meeting, not even allowing the servant to announce his presence and entering the hall with a flourish of confidence befitting his status. Dressed lavishly in royal blue with gold, a flaunting peacock amidst the common doves. He strutted in, grabbed the attention with the click of his heels and commanded their eyes to lock onto his person. Let them sit in their own greed, their own jealousy; in the sins that make them human. 

He spots familiar faces at the table, and entertains himself with the astonished gasps and squeaks of chairs at his arrival. Men who are bargaining for their lives - notably, not of their own people, who sit and dress in sacks - now that their lands are at risk of invasion. But they're nothing compared to the Flame Reaver, who freezes midspeech with his hands hovering awkwardly in the air. It's a sight to see, someone so powerful and threatening near close to fumbling his words at the sight of someone marginally smaller; an elephant and a mouse, of sorts.

"Do you mind?" Is his simple, irrefutable greeting before he sat prim and proper on the royal's lap. The court naturally begins to groan their displeasure with their faces scrunched and hands balled into fist, finding the display uncouth and disrespectful. Nothing Anaxa isn't used to, a familiar sight even. He's had worse encounters that ended in physical brawls or lethal threats to his name. These men, silently fuming, ready to speak as mannered as they could, was by far the most peaceful outcome.

But it is the familiar hand that wraps instinctively around his waist that shuts them up, his husband's wordless and amused approval to his misconduct. A pleased hum vibrates his throat, replacing his earlier shock. He looks and feels more relaxed now with Anaxa by his side, caressing that snatched body and relishing the weight on his lap.

They tremble and grit their teeth under his questioning tilt, daring them to speak up their minds should they have enough guts to be ignored after. None of them do, and they pathetically shuffle about with their lips pressed into thin lines and clammy hands rubbed raw on their pants.

Good. Anaxa thinks, snacking on some bit sized confectionery. The discussion, one-sided as it is, continues in this morbid dance of tongues and praise like dogs wagging their tails for a glimpse of a smile. They're probably disconcerted, seeing a demised scholar pampered like a cat by the world's greatest tyrant. Some were trembling, in rage, in fear or contempt, he didn't know - likely all. But he's certain they're wary, awaiting if he'll speak of their transgressions against him. It was endless, after all - the quarrels, the fights, the death threats.

If he speaks of it, will their heads fly? Oh, but that was too boring. They'd be gutted.

He strays his eye over the papers, summarizing it in the speed of light in hopes to get any useful information outside the place.

It locks onto the bold letters of a title: Okhema Alliance, Grove of Epiphany Army.

Army.

He rereads that again, convinced he's misread.

Grove of Epiphany Army.

His frown deepens, chewing on a bun thoughtfully.

With what arms?

Those students that walked like corpses and could barely carry the weight of their own body, much less the stacks of scrolls and books piled atop each other needed for each class? Those scholars who spent countless nights with caffeine instead of blood in their veins, with no light or color in their skin or eyes? Are they insinuating that those people, who would spend most of their nights rather than days and would rather kill themselves than exercise in imitation of the Goddess that embodied the place, were becoming warriors? Soldiers? They would carry weapons with so much weight, swing it about, face battle head on?

Yes, Anaxa has gone mad indeed. 

Because nothing's making sense anymore.

This could be an alternate dimension he found himself in, having fallen into it by accident than by choice.

Okhema's silence under the pretense of neutrality was nothing new, but he highly doubts Aglaea would've let such a huge risk like this slip under her control. In fact, Hyacine and Aglaea had been on the best of terms compared to the other heirs thanks to their frequent correspondence - communication that was supposedly between the Golden Weaver and the Sage. 

If Hyacine has been allowing such a riot to grow–was she even aware of this? 

"The Grove's army has been steadily growing, your Majesty. I believe by the end of the month they'd have enough manpower to attempt to retaliate."

What?!

"Indeed. I've heard lady Hyacinthia has been rather aggressive with her scouts. Turning her recruits, once feeble scholars, and shaping them into these blood warriors closely resembling the Kremoans."

Hyacine?

Her bloodlust wasn't innate. What was happening over there? 

Ugh, it feels sickening being left out of this. He used to be at the top, the ones to first receive information.

A bitter expression almost crosses his face. And now I rely on sneaking in like a pet. How far he has fallen, his past self would've mocked him to the next life.

Anaxa feels his chest tightens at a sudden, overwhelming pressure. The only indication was the tightening over his waist, claws playing with the folds of his dress, and a slow, brooding chuckle that curdled at the end.

"Is that what I all think?" The laughter bore no happiness, no mirth, only savageness."That my empire could be so weak it'll topple under the hands of those roughed by parchment and stained by ink?"

The words are clear: Are you insulting me?

Even a stupid person will backtrack.

"Of course not." They laugh, but it is so obviously strained and croaked that Anaxa winces. They doubled down, making a show of their foolishness. "W-we were just–We are worried, your Majesty. Such insolence! They're so eager to cause trouble. They should be punished!"

A lousy excuse that even a child from the Grove could so easily disprove. But it's the best they could do under such a frightening glare.

He was no better, he admits, with shame. His body is on fire with endless weights on his nape. How fortunate, he finds, to not be in their position and faced with such scrutiny. How fortunate, he thinks, to instead be hidden under the shadow that drown in such a scalding stare. But it doesn’t feel as great to be on the other side of the fire watching others burn…

When he wasn’t the oil nor light that caused the flames.

"Ah, and now you're going ahead and barking orders at me."

"No–no, we swear you majesty–"

Anaxa frowns, a headache growing. This is such a mess. No one is making sense of each other anymore, and they're warped in his web of lies for fun. They're all sweating, faces twisted, veins prominent. He's never seen people so frightened after the plague. And based on the energy seeping out of the flame reaver, their fates are no doubt sealed - eternal darkness where even Thanatos wouldn’t dare touch.

He wracks his mind– think Anaxa, THINK! Something else to get his mind off this involvement, clear his thoughts and better the space for something else. Each second that passed felt suffocating, and he could slowly start to sense bloodlust and blood in itself alike filling the room. Their screams turned louder, but they begin to lessen in number.

Right, right, Hyacine: What’s with her? What’s going on with her mind? An army of all things? He didn't teach - read raised her to be so careless nor impulsive. That girl was anything but, the closest assistant he had who emboldened his own practices and beliefs. Her training instilled that into her - think, think, think. Every step and every decision, every word and action that befalls your person.

So why was she acting so reckless now? This wasn’t like her. Were they even talking about the same Hyacin? The one he knew for so long? 

By the time he remembers himself, the room is wiped clean. Anaxa lifts his head to see the spotless room with just the faintest scent of blood lingering. A reminder of what has happened, or perhaps an apogee of previous ones. There isn’t much to contemplate or consider when he glances at the Flame Reaver with the faintest of stains on his shoes and hands. The man is careful not to touch him as he wipes off the dirt with a handkerchief before tossing the fabric aside carelessly. 

There is no time to ponder or worry, only to adapt. He’s practiced this enough times in the bathroom; how he gingerly lifts his hand traced his husband’s face in an almost shy manner, gliding down the sharp slope of his mask. The tremor under his skin that screams to run is silenced with numbness.

His voice is steady when he speaks, controlled. “Have you had your fun?”

The presence of a smile seeps through the layers, leaning into his hand like an overgrown wolf-pup. “Indeed. Plenty with you near.”

He shifts, maneuvering Anaxa to a much more comfortable position in his lap, sitting sideways with his head resting against his broad chest. “On that note, I will speak to them. It bothers you, does it not?”

So he’s noticed. At least his senses haven't dulled in the duration of his weirdness. It’s a stretch that Anaxa is comforted by the fact that he is, in his own way, still sane and the same, if only to justify his morbid acts of revenge.

Yesterday’s poison, slipped under his fingertips that he slid across the man’s neck, merely irritated the skin and caused small, barely noticeable blisters that turned the skin coarse. Of course, he could decide to multiply the dosage in hopes it starts affecting the organs internally and slip it into his food or drinks, but the quantity needed in order to meet the mass of the man will be tremendous. By the time he has all the needed ingredients, it would be impossible to hide from suspicion. It simply isn’t worth the risk, and he’s deigned to try a few more of the unconventional ones anyways given the season of their blooms already sprouting in the gardens.

He returns to the topic at hand, feigning worry. “But you’ve heard what they’ve said. They've started a war–” Anaxa still couldn’t believe that fact. “–wouldn’t it be too much of a risk? They probably won’t respond kindly.”

“The lady Hyacinthia is but a reasonable soul, and is often open to concessions. She is your student and assistant, I’ve no doubt she wouldn’t act so recklessly.”

And yet she already is, with this nonsense of an army she’s gathered and formed. 

He needs to get to her, enforce into her stubborn hard-head the risks in her plans and outrageousness of it all. If this meeting is a set-up or trap, he shall still grasp onto it to convey his words to his dear students and use this opportunity.

“Very well.” Anaxa decides, and then adds: “But do also request Lady Castorice, it has been such a long time, and she is just as dear to me.”

The tips of his hands tremble, an unwarranted smile on his face hidden underneath his shadow.

Relief he hasn’t felt in a long time washed over him, and he can’t help but grasp desperately.

The day of Castorice and Hyacine's arrival was as hectic as the delegates'.

This time, however, he takes the lead in the preparations as a proper spouse. Barking orders like never before, trying to ease his nerves by fiddling with random kitchenware and vases he specifically had brought out for their stay, hoping to ease the inevitable tension and awkwardness after months of no contact. He isn't even sure of their opinion of his nuptials, whether they loathe the arrangement as much as he did or if they had relented begrudgingly under command. Anaxa doesn't want to explain the schematics or get drilled on marital roles between spouses by his own former students, nor does he want them involved in his latest quest for revenge now that it's taken a darker turn.

He has to make sure they're not planning anything hasty, anything risky or stupid. As much as possible he'd want them away, as far from his influence once things go down. They've already had bad experiences as Nousporists, bearing the spillage of hatred from his own mob, and he doesn't want them to suffer needlessly when he can handle it himself.

He situated their room far enough from his shared one, but strategically close so that he could slip in at night once given the chance. Shared, so that they may be comforted by each other's presence at all times.

All that was left to do was to wait for their arrival.

The sage feels his nerves and trepidation, standing by the entrance with his hands behind him and under his cape. If only to hide its clamminess and subtle shakiness. Any sort of apathy he previously possessed overwhelmed by yearning for home. The smell of dried leaves, the sound of playing chimeras… the cries of students missing their deadlines - absolutely nostalgic. He’s long not heard of their woes and pleas.

Stylianos nods to one of the staff - the distant sound of a dromas stomping its adorably large hooves vibrating the ground just slightly - smiling warmly towards Anaxa. "They are here, my lord."

A shaky breath betrays him, nodding back with a firm expression. 

The doors open, and the servants bow in turn as the two ladies enter with grace and elegance. Taking with them the air of rich class and practice, the mere presence of their being adding to the opulence of the palace.

But that isn't what Anaxa finds himself flabbergasted about.

It was as if they were both flipped into a mirror image unlike themselves.

Hyacine was drowning in black as if mourning while Little Ica floated behind her with the same innocent expression, while Castorice was bathed pure white as if to signify new beginnings. 

It wasn't just their attires that have changed, but their countenance too. Hyacine's default calm changed into a dim expression, eyes lacking light and lips set into a thin line. She reeked of avoidance, an unspoken barrier shielding her from people - scaring them away. On the other hand, his former student adorned herself in a seemingly permanent blush that matched the soft smile on her face. The aura she brings is bright and warm, not quite like the sun or fire, but that of the feeling with softness like clouds and the fields.

And it is Castorice that greets him with a thrill of excitement in her voice, mellow as it is: "Professor!"

While Hyacine's eyes immediately hardened behind him, stormy cyan eyes heated with hatred.

Right.

"Welcome." His husband says, voice laced with just enough sweetness to be courteous. Anaxa notices Hyacine's jaw clenching with each word he spouts, narrowing when he places his hand on Anaxa’s shoulder. The anger she exuded felt so foreign paired with her pastel blue eyes. "My wife has been delighted by your acceptance and has been waiting with such anticipation. You took quite some time during your travels."

"We boarded dromases for the long terrain trip." Hyacine spoke before Castorice, cerulean eyes a brewing storm with raging seas. Waves of defiance, splashes of hate seamed carefully into her words. "And we understood not to tire them, lest we take their service for granted. Our professor taught us well." 

The bite doesn't escape anyone, and although Anaxa commends her clever paraphrasing, he'd rather she use them elsewhere and not at the entrance where the present servants begin to hover in concern - he'd like for the younger ones to remain oblivious to the truth surrounding his marriage, and everything that had happened before that. 

Anaxa dares to speak to dispel the growing animosity in the air when the Flame Reaver catches him by the waist And whispers into his ear, albeit loud enough for the four to hear. "I will talk to them first, my love."

To this he wishes to argue, turning to face the man, head craned up to whisper back. "Could I not have time with them first? They were my students."

"There's something at hand that needs to be discussed immediately." The Flame Reaver's voice softens - foreign and suspicious. "We will not take long, I assure you. No harm will come to them."

There’s many things Anaxa wants to say in reply, starting with a thinly veiled attempt to conceal his mockery when Hyacine beats him to it. 

"Professor." Hyacine speaks cooly, refusing to cast her sight, refusing to back down. "It's fine, we will handle this. It's just a quick talk. Isn't that right, your Majesty?" Her eyes barely glance towards him as she gestures her adorable summon who whines and immediately flies towards Anaxa, nuzzling its snout against his awaiting hand with little cries. “Little Ica will accompany you for now.”

Anaxa frowns. This child. Violence did not suit her, not to this extent.

But in this situation, with his current title, he could do no more than eye them warily as they left. 

The day bears him no reprieve even as they return hours later, when then the sun is about to set and the golden glow of the skies begins to darken blue. Little Ica had been a dream as a companion, and the children staff adored it dearly, feeding it tons enough to send it into a food coma. 

Anaxa had fully believed they'd spend until midnight discussing whatever it is they are privy to, set to retire to bed and await them tomorrow and continue on with a simple itinerary when the familiar pattern of Castorice hesitant and soft knocks echoed the room - he never knew he longed for such simple sounds.

He hopes he hid his excitement well enough when he welcomed them in, sat beside the windowsill with his book still opened. Castorice came in first, looking around before gentle lilac eyes caught his and melted. She teared up, in the safety of his room, and covered her mouth as if to prevent the tumble of uncoordinated words and ended up with a simple, low and hurt: "Professor." 

They couldn’t hug, not with her god given gift - curse. Still, he closes in, reaching out his quill for her to hole and gain a semblance of contact as she sniffled, rubbing red rimmed eyes with the back of her hand like a preening feline. He smiles just as soft as her heart, his own churning. “Still a cry baby, what happened to all that training I gave you?”

She sniffles a wet chuckle. “Professor, how could I not? We– I thought you were…” the words went unsaid, but heard. For the lady of death, to be unable to see the end of her companions must’ve been torture. Her gift, curse as it is, helped her share a few more moments with those lives she took. An intimate moment, as heartbreaking as it is. 

Then he glances to the side, where Hyacine remained unmoving. Perhaps now it has registered in her mind that, indeed, it was the  Anaxa standing before her. For her eyes were tracing, painting his features in her mind as if to compare or commit to memory. Her anger has faded, at least. But it is replaced by this odd sense of… acceptance, was it? Resignation? Which is weird, for there was no reason, as far as he knew, for her to adorn such an expression.

“Hyacine.” He began, internally smiling when she flinched. She hadn't changed. Even with the nonsense, she’s still that little assistant of his that kept him company.

With her, he could offer physical affection since she doesn’t bear Kephale’s blessing, but Aquila’s. And so he does, spreading his arms wide towards her. This is out of character for him, he knows - still, their surprised expressions are funny - but the circumstances have changed.

“Hyacine–” His words are cut short by a startled wheeze as a heavy weight of two, including Little Ica’s, barrels into him. Once slender arms wrapped tight around his torso and face pressed so tight against his chest in fear of letting go with the ambition to glue herself onto him. Her nails dig onto the fabric of his clothes, it rips slightly, and he could feel wetness seep through. Automatically, his arms wrap around her arms, his hand patting her head fondly. 

“Hyacine, Hyacine, what have I taught you about your tears?” The jest was executed as flawlessly as it had done before, and the lady snorts a wet chuckle. 

“Tears are for smiles of victory.”

“Precisely.”

The two ladies sniffled, choking back another cry. They look immensely similar to those chimeras at the Grove that mewl and purr for affection. With their glossy eyes and wobbling pouts.

He gestures to the couches inside his room. “Let us talk. I believe we too have important matters to discuss.” He looks at Hyacine as he sits down, the girls across from him. “I’ve heard about the army.”

Instead of the expected resolute argument, Hyacine answered with a tight lip. Huh, this was more of a peaceful confrontation than he prepared for. There’s more bits of her left since he last saw her. 

“It was just a precaution.” Hyacine sighed, hand to her cheek with a shake of her head - Little Ica whines too, shaking its head. “You remember who the council was planning for you to marry first before the Flame Reaver?”

Anaxa did forget about that by choice. “Lygus was quite persistent. And since I refused he tried to use political influence, yes. What about it?”

Castorice outright snorts, nose scrunched up in a comedic way. He thinks it means he’s about to hear something hilarious. 

Hyacine breaks a smile too. “Well, he was planning to try to play hero–”

“And save me, perhaps? Like a damsel, princess in distress?” Now he understood their reactions. Lygus was a man of many things…  he could be smart at least. For the most part though he is a jackass, a piece of shit, a waste of space, an egotistic pucker-swollen face created with mismatched abominations. That man was years older than him and preyed on his backside throughout his time as a student. “All of a sudden, being the Flame Reaver’s wife sounds much better.”

If he’s going to choose a perverted freak of a monster, he’ll choose the one that actually knows what he’s doing. 

Castorice and Hyacine laughs forcibly… but he can sense it wasn’t because of the dark joke itself. 

“He planned to take the Flame Reaver down by building his own army.” hyacine says, stirring some tea. “And take you as a victory prize– I mean, he said it’s to save and protect you, but even the blind and the fool could see his true intentions.”

Castoricce chimed in with a bashful proud smile towards Hyacine. “So Miss Hyacine came up with the brilliant idea to counter that by building her own army first in the Grove. Almost everyone was ready to participate after they heard Lygus’ plans. The scholars were very enthusiastic when we announced the recruitment.”

So they want Anaxa dead but they also don’t want Lygus to get what he wants. So they chose the lesser evil.

The power of the mind and will is truly remarkable. Those noodle-like scholars were so determined to go against Lygus they went out of their shells. In a way he feels touched just how far they’ll go, even if their agendas are vary. To think they stepped out of their comfort zones to participate meant something. 

The tender warmth in his heart strengthened his resolve, a small smile in his face blooming. 

However…

This isn’t their fight. Anaxa has decided to shoulder this on his own, the others needn’t worry. 

“That is very kind of you two, and very disgusting of Lygus.” He smiles with tranquility. “But none of you need to worry. I have everything under control here. Soon I should be able to go home, and no one would ever have to worry about the Flame Reaver again.”

And then there was still, eerie silence. And once again that was not what he was expecting. 

They wouldn’t cheer on another’s downfall, no. Nor did they ever approve of his clever, sinister tricks. But these two were his 2nd and 3rd greatest supporters, and never outrightly refused him. They would cave, in the end, whether verbally or by their actions.

This time he knows they won’t, he can feel it in their bones. They reek of nervousness, their bodies moving from inquietude. 

“Is there something you two want to say to me?” Their faces hadn’t changed, and he could sense Castorice’s panic increasing under the stim of her fingers. What was happening? He didn’t feel good. Something was off. His eye flicker, sparkle darkening with a flint’s dubiety. Years he spent as a teacher hones his keen eye, and he knew all students by heart. Their mannerisms, their habits, their worries and fears; to him, his students were an extension of himself. And so when they glance at each other at that split-second, the anxious Castorice seeking solitude when the worried Hyacine did the exact same thing, they all knew. 

His voice loses its warmth, they knew he hated secrets.  “What are you two hiding?”

Their first mistake was looking away, the second was their flinch. He thought he taught them well to hide their lies, but their tells were as obvious as he first saw them.

The two begin to communicate telepathically, exchanging frantic signals with their eyes. There’s something deeper going on given their obvious certainty that he would disprove, or worse, go ballistic. That knot in his stomach tightens uncomfortably once more with a gassy churn that climbs onto his chest the more the silence stretches out.

Castorice then spoke, voice as gentle as it always had been. But never this sharp, never this painful. And there was shame in it too, knowing how he’ll react. Clearly she didn’t want it to come to light and to avoid it as long as possible, but also knew the truth was for the best - not when they were already caught by Anaxa, who never allows questions to be left unanswered.

 "I was the one who proposed the alliance, professor Anaxa." 

Her eyes lift to meet his shocked expression.

"I was the one who suggested he take you as a wife."

The confession was ice cold water poured onto him. The warm afternoon glow welcoming the freezing night. The mood changed rapidly even the summon sensed the pressure, shyly nudging Anaxa’s hands with little ‘woots’ and croons. Its fur goes unnoticed as he stares at Castroice trying to process what he’s just heard. The maiden of death remains frozen under his gaze as it chokes at her airway and suffocates her lungs. Never had she been on the edge of this before, never on the stage of Anaxa’s judgement. It is so foreign and colder than her cursed gift, cureler and more painful than torture. For someone who lived under his guidance and care, under words of encouragement and unwavering faith in her abilities– to suddenly be put on a pedestal felt like a death sentence.

Hyacine, knowing Castorice was close to breaking as her beautiful ears glisten, stood up and reached a protective arm out just in time to cover the sight of falling tears. “Professor Anaxa, please–” She tried, sincerity coated both her face and voice with a pleading lit. But Anaxa was seeing none of it. “–let us explain.”

“You already know what I’m about to say.” He interrupts. Voice scathingly calm and devoid. “Allow me a moment to relay my thoughts.”

Hyacine sight cast towards the cool tea, where her reflection sat unmoving.

The silence stretched as a multitude of words traveled across his mind at the speed of light. All his knowledge and his vocabulary bundling together into a tangled mess of yarn.  

It ended up so simple in the end, but the message - betrayal, pain, anger, grief - remained unchanged.

"Why? "

Don't you remember what he did to Phainon? How he left us nothing? How not even the body was spared? Did you forget your brother's blood that spilled? The many others? Have your hearts become so cold and unfeeling you pardon his transgressions for petty change and power?

Such words didn't dare leave his mouth, not when they were at the pit of the predator. Ah, but it seems only he was kept under wraps while everyone was above and aware. Castorice was smart, and as her former professor, he knew she had a keen eye for detail and ingenious planning. He knows she was able to prognosticate his response once he heard of the Flame Reaver’s demands. She knew he’d run out without telling anyone without waiting for even a moment. If she was able to plan that far ahead, then she would’ve also known that the only thing he would reject was marriage, hence the clever omission from the messenger.

He thought he was going to die, only Castorice knew otherwise.

 Only he was caged, his key dangling in their holds behind their backs. He suffered for the, not knowing– 

His eye shut close, not wanting to see them. Not now, not anymore.  

"..."

"I am disappointed."

He should ask for a reason, that was the type of person that he was. Investigate and try to understand her reasonings. She wasn’t dumb, nor was she a selfish person. In fact she was the opposite with her compassion and benevolence. Castorice would’ve had a good reason, she’s a good girl, and seeing that even Hyacine has agreed with her, her mind is sound– 

But he can’t look past the fact that she gave him up to Phainon’s murderer when she knew just how much his death affected him. They were there when he broke down, when he cleaned that damned halved greatsword, when he spoke fondly of their former classmate. They were there, ever present and conscious of his slow descent of his sanity. 

And he just can’t forgive that now. In the future, maybe. But not now.

He can’t even look at them when he abruptly stands up, twisting his body to face the window. Their words are mute with this numbness in his ear, clogged like his chest. His clammy hands tremble under his coat and his skin feels like eyes. They keep on talking, most likely rambling - “please, you have to understand” “it’s not what it looks like”. He couldn’t hear them through the pumping of his heart and the blood rushing to his head. It all zeroed into one point, and he couldn’t see anything beyond it.

What he needed now was ultimate silence.

"Don't expect me to cater to your stay. My staff will handle you should you need anything. But do not look for me."

“Professor–”

“Xenia! Please lead our guests to their rooms. It is late.” The call summoned the maid, looking around, conscious of the heaviness in the room but wise enough not to voice it. She places herself between them, Anaxa and the two, without being told. 

“Please follow me.” She says, polite and curt but final. “We have prepared supper for our esteemed guests. Would you prefer to dine in one of the halls or your quarters?” Before any of them could speak, she adds: “unfortunately it is time for Lord Anaxa to rest as advised by our healers. Hence he will not be joining for dinner.”

At her firm command, Hyacine and Castorice leave. He can sense there’s something they want to say, something so important it's life changing. Seeing as they didn’t speak it out, he must’ve misread things. 

How could they?  His hands curl over his face, each breath rattling his lungs. He barely makes it to the bed before he collapses. Counting each exhale, focusing on the fluffy carpet under his knees and the smooth blanket, trying to discern smells to get rid of the static his brain is in. How could they do this to me?

Anaxa refuses to leave his room the next few days, unable to stomach the sight of them. The distance between them physically and emotionally grows. A stray weed growing ever strong between pavement.

"I thought you wanted them over." The Flame Reaver asked one luncheon, when Anaxa insisted to dine indoors rather than outside where the guests were. His husband was awfully curious, and the former sage had to bite his inner cheek from letting a casual remark escape.

"And they are, aren't they?" He sighs, almost shoving the slice of meat into his mouth in hopes to stop the conversation. For once his husband is lost for words, staring at Anaxa clearly wanting to say something but is unable to.

He did not see them out when they left. Not even when they sent Kleio or Sophia. Not even when they boarded their dromases.

But he did, with his selfish, prideful heart, look out the window hidden behind the drapes until he could no longer see them.

The days blur, and sometimes he wonders if he's stuck in an endless nightmare.

It becomes a near endless cycle of masking himself in front of everyone. Forcing a painful mold onto his face, his character, his personality; beginning the forever play for an audience of one. 

At one point, once the winter arrived and he's adorned in thick furs, he realizes he could no longer feel. Emotionally, physically, mentally. Detached from the present and stuck in a limbo caused by the past. It hurts, in a way he doesn't recognize. An emptiness begging to be filled, colors wishing to be seen again. Like a puppet drawn with strings; a third person. Sometimes he thinks he sees himself elsewhere, floating about his physical body and watching as it went about its day.

Like metafiction, a code awakening to realize its own predestined program and the grim fate that awaits it.

"Wife." The Flame Reaver calls, back facing him, giving Anaxa enough leeway to force light back into his eyes before he slips beside his husband. He trails his fingers up the mass of his body with practiced precision under the guise of affection, feeling up the muscles and nerves.

None of the poisons have worked.

 He has tried everything he's ever known, and they all failed.

Maybe it’s because the man is a monster and not human, that could be the only reason. But even after he increased the dosage and ingredients it didn’t change anything.

There was one thing left that he could use, but he had sworn under oath that he’d never. That plague must never be brought up again, must never see the light of day.

But each day  the temptation goes stronger. Each failure and every time he sees the Flame Reaver adds oil onto the fire. The temptation proves to be stronger than it seems when, one day, he accidentally lets it slip and kills one of the horses in the stable. Its death was ruled as a common parasitic disease, but Anaxa knew better.

That night he bit his hand until it bled, grabbing onto the pain and searing this punishment into his mind.

Anaxa is going insane.

"I will be heading to Castrum Kremnos for a week."

Anaxa's mouth pauses around Flame Reaver's fingers, resting his lips on his claws. He was being fed fresh seafood that he unfortunately couldn't taste anymore. Sat on the Flame Reaver's lap like a perched bird.

Castrum Kremnos. He thinks, and remembers the half-naked prince. A boy really, in Anaxa's eyes at least. Mydeimos was a bloodstained warrior with fierce hands for battle but gentle ones for niche hobbies no one could dream he possessed. He still reckons the confusion when the boy came to his office, offering him a fresh baked pie as thanks for the healing salve he provided a day prior. The prince had been a frequent visitor to the Grove of Epiphany, and Anaxa remembers touring him around personally with Phainon religiously following behind for reasons he couldn't pinpoint. 

Those two were tight-knit friends and equal rivals, but the man hadn't been present for Phainon's somber, private wake and Anaxa has been bitter ever since.

There's this dirty, disgusting feeling of satisfaction that bloomed unwanted in his chest, rooted from that bitterness. It repulsed him.

Anaxa takes another bite, denting his teeth onto the knuckles languidly.

"You intend to even invade them?" He tries hard not to sound as positively interested as he is, reigning in morbid fascination and unwarranted hope for the innocent city's doom. Why he even let an idea pass internally mortifies him, because he then was no better than the sages who turned to drastic methods for mere petty disagreements. Mydeimos had good reasons back then not to attend, his own city riddled with corpses left and right after an ambush. Leaving at the crucial moment would be seen as careless, and the common folk would zero in on his apparent apathy towards his own people.

He could've least sent a flower wreath.

Could've at least shown he cared.

So why didn't he? Anaxa never wanted to question, for once fearing the answer he could receive. Not because of the answer in itself, but for how he'll react after.

He isn't sure he can keep his sanity if the prince confesses to apathy.

Should he too resort to drastic measures like the very man he detested that was beside him? The world will be drained of blood and life, and he would do so without regret.

Should he grab onto this knife and plunge himself and everyone with it?

Anaxa feels himself physically glitch trying to get back to himself. A virus impending itself into his codes, messing up each carefully crafted line. He could feel it - this loathing, this disgusting self-righteous loathing he had no right to bear - marking itself set. The tremors of his hands - one he no longer hides, allows the Flame Reaver to rub it down - spike, cold and clammy, paler than his skin.

"It is tactless. That land bears blood borne warriors."

The Flame Reaver laughs as if it is humorous.

"I am merely going to meet its prince. It is already a stable kingdom with a just leader. There is no need for my intervention."

Like he does anything for simple fun. It’s bothersome how this stuff has become his new normal.

…

The man's chewing is bothersome, lacking rhythm or grace. He is becoming a reflection of a starved beast in the face of fresh meat, nothing it all up without a chance to chew or breathe. The smacking of lips and chewing grates his ears, stinging his nerves. It’s worse with him so close, basically beside his ear. The sound was grating, echoing badly in his head and worsening each second. The last time he’s heard such obnoxious sounds was years before, but it hadn’t been that severe, and he didn’t remember being so annoyed. The memory, fizzled and tainted as it is, was warm. A soft spot in his empty heart, something his subconsciousness seeks in his darkest.

The sage frowns, halting the rapid hand. He’d smack it, had he had the strength - whether to swat away this or the memory. "Slow down when you eat. Your food isn't running away." He scolds, sighing heavily, tired even with something as simple as a child's mess. "Chew slowly."

It’s as if the Flame Reaver remembers himself, leaning back and taking a deep breath to swallow. There’s this heaviness in his shoulders that sagged a ton. “Sorry dear. I don’t know what got into me.”

Anaxa shrugs. “Just take your time. Digestion doesn’t work well with speeding.”

The Flame Reaver laughs, nuzzling the side where Anaxa’s eyepath was placed and tightens his hold around the slender waist. “I know, I know. Chew long and properly before swallowing, and take enough gulpfuls of water in between.”

There’s a pause as Anaxa processes what he’s heard. “Hm.”

Just like he told Phainon years back. Word for word.

A simple, incomprehensible idea floats at the top of his head. One that makes him feel dizzy.

You’re thinking too much. He scolds himself, plopping a piece of grape inside his mouth.

Soon it is time for the Flame Reaver to leave, bidding Anaxa goodbye with a chaste kiss to his cheek and a small promised mutter: “I’ll bring home something you like. If there’s anything you wish for, send me a messenger.”

Anaxa watched as he left, eye dimmed further as he watched the Flame Reaver's back disappear into the horizon.

You better not die. He thinks cruelly, watching with a hardened gaze and heart. The large doors shut and the shadow cast over his face.

Only I am allowed to kill you.

Mydeimos better not cross the line.

Nowadays Anaxa finds himself, more often than not, near Phainon's sword.

Without the Flame Reaver nearby and the trust he has on the staff, Anaxa can easily place himself near permanently by the greatsword. Setting a time to carefully clean and polish the weapon, sometimes just staring at his reflection on the blade.

He thinks and feels gaunt, the flesh of his cheeks hollow and dry. His eye is red at the edges as if strained, but how could it? He's been sleeping well, eating well. He should be healthy, and yet he looks sicker than when he was back in the Grove. The irony doesn't escape him.

Nor does it escape the staff. But he knows they think it's because of the Flame Reaver's absence, a spouse left behind within the cold walls of their too large house. Naive, simpleton; how he wished he could play the same fool.

Still, he must live. Stay in this painful reality until his duty, his goal, his wish, is done and granted by him truly. He has to. Drag the ball of chains on his ankles and bear the weight of his world in his shoulders, let the thorn crown pierce his skull; let those all be his sins alone.

He wallows in silent distress, letting the days pass monotonously, repetitively. His body remains present; answers when questioned, interacts when he must, allows their wits to filter in and out. But his heart is devoid and elsewhere, back where it was left broken in the past. 

Back at the outskirts, knelt on bloody grounds where he broke irreversibly.

He drags his listless form around colorless hallways, eye blank.

There is no light at the end of the tunnel, only ruin, only destruction. That began years back, he supposed. But it only toppled over now, when he was taken away from all those who sheltered him after the death; those who fought hard to keep him alive and afloat, who reminded him what's worth living.

But Phainon was this world's sun. The glowing ember that warmed the frigid cold iced hearts. He was, then, the living proof that in this dark world - cruel and unjust, filled with nothing but hatred and darkness - life was still worth living. He breathed color into life and showed everyone, Anaxa himself, that in dread and in suffering, in misery, there was joy. There was, despite it all - the endless burden of pain, of responsibility - the little things. 

Phainon loved the simple things. Soft textures, gentle waters, soothing scents of wheat, the whispers of  breeze, the touch of soft fur, sounds of laughter; the world had opened in his wake, in his being. Within him Anaxa found it impossible to breathe and yet he never felt more alive.

But the very world he preached and lived for took him away to a realm unreachable, where Anaxa's fingers couldn't reach, couldn't touch nor call out to.

In death, he hoped - not prayed, only twice he's ever done so - that the Flame Reaver won't be with Phainon. He hoped, for the sake of his own selfishness, that Phainon's soul be somewhere else. Where he needn't meet the eyes of his killer again. 

In death, he hoped that it'd be only him, Anaxa, and the Flame Reaver. For he wishes to, with the entirety of his soul, to torment him beyond the grave. For what face does he have to show Phainon after all he has done, even for the sake of him? No. That eternal punishment, that hell, shall only ever contain two.

He resolved to follow through, not only with killing the man, but chasing him after. He'd take him down and then slit his own throat. Let this cursed golden blood stain the grounds of this house, let it haunt for generations to come, let everyone feel his grief, his fury, his loathing. His ghost shall wander aimlessly, halved as the other continues the eternal punishment. He would do so, even if it is forbidden, even if it was wrong.

There was nothing he had left to lose.

This world never deserved to live without Phainon anyway.

So what was that sudden trepidation?

There is the sound of running, followed by a wheeze of anguish from a familiar tone. "My lord." It calls, tired, and then it is the sound of collapse. His hackles rise, alert and cautious. He turns just in time to see Stylianos, poor man, slide down the wall with a hand to his chest and quivering legs. His cave was nowhere to be seen. 

"Yes?" Anaxa asks, walking up to help steady the masked man. "You've been running again. I've told you many times not to. Had I not given you a proper cane just last month?"

"It's an emergency." Stylianos gasps, clinging onto Anaxa's arms tightly. The desperation in his voice churns his gut. "His Majesty has returned wounded from Castrum Kremnos."

Anaxa's eye furrows, feeling his blood pressure spike. "What?"

"There was a duel–there was a miscalculation, we're sorry. His Majesty is–"

No, no!

Anaxa won't allow it.

He's the one who has the right to kill the Flame Reaver, no one else!

He'll show him what strife is, prove to the prince that, even as a frail scholar, his words are not one to be dismissed. 

He doesn't even register that he is running, abandoning any pretense and rushing down the halls with his sleeves and cape fluttering behind him, reflecting his panic. The acid in his stomach rises to his throat and pricks behind his eyes with this heavy, ugly feeling of anger. 

And he runs, and runs, because this palace was goddam large for no reason–

And he stops.

Panting, wild eye widened, mouth parted to gasp and breathe with a swaying mind at the sight that greets him. The cogs turned, a semblance of sanity returning just a bit because of how out-of-hand events seem to be unfolding.

He meets the young Evangelos eyes, who are just as stumped as he was."... what's that? Are those–?"

"Dromases, my lord." Evangelos whispers, unsure and awkward as he checks one of the cots. "His Majesty came home with a battalion of them."

More than a battalion. These dromases amounted to more than he's seen in his entire life. Most of them are even rare in color. Purple is standard, blue is uncommon; but he sees distinct shades of teal and indigo with specks of black or white in different shapes, perfect for companionship. Scarcely found baby dromases all swaddled in these adorable cots and dressed in finery.

"Cerces's branches–what?" He rushes to one of the cradles, peeking in to find them meekly mewling for his warmth. Blind little things with no horns yet, pushing their snouts towards his hand, one sneezing cutely. "Why did he?"

Dromases draped in finery. A slang in his hometown buried after years, only resurfaced after he himself used them. However, these colors were native to his home, and the only ones who knew that were–

Nousporists.

Coldness sweeps him again, the nth time, but for an all too different feeling, a different sensation.

A realization.

He drops his hand, standing straighter. Tracing each cart with baby dromases with his eye, to the staff, to their surroundings. His muted surroundings suddenly seem colorful again, but too bright and burning. And suddenly he sees it, the symbols of sun and moon plastered all around him. 

Bright and burning, the answer was a thousand flames that, for once, no longer hurt.

And then he is laughing, maniacally, crazily, with a hand to his head and the other to his stomach as he howled. Loud enough the entire palace hears, especially his husband. Son of Kephale—he hopes so, prays that his insanity reached the man and that he prepares for imminent doom quaking and cowering in his bed in fear. May that fear carve within his traitorous soul tenfold of what Anaxa experienced, may he suffer all the seconds before Anaxa's judgement, before his arrival and before he dealt his blows.

Oh, he should've known, really. The answer couldn't have been more obvious at the tip of his tongue and dancing in the palm of his hand. 

Hyacine and Castorice had been the obvious answer.

It was so, so obvious now that he knows. And he hates it like he's been played an outright idiot.

The servants around him are confused, a little bit afraid, backing away from him until the last of his laugh fades into a cold, frigid huff. The ends of a note abruptly cut short.

His smile remains, and it's the scariest thing they've ever seen.

"... bring me to him." He orders, voice eerily calm as he turns on his heel. Above him the skies roar in indignation and darken with rain, mirroring his great displeasure. "Now."

The fool.

"Are you a fool?" Asks the prince incredulously in a hushed voice, scanning the vicinity once more before trying to throttle the other man. Their topic was so dire that he knows he's signed up for a death sentence. "I can't lie, especially not to him. That man's a walking lie detector!"

"You don't need to lie." The other argued, voice shriveled. "Just… don't… speak of it when it's brought up?"

"Oh, yes. Because Anaxagoras from the Grove of Epiphany allows questions to be left unanswered." The sarcasm was obvious and stuck out like a sore thumb, much like the redness of his face at the increasing irritation. "No! I would wake up one day tied upside down in one of his experiments as a test subject!"

The man chases after him, clinging to his pants like a thorn with a strong grip unbecoming of his title. "Please!" He begs, no matter how hard Mydeimos tries to shake him off. "It's your fault you caught me in my plan—"

Mydeimos, channeling the energy of his ancestors into this very moment, twists the other man's ears painfully to get him to let go. Stubborn idiot doesn't–of course he doesn't! "Your fault for getting caught, you stupid idiot! Like you can hide that hideously bright white hair of yours with that atrocious clothing combination."

Because how else could you explain catching your friend, who is dead and currently being mourned by the entirety of the Grove and Okhema alike? Mydeimos so dearly wishes to blind himself just to escape the huge, forced responsibility that laid itself with no warning. In fact he should've been blind hours prior, or at least acted like he didn't see anything instead of gawking, pointing, and staring like an idiot. Now he's stuck here like a criminal discussing a hideous crime, and it is humiliating.

"Then just hide in Castrum Kremnos. He won't ever go there, he hates traveling."

"We have many dromases. It's only a matter of time!"

"Trust me he won't!"

Mydeimos felt a vein burst. "You–why are you even doing this?"

"Because if I fight as is, as the one everyone knows, they'll only blame Professor Anaxa in the end. I know how they think, Mydei, they'll think he brainwashed me, and they'll commit judicial murder."

And there wasn't really any sort of argument he could come up with, for the facts were laid straight, and he had seen just how erratic and paranoid those people could be. Chrysos heir or not, Anaxa was the reflection of the dark side of things. He was, to a fault, the truth everyone refused to see. And yet he walks without care head up high like a wave by red flag, forbidding anyone to hide from the truth.

Still, still–!

"If not for me." Mydei looks down, expression twisted into this complex, half-agreeing and half-vomit look on his face. "Then do it for him. You respect him, don't you?"

He does.

Mydeimos respects Anaxa as a formidable counterpart and a trustworthy companion. He respects the man who stands as reason in the midst of chaos and apostasy. He who helped his kingdom during the plagues, took back those who were so close to embrace death and gave them strength to live once more. His ingenuity, his cleverness, and his wit were such outstanding qualities Mydeimos respected, and he trusted the man with anything.

The heavy sigh he lets out is the heaviest one he’s had to date, laced with regret this early on. He really, really didn’t want to. But the other man had such a convincing yet punchable face. “You must not take long.” He warns, tossing the man some semblance of disguise that won’t make him stand out. His eyes watch closely as he catches sight of a growing dark vein wrapped around the man’s wrist crawling upwards like a virus when he changes clothes. A familiar darkness, one that eats. “The more you commit to this plan, the more your core will be tainted.”

The world-bearing hero was never meant to commit slaughter… but heroes always fought vehemently for the one(s) they loved.

“I know.” The man replied, his voice betraying his vow. “It won't take long.”

That was the deal they formed then, and years later when he hears the Flame Reaver take the banished sage as his wife, he thought he'd be free of guilt. Only for such hopes to be squashed.

So here he was now, toasting to empty air, towards the land Phainon and Anaxa resided. Knowing full well what he just did, not an ounce of guilt in his heart. He toasts the wine, sweet as his victory, and prays for Phainon's punishment to be equal to his silent suffering all these years. The sage better not let him down.

The sun sets, casting an orange hue over his blonde strands and soft eyes.

"Do not hate me for this, Anaxagoras." He mutters, a hint of a chuckle passing his lips. 

"I told him it was a bad idea."